Devonne Brown

Will had been plotting murder in his mind for weeks, but couldn’t for the life of him figure out how to do it. His theatre had been closed for months because of the plague and people were screaming for blood. He cursed himself. Duncan had to die, but how? He mumbled and trudged.

“Kings are men. Men die because they make stupid mistakes. Women. Pride. Drink. Love. Power. Greed. War. Suicide.” said Will to the light the lantern cast before him. He continued to muse until he heard the dogs bark. Will remembered the king’s dogs, three mastiffs, each with the blood of a Minataur, that defended the winding hedge. Playful and gentle with each groundskeeper, maid, and messenger, friendly to family, butler, or child, each canine was built to bring down a bear, and wanted to. The curs were delighted to safeguard anyone from the king to his newest visitor, yet each took just as much pleasure finding the rare intruder to the property. Though Will had been in the palace many times as both performer and friend of the court, the barking gave him pause. Had he been given leave to use the royal shortcut?

Will was so frightened his bones hurt when he remembered the miniature minotaurs protecting the royal grounds.  He stopped short when the sound of women’s giggling followed by the deep joyful yips of big dogs landed in his ears. He’d been warned before setting off through the King’s forest, warned of worse than beasts. Will blew out his light.

Near Seventh Gate, vagrants,whores, troubadours, and actors gathered where the forest backed up against the city. There, they spruced up their acts, mended costumes, traded wares and tales of witches in the forest. Playwrights bartered for performers and performances. 

Some of the playhouses would send a scout in search of an actor or an acrobat. Performers driven by their need to see and be seen collected about in small camps. They liked each other’s company. They were the lowest of the low, yet most exalted.  Lights flickered under canopies and fires burned. Soft music, serious talk, and hearty laughter floated over all the little camps’ gray smoky whirlpools above their fires.  The players and vagabonds, like anyone who’d ever been in the dark of the woods, told each other frightening tales and warnings of the incredible creatures, ugly witches, and voodoo queens that lurked deep within the woods. Of course, these seasoned travelers from near and far all bragged disbelief and slapped their knees with laughter, but few slept easy.

Simon, a beaten giant, collapsed behind a troupe of actors. His mangled hands, sliced open raw and bloody, were broken beyond repair. Pain and fear had driven Simon through the alleys until they grew wide, and then they were gone.  He kept his head down, and saw little but his feet taking long wide strides, and his tears that dropped onto his covered broken hands. The blood from his injuries hardened in his heavy wool cloak. Their itching and throbbing made him feel more helplessness and desperation than pain.

The pain from his beaten hands made him sick.  The forefinger of Simon’s left hand bent from the middle knuckle toward the little finger of the same hand. On his right hand, each bone on his right hand had been snapped, like beans. The bones at the ends of his middle finger and thumb stuck out from their flesh. And the blood, there was so much blood.  

Tangled sticks couldn’t have done a better job replacing Simon’s elegant fingers that created beauty with precision. He had worked all of his days and long into the nights balancing the tiniest of clock components. Now, Simon could not lift a finger.

  Florie, a wise woman with the gift of second sight and the curse of royal blood, found him. She, and King James’s other ugly aunt Mary, and Rue, his favorite courtesan waited in the shadows of the grove. Florie had gone on ahead of her two companions to meet their quarry. She was to bring him in for the healing. They had followed her as far as their clearing behind the palace where Rue, the youngest and most powerful of the three, cast a perfect ring of salt, their circle of protection, wide around the cauldron’s fire where they intended to summon a giant.

 Simon woke to Florie’s voice in the half moon’s light. “Get up. Come with me.”

His eyes must have been enormous with surprise as well as pain when Simon looked up into long wagging jowls, wrinkled and grayed with time. Delighted yellow, green eyes concentrated on his face and beakish nose. Simon hadn’t seen anyone happy to see him since his mother was alive. The old eyes memorized his face then laughed at him.

“My, aren’t you an ugly one. Such a face. Get up then. Let’s get you fixed. Rue needs you.” said Florie. She giggled when she got herself under one of his great arms. “Work with me, man. It’s your hands, that’s troubled, your legs ain’t broke. Get up.” 

The old woman, much stronger and straighter than she appeared, levered and heaved to help the giant to his feet. He was a big one. In the dark, he seemed twice as tall as Florie, and looked just like an enormous crow. He had raven black hair that hung straight to his shoulders, a sharp pointed face, and took long birdlike strides. His black coat gave him wings. Florie smiled at him, and pointed to a path beside a white blooming bush. “Through here.” 

Simon followed the odd matron without question. 

“Rue and Old Mary will take care of your hands. We’ve seen you coming for a long time now. We cast the calling spell. We been waiting for you.” said Florie. “Hurry, now. Rue will have a fit if your hands start healing wrong-wise. The fixing will hurt, it won’t be perfect, but you’ll live. Now move, man. We don’t have til the sun comes up. Go.” She gathered the dusty hem of her cape that revealed a bit of red silk. Then she picked up a long forked stick, and led Simon into the woods.

Will followed them with careful, silent steps. Florie kept a tight grip on Simon’s elbow and led the way through the black forest. They payed no attention to the branches that snapped around, rrr                                                                                                                                                                                          behind them in the dark.

They picked their way through the trees and somehow stayed on a path. Brush and branches picked at his legs. Before long, Simon saw light from a fire and heard two women.   

  Crippled with laughter, an ancient slattern with egg-like eyes and no neck wore a crown of woven sticks and lily of the valley, leaned heavily on a smaller hooded woman.  A coarse linen cape covered all but the black lace hem of a dowager’s garb. A large purple velvet sack with a red satin ribbon hung around her waist. The other woman, bent double, tripped, cackled, and fell squarely on her face and rolled over to face the sky next to a huge boiling pot on the fire. 

“Stop,”said Rue. She put her hand on her stomach to sqelch her giggles. They paused their laughter and wiped their tears at the sound of crunching footfalls.

“No, You stop,” said Mary. She burst into laughter again.

 “By the pricking of my thumb…” said Rue, rolled toward the older woman like a drunken old man, ugly laughed, and propped herself up on her elbows. She let the tears of laughter roll from her eyes, and fell back on the ground while her laughter hung in the air like the carillon on Sundays. They had summoned their giant.