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The County Paris took a tentative bite. It was a little bitter, and perhaps too salty, but it was otherwise agreeable. The mushrooms here in the deeper, damper part of the wood were plumper than others, giving off a pleasant smell. He had not eaten in a day (at least - perhaps longer) and was, he had to admit even to himself, growing somewhat concerned. One might say alarmed, if one were given to hyperbole. Surely father would have sent someone by now? And wasn’t there some servant somewhere? It was quite off-putting. He was ready for a hot bath and a clean set of linens. And he suddenly missed mother very much.
Someone was going to hear about this. That was certain.
But then something caught in his throat. It started as a bit of a tickle, and became a cough. But, the cough seemed to stifle itself. He tried to inhale, but found that was difficult as well. Was he choking? No… he had just swallowed a piece of mushroom. He felt a spasm of pain in his belly. Fear was followed by panic, followed by a desperate realization. He looked down at the half-eaten fungus in his hand.
Dammit. Poisonous mushrooms.
Go to Chapter 6
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were arguing. This was unlike them.
“The way to safety is best t’wards the sea,” Rosencrantz argued, pointing down the rocky slope. In the far distance, well beyond trees and rocky outcroppings, the horizon showed a blue line. His curly hair fought back against the brisk wind. He may have used gel.
Guildenstern pointed in the other direction, “To climb is best to find a place of rest.” And then he produced a knife. His hair was whipping around. Friggin hair. He had always been envious of Rosencrantz’s hair. Did Rosencrantz use gel? It seemed like he must. It wasn’t natural, otherwise. Gel seemed like cheating. Guildenstern’s hair would be perfect all the time too if he used gel. Cheating, I say.
Rosencrantz appeared taken aback. This was his best friend, after all. They had been lifelong companions. Best friends on the roads of Denmark, and far beyond. Sometimes, quite far beyond.
Like, they were totally gay is what I’m saying.
But they were no longer in Denmark. They were no longer on any of its adjoining roads. They were likely quite further than they had ever been, or ever were likely to be again. They were still gay, though. That wasn’t going to change.
Furthermore (Guildenstern had come to suspect), they were quite likely no longer alive. If they had been best friends for life, then that agreement had been completed, and it may be time for a new arrangement.
“Fuck you forsooth before you find relief.” This was followed by a pointed pointy pointer finger. It appeared quite aggressive. This was quite unlike Rosencrantz.
“Die in a ditch and suffer as you die.” Guildenstern spat on the ground (for good measure). A bit of dribble stuck to the hairs on his chin. He wiped it aggressively, and then spat again. Also for good measure.
Each bit a thumb at the other thrice, in increasing intensity, and then stomped they in opposite directions. Guildenstern looked back to see if Rosencrantz was looking back, too.
He was not.
Macbeth removed his blade. Okay, it was actually more like ripped it out of the guy’s chest, because the back hook on the upper blade had gotten stuck on a rib or something, but in the end he had his blade, and his life, and this other guy was dead. He examined the body. For some reason, he recognized this foe. His name had been Tybalt. The fiery Tybalt, actually. Tybalt of the House of Capulet.
How did he know that? No matter. There was probably more killing to do. I mean, there was always more killing to do. That was the thing with killing. It could be a full-time job if you let it. And Macbeth had tended to let it.
He heard a screaming coming from deep down a narrow pathway in the direction he had been going when Tybalt attempted his amateurish ambush. Macbeth recognized it at once. It was the Lady Macbeth. She sounded pissed. Granted, she always sounded pissed. It was kind of her thing.
He mulled his options. He was tired, and kind of horny (to be fair, he was always kind of horny), so she might be able to help him on at least one of those fronts. Sex in the forest might be kind of hot. But, she was the Lady Macbeth, after all. That meant she was probably going to nag him to death and challenge his manhood and basically tell him “that foe you felled gave not the fight you thought”, or some shit to take away this victory. Tybalt had been a pretty hardcore dude, and Macbeth still stuck him like a pig. Lady Macbeth was going to take that away. He just knew it.
Fuck that shit.
He ran off in the other direction.
Honestly, that was better than his first option of just jamming his blade in her throat.
Romeo helped Juliet across the creek bed. It was only a foot deep, but the water was brisk and cold, the rocks were slippery, and Juliet was wearing the impractical but stylish shoes that her mother had insisted she wear.
Sometimes, she really hated that bitch.
But Juliet was with her Romeo, and that was something. Her foot gave way again.
Romeo gently but firmly held her wrist, “Careful, my love, tis much for me to lose.”
Juliet nodded, laughing at herself, “My thoughts are here and far away at once.”
They arrived at the other end of the creek bed, and started to climb a shallow but slick embankment. They stopped at the sounds of something above. Juliet realized that she was wearing that milk-white dress her mother had had custom tailored, and then had forced her to wear every Sunday. Was this Sunday? Didn’t matter. White dress in the forest was a really crappy choice, no matter the day of the week.
Juliet dropped, and felt the hoop in her skirt lift the back up. She must have looked like an umbrella on its side. She managed to bend the hoop with a quick crack and flatten the skirt. Mud was going to ruin this dress forever. Good riddance.
Romeo scanned the tree line above them, his body pressed against the thick carpet of vines and leaves, as he scurried towards Juliet, “By’s voice, this should be the lord Othello.” Indeed, Othello emerged above, panting. He carried a bloody blade, his clothing was torn, and he bore a frantic look in his eyes. He glanced down into the valley, turned his head to the right and then to the left, and finally set off to his right, continuing on in the direction he had been going. If he had seen Romeo or Juliet, he had given no indication.
Romeo whispered, “What say we set our foot near to his heel?”
Juliet nodded. That guy was going somewhere. Somewhere seemed significantly better than the nowhere they were now.
“Thou art a scholar.”
Those words still echoed.
God dammit, Marcellus: a lot of good being a scholar was doing Horatio right now. Okay, he had to admit that being a scholar was of some benefit. Granted, it was not the benefit of being able to fight off the dark creatures of this place like Laertes was probably doing with his rapier, and definitely not the benefit that Friar Lawrence would have since he could draw upon a deep knowledge of plants - a knowledge that was likely to keep him alive long after others had starved to death or mistakenly chowed down on a patch of poisonous mushrooms.
But, Horatio had studied at Wittenberg. He had learnt the classics. Horatio had studied history and literature, the arts and the Poetics. He had made Greek Mythology his (metaphorical) bitch. His meticulous study had at least equipped him to figure out what the game was, and to have some idea of what they were up against.
This was an island. Everyone could see that. Hell, even Marcellus could probably have seen that. However, Horatio recognized the telltale signs that this was the island of that foul witch Sycorax. There was the ethereal drumming at twilight. There were the shadows of fae creatures that lingered at the edges of the firelight long after the moon had dropped below the trees - not the whimsical creatures of the faerie court of Oberon, either. Not by a long stretch.
Furthermore, there was the cove of wrecked ships at the western end of the island. And fucking Caliban was loping around, joyously breaking shit and throwing rocks into valleys.
It had been over seventeen hours, and Horatio was exhausted. He hadn’t slept, and now it was near noon (twenty-four minutes away, he was quite confident). He knew that he would need to find somewhere to rest. He knew that he would have to find some way to gather food. He knew that he’d have to improvise at least some sort of weapon to, at a minimum, defend himself when needed. He knew for sure that some means of self-defense would be paramount.
But Horatio also knew one more thing.
If he wanted to survive this, he knew that he had to find Hamlet.
