A leaf fell. Music without a tune pushed up against it, fighting the air,
drawing it away. The leaf turned a spottled yellow, jerking back from the
noise. Brown overtook yellow, pressing itself to the full, once green
edges. It lay upon the dry summer grass, dead. More leaves followed,
leaving the elm tree bare. The music stopped. Three women walked away,
pressed together in a mass of ragged, brown clothing. Each had the air of
one long lived, one who had seen too much- had seen death, had seen their
own. They stepped around another tree, repeating the process. Always
repeating. Always leaving the dead behind.
*****
Sun moved harshly over the ship, weaving its heat through every area. Closed doors only trapped it. Water evaporated from the oceans around, hanging in the air, pushing its weight onto all those alive – and dead. Macbeth coughed as waves of the stench of dead flowed around him. They had to make it back to Berin soon. The sun and twenty days at sea and had sided together to produce the indescribable odor of rotting dead. It smelled bad.
But they had won. He had won. Thoughts of the battle were flashes of red though his mind. And the screams. Yet he had won. He had led his troops in as the King's first men fell. The overlord of Byle'an had seemed to be winning; he had pulled together a traitor's army big enough to defeat the King. But Macbeth had turned the battle for himself – and the King.
News of the battle had reached the main isle of Hyilan by now. Any mage would have seen to that on the first day. Macbeth was sure of the fact. Word had even been sent back— the King would meet him at his own castle on Berin. Hyilan, where the King lived and any politics took place, was closer to Berin than Byle'an. The King would be waiting.
A single seagull soared overhead, and Macbeth turned his face to the sky, eyes fixed on the bird. Land was near. Grinning, he looked back to the horizon, hoping to see his home. The seagull landed on the rail in front of him, staring with eyes free of a bird's intelligence. Instead, there seemed to be something more there, something else. The bird turned its head sideways, silently watching. Two more seagulls landed on the rail beside the first, each eyeing him in the same, calculating manner.
If a printer is called a printer, shouldn't the damn thing print? Banquo stepped up behind him. Macbeth turned to his friend, another of the lesser kings, motioning him to be silent. He swept a hand towards the birds. Something was not right… Banquo nodded, and turned his gaze to the birds.
The middle bird gave a squawk loud enough to alert the entire boat, yet no others turned. Its feathers turned a spotted brown, matting together until they formed a thick, woven covering, almost cloth-like. The two others followed, then each bird swelled in size, their features molding as if an invisible hand were playing with clay. Three women sat atop the rail.
Macbeth shuddered. The women did not look like women…their features were crude, as if the sculptor had left the clay unfinished. Banquo stepped forward as Macbeth pulled back, speaking in an almost eager tone. "What brings you here?"
The witches did not reply, instead turning in to confer among themselves. Giggling such as schoolgirls would produce came to air, entirely unnatural from their shrunken features. They turned back towards the two kings, speaking in a mocking unison.
"Long live Macbeth, king of Berin! Long live Macbeth, king of Byle'an! Long live Macbeth, King of all the Isles!"
Macbeth shuddered. They did not speak the truth. "I am king of Berin, nothing more"
"You will be." The answer came with such sinister certainty, he drew off and said no more.
Banquo shifted his weight, words nearly coming, but each time they formed, he pulled them back. His eyebrows twisted together as he spoke, putting each word carefully. "You talk only of Macbeth…"
"We speak of you as well. Your line will be King as Macbeth falls." As the final words were said, each woman leaned backwards, tumbling off the rail in a sycronised chaos. Their skin turned a sharp silver as they hit the waves, disappearing between the blinding water.
Macbeth turned away from the waves, shakily moving back towards the main part of the ship. Banquo leaned over the rail, searching to find any evidence of the weird beings.
*****
*****
Sun moved harshly over the ship, weaving its heat through every area. Closed doors only trapped it. Water evaporated from the oceans around, hanging in the air, pushing its weight onto all those alive – and dead. Macbeth coughed as waves of the stench of dead flowed around him. They had to make it back to Berin soon. The sun and twenty days at sea and had sided together to produce the indescribable odor of rotting dead. It smelled bad.
But they had won. He had won. Thoughts of the battle were flashes of red though his mind. And the screams. Yet he had won. He had led his troops in as the King's first men fell. The overlord of Byle'an had seemed to be winning; he had pulled together a traitor's army big enough to defeat the King. But Macbeth had turned the battle for himself – and the King.
News of the battle had reached the main isle of Hyilan by now. Any mage would have seen to that on the first day. Macbeth was sure of the fact. Word had even been sent back— the King would meet him at his own castle on Berin. Hyilan, where the King lived and any politics took place, was closer to Berin than Byle'an. The King would be waiting.
A single seagull soared overhead, and Macbeth turned his face to the sky, eyes fixed on the bird. Land was near. Grinning, he looked back to the horizon, hoping to see his home. The seagull landed on the rail in front of him, staring with eyes free of a bird's intelligence. Instead, there seemed to be something more there, something else. The bird turned its head sideways, silently watching. Two more seagulls landed on the rail beside the first, each eyeing him in the same, calculating manner.
If a printer is called a printer, shouldn't the damn thing print? Banquo stepped up behind him. Macbeth turned to his friend, another of the lesser kings, motioning him to be silent. He swept a hand towards the birds. Something was not right… Banquo nodded, and turned his gaze to the birds.
The middle bird gave a squawk loud enough to alert the entire boat, yet no others turned. Its feathers turned a spotted brown, matting together until they formed a thick, woven covering, almost cloth-like. The two others followed, then each bird swelled in size, their features molding as if an invisible hand were playing with clay. Three women sat atop the rail.
Macbeth shuddered. The women did not look like women…their features were crude, as if the sculptor had left the clay unfinished. Banquo stepped forward as Macbeth pulled back, speaking in an almost eager tone. "What brings you here?"
The witches did not reply, instead turning in to confer among themselves. Giggling such as schoolgirls would produce came to air, entirely unnatural from their shrunken features. They turned back towards the two kings, speaking in a mocking unison.
"Long live Macbeth, king of Berin! Long live Macbeth, king of Byle'an! Long live Macbeth, King of all the Isles!"
Macbeth shuddered. They did not speak the truth. "I am king of Berin, nothing more"
"You will be." The answer came with such sinister certainty, he drew off and said no more.
Banquo shifted his weight, words nearly coming, but each time they formed, he pulled them back. His eyebrows twisted together as he spoke, putting each word carefully. "You talk only of Macbeth…"
"We speak of you as well. Your line will be King as Macbeth falls." As the final words were said, each woman leaned backwards, tumbling off the rail in a sycronised chaos. Their skin turned a sharp silver as they hit the waves, disappearing between the blinding water.
Macbeth turned away from the waves, shakily moving back towards the main part of the ship. Banquo leaned over the rail, searching to find any evidence of the weird beings.
*****