Christopher Moore - Fool

“Jolly good show, hag!” said I. I liked these crones, they had a fine-edged wit.

Rosemary rolled her good eye at the earl, lifted her skirts, aimed her withered bottom at Kent, and rubbed a palsied claw over it. “Round and firm, good knight. Round and firm.”

Kent gagged a little and backed away a few steps. “Gods save us! Away you ghastly carbuncled tart!”

I would have looked away, should have, but I had never seen a green one. A weaker man might have plucked out his own eyes, but being a philosopher, I knew the sight could never be unseen, so I persevered.

“Hop on, Kent,” said I. “Beast-shagging is thy calling and thou surely have been called.”

Kent backed into a tree and half cold-cocked himself. He slid down the trunk, dazed.

Rosemary dropped her skirts. “Just having you on.” The crones cackled as they huddled again. “We’ve a proper toading for you once the fool’s business is finished, though. A moment, please…”

The witches whispered for a moment, then resumed their march around the cauldron.

“Oh bollocks,” said Sage, “we’re all out of monkey hips.”

Parsley looked into the cauldron and gave it a stir. “We can make do without them. You can substitute a fool’s finger.”

“No,” said I.

“Well, then, get a finger from that comely hunk of man-meat with the bootblack on his beard—he seems foolish enough.”

“No,” said Kent, still a tad dazed. “And it’s not bootblack, it’s a clever disguise.”

The witches looked to me. “There’s no counting on accuracy without the monkey hips or fool’s finger,” said Rosemary.

I said: “Let us make do and gallantly bugger on, shall we, ladies?”

“All right,” said Parsley, “but don’t blame us if we bollocks-up your future.”

There was more stirring and chanting in dead languages, and no little bit of wailing, and finally, when I was about to doze off, a great bubble rose in the cauldron and when it burst it released a cloud of steam that formed itself into a giant face, not unlike the tragedy mask used by traveling players. It glowed against the misty night.

“’Ello,” said the giant face, sounding Cockney and a little drunk.

“Hello, large and steamy face,” said I.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this one rhymes, too?” said I to the witches. “Can’t a bloke find a straightforward prose apparition?”

“Quiet, fool!” snapped Sage, who I was back to thinking of as Warty. To the face, she said, “Apparition of darkest power, we’re clear on the where and the what, but the fool was hoping for some direction of the how variety.”

“Aye. Sorry,” said large steamy face. “I’m not slow, you know, your recipe was short a monkey hip.”

The steamy face grinned.

I looked at the witches. “So I’m to somehow get Goneril and Regan to take Lear’s knights in addition to everything else they have?”

“He never lies,” said Rosemary.

“He’s often wildly fucking inaccurate,” said Parsley, “but not a liar.”

“Again,” said I to the apparition, “good to know what to do and all, but a method to the madness would be most welcome as well. A strategy, as it were.”

“Cheeky little bastard, ent ’e?” said Steamy to the witches.

“Want us to put a curse on him?” asked Sage.

“No, no, the lad’s a rocky road ahead without adding a curse to slow him.” The apparition cleared his throat (or at least made the throat-clearing noise, as, strictly speaking, he had no throat).

With that, the apparition faded away.

“That’s it, then?” I asked. “A couple of rhymes and we’re finished? I have no idea what I’m to do.”

“Bit thick yourself, then, are you?” said Sage. “You’re to go to Gloucester. You’re to separate Lear from his knights and see that they’re under the power of his daughters. Then you’re to write letters of seduction to the princesses and bind their passions with a magic spell. Couldn’t be any clearer if it was rhymed.”

Kent was nodding and shrugging as if the bloody obviousness of it all had sluiced through the wood in an illuminating deluge, leaving me the only one dry.

“Oh, do fuck off, you grey-bearded sot. Where would you get a magic spell to bind the bitches’ passion?”

“Them,” said Kent, pointing rudely at the hags.

“Us,” said the hags in chorus.

“Oh,” said I, letting the flood wash over me. “Of course.”

Rosemary stepped forward and held forth three shriveled grey orbs, each about the size of a man’s eye. I did not take them, fearing they might be something as disgusting as they appeared to be—desiccated elf scrotums or some such.

“Puff balls, from a fungus that grows deep in the wood,” said Rosemary.

“So, to recap, simply and without rhyme?”

“Squeeze one of these bulbs under your lady’s nose, then say your name and she will find your charms irresistible and become overwhelmed with desire for you,” explained Sage.

“Redundant then, really?” said I with a grin.

The hags laughed themselves into a wheeze-around, then Rosemary dropped the puff balls into a small silk pouch and handed it to me.

“There’s the matter of payment,” said she, as I reached for the purse.

“I’m a poor fool,” said I. “All we have between us is my scepter and a well-used shoulder of pork. I suppose I could wait while each of you takes Kent for a roll in the hay, if that will do.”

“You will not!” said Kent.

The hag held up a hand. “A price to be named later,” said she. “Whenever we ask.”

“Fine, then,” said I, snatching the purse away from her.

“Swear it,” she said.

“I swear,” said I.

“In blood.”

“But—” As quick as a cat she scratched the back of my hand with her ragged talon. “Ouch!” Blood welled in the crease.

“Let it drip in the cauldron and swear,” said the crone.

I did as I was told. “Since I’m here, is there any chance I could get a monkey?”

“No,” said Sage.

“No,” said Parsely.

“No,” said Rosemary. “We’re all out of monkeys, but we’ll put a glamour on your mate so his disguise isn’t so bloody pathetic.”

“Go to it, then,” said I. “We must be off.”

The sky threatened a dismal dawn as we reached Castle Albany. The drawbridge was up.

“Who goes there?” shouted the sentry.

“’Tis Lear’s fool, Pocket, and his man at arms, Caius.” Caius is the name the witches gave Kent to use to bind his disguise. They’d cast a glamour on him: his beard and hair were now jet black, as if by nature, not soot, his face lean and weathered, only his eyes, as brown and gentle as a moo cow’s, showed the real Kent. I advised him to pull down the wide brim of his hat should we encounter old acquaintances.