Christopher Moore - Fool

“Pulled a sword out of a stone and slayed a dragon with it, didn’t you?”

“No, that never happened.”

“Sodding convent education. Buggered if I know then, nuncle. How did Lear become king?”

“My own father, I murdered him. I do not deserve a noble death.”

I was speechless. I had been in service of the king over a decade and never had I heard of this. The story went that old King Bladud had handed the kingdom over to Lear and went to Athens, where he learned to be a necromancer, then returned to Britain and died from the plague in service of the goddess Minerva at the temple at Bath. But before I could gather my wits for a reply, lightning cracked the sky, illuminating a hulking creature that was making its way across the hillside toward us.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A demon,” said the old man. “The gods have sent a monster to take their revenge on me.”

The thing was covered in slime, and walking as if it had just been constructed from the very earth over which it slogged. I felt for the daggers at the small of my back and pulled one from its sheath. There’d be no knife throwing in this downpour—I wasn’t even sure I could hold the blade steady for a thrust.

“Your sword, Lear,” said I. “Draw and defend.” I stood and stepped out of the shelter of the shrubbery. I spun Jones so his stick end was at the ready, and drew a flourish in the air with my dagger.

“Come hither, demon! Pocket’s got a coach ride back to the underworld for thee.”

I crouched, thinking to leap aside as the thing lunged. Although it described the shape of a man, I could see long slimy tendrils dragging from it, and mud oozing off of it. Once it stumbled I’d leap on its back and see if I could cause it to fall and slide down the hillside, away from the old king.

“No, let it take me,” said Lear. Suddenly the old man shrugged off his fur cloak and charged at the monster, his arms wide, as if offering his very heart to the beast. “Slay me, ye merciless god—rend this black heart from Britain’s chest!”

I could not stop him and the old man fell into the beast’s arms. But to my surprise, there was no tearing of limbs or bashing of brains. The thing caught the old man and lowered him gently to the ground.

I lowered my blade and inched forward. “Leave him, beast.”

The thing was kneeling over Lear, whose eyes were rolled back in his head even as he twitched as if in a fit. The beast looked at me and I saw streaks of pink through the mud, the whites of its eyes.

“Help me,” it said. “Help me get him to shelter.”

I stepped forth and wiped the mud away from the thing’s face. It was a man, covered with mud so thick it even ran out of his mouth and coated his teeth, but a man just the same, vines or rags, I couldn’t tell which, trailed off his arms. “Help poor Tom bring him out of the cold,” said he.

I sheathed my dagger, retrieved the old man’s cape, and helped the muddy, naked bloke carry King Lear into the wood.

It was a tiny cabin, barely enough room to stand in, but the fire was warm and the old woman stirred a pot that smelled of boiling meat and onions, like breath of the Muses it was, on this dank night. Lear stirred, now hours since we brought him in from the rain. The king reclined on a pallet of straw and skins. His fur cloak still steamed by the fire.

“Am I dead?” asked the old man.

“Nay, nuncle, but ye were close enough to lick death’s salty taint,” said I.

“Back, foul fiend!” said the naked fellow, waving at the very air before his eyes. I had helped him wash away much of the mud, so now he was merely filthy and mad, but no longer misshapen.

“Oh, poor Tom is cold! So cold.”

“Aye, we can tell that,” said I. “Unless you’re just a crashingly large bloke what was born with a willie the size of a raisin.”

“The fiend makes Tom eat the swimming frog, the tadpole, lizards, and ditch-water—I eat cow dung for salads and swallow rats and bits of dead dogs. I drink pond scum, and in every village I am beaten and thrown into stocks. Away, fiend! Leave poor, cold Tom alone!”

“Blimey,” said I. “The loonies are in full bloom tonight.”

“I offered him some stewed mutton,” said the old woman by the fire, without turning, “but no, he had to have his frogs and cow pies. Right fussy eater for a naked nutter.”

“Pocket,” said Lear, clawing at my arm. “Who is that large, naked chap?”

“He calls himself Tom, nuncle. Says he’s pursued by the devil.”

“He must have daughters. See here, Tom, did you give all to your daughters? Is that what drove you mad and poor even until you are naked?”

Tom crawled across the floor until he was at Lear’s side.

“I was a vain and selfish servant,” said the nutter. “I slept with my mistress every night and woke thinking of putting it to her again in the morning. I drank and caroused and made merry, even while my half brother fought a crusade for a Church for which he held no faith. I took all without thought for those who had nothing. Now I have nothing—not a stitch, not a crumb, not a coin, and the devil dogs me to the ends of the earth for my selfishness.”

“You see,” said Lear, “only a man’s cruel daughters could drive him to such a state.”

“He didn’t say that, you daft geezer. He said he was a selfish libertine and the devil took his kit.”

The old woman turned now. “Aye, the fool’s right. The younger nutter has no daughters, ’tis his own unkindness that curses him.” She crossed the cabin with two steaming bowls of stew and set them before us on the floor. “And it’s your own evil hounds you, Lear, not your daughters.”

The old woman, I’d seen her before. She was one of the crones from the Great Birnam Wood. Different togs and somewhat less green, but this was surely Rosemary, the cat-toed witch.

Lear slid to the floor and grabbed poor Tom’s hand. “I have been selfish. I have thought nothing of the weight of my deeds. My own father I imprisoned in the temple at Bath because he was a leper, and later had him killed. My own brother I did murder when I suspected him of bedding my queen. No trial, not even the honor of a challenge. I had him murdered in his sleep without proof. And my queen is dead, too, for my jealousy. My kingdom is the fruit of treachery, and treachery have I reaped. I do not deserve to even wear clothes on my back. You are true, Tom, that you have nothing. I, too, shall have nothing, as is my just reward!”

The old man began to tear off his clothes, ripping at the collar of his shirt, tearing more of his parchment-like skin than the linen. I stayed his hand, held his wrists and tried to catch his eye with my own, to pull him back from madness.

“Oh, I have wronged my sweet Cordelia!” the old man wailed. “The only one who loved me and I have wronged her! My one true daughter! Gods, tear these clothes from my back, tear the meat from my bones!”

Then I felt claws clamp on my own wrists and I was pulled away from Lear as if I had been drawn by heavy iron shackles. “Let him suffer,” hissed the witch in my ear.

“But I have made this pain,” said I.

“Lear’s pain is of his own making, fool,” she said. With that I felt the room spinning and I heard the voice of the girl ghost telling me to sleep. “Sleep, sweet Pocket.”

“Who’s the muddy naked bloke snogging the king’s noggin?” asked Kent.

I awoke to see the old knight standing in the doorway with the Earl of Gloucester. The storm still raged outside, but by firelight I could see the naked nutter Tom O’Bedlam had wrapped himself around Lear and was kissing the king’s bald head as if blessing a newborn babe.

“Oh majesty,” said Gloucester, “can’t you find better company than this? Who is this rough beast?”