Shakespeare for Squirrels

And thus I trudged through fern and forest for hours before I heard weeping in the distance, another lost soul, perhaps, who had met her mortality. Whence it came I could not say, for the woods had gone batshaggingly dark, and while the full moon cast a tattered lace of silver through the canopy, it was only enough light to allow a lonesome fool a few quick steps before running into the next tree trunk. I followed the sound, however, for as the eye was deprived, the forest served the ear a feast of menacing sounds, most made by scurrying creatures that wished me harm.

There, ahead, in a pool of moonlight, on a large rock, sat a rather tall young woman. Her hair was dark, pinned up, her dress white and light as summer, high necked, the collar and cuffs embroidered with small pink roses. She hugged herself and rocked, as if each heartbreaking sob wrenched out a bit of her soul, then she refilled her bellows in broken gasps with the world’s sorrow. The sound brought tears to my eyes and I would have embraced the poor creature, offered her comfort, had I been more than a spirit lost in the wood. Instead, weary, I sat down on the stone beside her.

She shrieked, high, shrill, and girlish, and jumped to her feet.

I shrieked, high, loud, and somewhat less girlish, and jumped to mine.

She wheeled on me, angry, her eyes still wet with tears. “Thou knave! Thou sneak! Back, villain!”

“You can see me?” said I.

“Of course I can bloody see you, despite your creeping up on me like some lurker in the dark!”

“I did not creep. I am a ghost, invisible to all but the magical forest people.”

“Well I can see you, and I’m not a bloody forest person.” She wiped her eyes and stepped back from me, looked me over in an overly personal way, as if trying to spot a burr snagged in my motley. “Say,” said she, “you used to be a monkey, didn’t you?”

“I did not. I was a fool. A charming, clever fool.”

“Well earlier there was a monkey dressed in that same fool’s outfit. Had his way with my hat and ran off. I’ve heard all manner of magical things happen in this wood. It would just be fitting that the only man who would deign to talk to me is a hat-shagging monkey.” She leaned in closely. “You, sir, have the look of a hat shagger.”

“I do not. But I know a monkey who is quite fond of hats. Called Jeff.”

“Good you specified,” said the puppet Jones. “Lest we blame some other monkey dressed in black and silver jester togs.”

“Quiet,” I told the puppet. Jeff? Alive? Why, I had barely had time to miss him.

“I’ll have my hat back now,” said the girl. “Or have you used it and cast it aside, too? You men are monsters, even those of you who used to be monkeys.”

“I am neither a monster nor a monkey, I am but a sullen newborn ghost, and I only stopped because I heard you weeping and thought I might help.”

“You may help, if you can lead me out of this sodding forest.”

“Me? I was going to ask you. Is this not your country? How is it that you find yourself lost in the forest of your own familiarity?”

“I followed my love, my handsome Demetrius, into the forest.”

“And he was eaten by a bear?”

“No, that’s horrible. Why would you say such a thing?”

“He’s not here, is he? And there you are, sobbing like you’ve been dirked in the dick by grief’s dark dagger. Ergo. Ursa. Arborem. Therefore, bear in the forest.”

“That means ‘bear in a tree,’ fool. And there was no sodding bear. Demetrius has run off after my used-to-be-friend Hermia, who is petite and beautiful, fair of hair, and sweet of voice. If you saw her you would love her too. All men do.”

“I would not. I am soured on love. Also, deceased.”

“Oh, you would dote upon her, make great cow eyes at her, and sing her your songs of woo.”

“I would not. I do not make cow eyes, nor do I moo woo.”

“You would. Just like Demetrius. Oh, he wooed me. Promised me future and family, but when Hermia’s father showed him favor, he forgot me and had only eyes for her and her fortune. She does not love him. She loves Lysander, a boy she has loved since school, but her father detests Lysander, and so commanded her to marry Demetrius on pain of death. The duke backed him but would condemn her to life as a nun, forever without the company of men. So she and Lysander ran off together to live under protection of Lysander’s maiden aunt. I told Demetrius of their plans, thinking he would forget her and love me again, but he did not. He ran after them.”

“And you after him?”

“Well, obviously. But he pushed me down and ran off, faster than I could follow. Skirts are shit for running in the woods.” She waved to the skirt of her long white gown, the hem was stained green and brown, snagged with nettles and foxtails.

“Forget this Demetrius, he sounds to be an opportunist fuckweasel,” said I with a wave of dismissal I reserve for such creatures. “Look at you . . . What is your name?”

“Helena.”

“Look at you, Helena, you are fairly fit and probably not entirely unpleasant when you are not shouting. You can do better.”

“But Demetrius has touched my soul and fired my heart.”

“Has anyone else touched your soul? I mean, if you’ve only had one soul-touch you might not be as on fire as you think. You might just need a raucous, all-night drunken soul-touching that leaves you a puddle of soggy embers in the morning. Then you’ll forget all about him.” I bounced my eyebrows at the prospect, then winced, as the bruise on my forehead was still tender and bright. I swooned a bit with the pain and sat again upon the rock.

“No,” said Helena, sitting down beside me. “I shall become a nun, and forever eschew the company of men. Loneliness shall be my lot, and I shall dwell in quiet contemplation of my misery.” And she began to weep again.

“Cheer up, lass,” said the puppet Jones. “You’ll probably starve to death in the forest first.”

“Shut up, Jones!” said I.

“Or be eaten by elves . . . ,” the puppet added.

“Oh woe!” the girl cried, and buried her face in my shoulder.

I wrapped a tentative arm around her shoulders. “I know, lamb, love is a besquished toad ripening in the sun. But despair not, life in the nunnery is not completely devoid of joy. I was raised by nuns. Once a week you’ll be able to share a sumptuous raisin with your sisters, and then there’s the perpetual flicking of the bean in the dark, for which you’ll have ongoing guilt and repentance during the day, so you’ll stay busy.”

“But I don’t want to be a nun, I want to go home. Take me home, fool, please. It’s dark, and you know what happens when it gets dark in the forest?”

I had spent more than a few nights in the forests of Britain in my youth and I remembered little to fear in the forest dark beyond the cold and damp, which, to be fair, was often the case any place or time in Old Blighty. “Supper?” I ventured hopefully.

“Not supper! Creatures of the dark! Evil ravening creatures that rend the flesh from your bones and eat it while you watch. Some say it’s the forest people themselves, transformed into night beasts. They are demons, sir. No one who has seen them has lived to tell the tale.” She flinched, startled by a noise in the bushes. She dug her nails into my arm and pulled me tight, as if to use me as a shield against the stirring. “Alas, it is too late. They are upon us.”

“Unhand her, you rogue,” said a male voice from the bushes, and then an entirely unremarkable yellow-haired bloke stepped out of the bushes. He was dressed in a belted jerkin, leggings, and tall boots, so not at all how I had been led to believe proper Greeks dressed from the vases I’d seen, which was a nappy and a sword.

“Demetrius!” said Helena. She moved to rise but I held her fast.

“Oh, that scoundrel,” said I. “Shall I purple up his eyes, milady? Shall I relieve him of his teeth so he may send his stuttered lies through broken bleeding lips? Give the command, milady.”

“You can’t say that,” said Demetrius. “S

he is . . . I am . . . You are . . . Helena followed me into the forest.”

“And you did not want her. Used her. Spurned her. Pushed her down and ran after another.”

“Well, yes, but I don’t want anyone else to have her.”

“And you have come back to me,” said Helena. She stood and rushed to him, her arms wide to receive his embrace. He stepped aside and she tumbled headlong into the shrubbery.

“I’m lost,” said Demetrius. “I heard voices and ended up here.”

Helena climbed out of the bushes. Her hair had shed some of its pins and hung in tendrils in her face. She spat out a leaf. “And you returned to rescue me,” she said with entirely too much hope.

“I was hoping someone would know the way back to town,” said Demetrius, ignoring the girl.

“You don’t know the way to Athens and you’re not wearing your nappy and sword. You are a shit Greek, Demetrius.”

“Sir, count yourself lucky that I have left my bow and sword at home, for on my honor, if I were armed, I would make you pay for your words.”

“A shit Greek, I say. Everyone knows that you always go about with a sword, maybe even a shield if you’re out walking your three-headed dog.” I have read the classics. “I, too, am unarmed, but just as well, that I might box your ears until you beg for mercy, then slay you later at my own convenience.”

Of course I lied about being unarmed. I’m not mad, the Greek was a foot taller than I, two stone heavier, and had probably eaten more than a handful of nuts and berries over the last week.

“Lay on, thou piss-haired spunk-whistle!” I should probably have stood up at that point, but truth be told, I was feeling weak and thought if I stood up quickly I might faint.

The Greek looked confused. He had stumbled into a fight he did not want over a girl he did not fancy, and even in the moonlight I could see his eyes darting around in search of an exit like flies buzzing in a jar. And an exit was granted, as from the other side of the clearing a great roar sounded out of the bushes, and a figure rose tall in the darkness, thrashing in the undergrowth as it charged.

“Bear!” cried the puppet Jones.

“Did that puppet just talk?” asked Demetrius.

“Run,” said Helena, grabbing Demetrius’s hand and dragging him off into the forest, both of their voices rising in high terror as they went.

I stood, then, and reached into the small of my back for a dagger, which I drew and held before me, but I swooned and fell back onto my bottom on the rock. “Oh balls,” said I as the moonlight-laced clearing began to spin. As I dropped my dagger and as I sank into the darkness I heard high, happy giggling.

“Haw, haw,” sang Cobweb. “They thought I was a bear!” She danced a jig before me, hopping from foot to foot, as if some piper were trilling a shanty only she could hear. “Haw, haw. Cobweb the scary bear. Did I scare you?”

I shook my head, more to clear the haze in my vision than as an answer. “Most excellent bear, Cobweb. And well done on the timing, as well.”