Hello, ModernDayBard here! Welcome to the fourth chapter of Upon this Blasted Heath, my Macbeth fanfic. This chapter will be mostly comprised of slightly edited versions of the first few scenes of Macbeth, as the events that cause my story to divulge from the actual play have not yet transpired. Bear with me, that comes next time.
Remember: I don't own Macbeth (plot, dialogue, or characters), and anything in bold and italics are words that are either Shakespeare's or part of the prologue of Regent University's production of this show. However, the words with which I narrate and the new direction this story takes are completely my own. I have also taken the liberty of removing some characters from scene 2 (so they can be where I need them to be), and giving their lines to other people, in addition to leaving out a few lines so that the story flows well and makes sense, changing a couple words to keep gender consistent form scene to scene, and adding references to Macbeth's men (all my additions are in normal font, not bold/italics).
Angrily, the tree weird sisters whirled away from the screen as though it had personally affronted them by showing them the failure of their master's latest plans. How—how could this have happened? Hecate chose his pawns for their prowess in battle as well as their ambition in order to maximize the damage they could do to their own society, so it was nearly inconceivable that Macdonwald be bested so soon by anyone of less than royal blood. King's nephew Macbeth may have been, but he was only noble, not royal—this was a humiliating defeat.
But anger must always give way to caution in those whose intelligence far surpasses their strength. They would avenge their master's defeat for him; misleading Macbeth so far that he would bring about his own ruin, and perhaps, along the way, finishing what Macdonwald had started. For the moment, they would scatter and see to their own, individual projects, but soon, they would reconvene and take matters into their own hands.
"When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?" the oldest of the three looked to her sisters, awaiting their reply.
The second oldest, and the slowest of wits smiled slightly, displaying her grimy, green teeth. "When the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost—
"And won!" interjected the youngest, earning a snarl from the sister she'd interrupted. The ancient, childish figure responded in kind, and likely the two would have come to blows had not the eldest redirected their minds back to the topic at hand.
"That will be ere the set of sun," she prompted, stepping between the two and treating each to a commanding glare. "Where the place?"
The youngest cackled, proffering her suggestion: "Upon the heath!"
Quarrel now forgotten, the second hissed as she focused once more upon the reason for their meeting. "There to meet with..."
"...Macbeth," they finished together in a three-part harmony of revulsion and loathing.
A piercing, distorted tone then issued from the keyboard on each of the weird sisters—one had hers on the arm; another's was on her leg; the third, her midriff—alerting them that their individual projects must be seen to, as well.
The first hastily began typing, even as she called, "I come, Graymalkin!"
"Paddock calls," the second observed, needlessly.
The youngest was the first to look up from her typing, all but spitting out, "Anon," as she looked to her sisters.
Finally the three joined hands, forming a circle as they paced round, chanting: "Fair is foul, and foul is fair; hover though the fog and filthy air!" Thunder split the sky, the light piercing the thick fog. With a final cackle, the three weird sisters vanished into the dreary night.
In the main camp of the king's army, Duncan anxiously awaited news of the few units in his army that remained in the field. The battles seemed almost over, the victory practically theirs, but well he had learned to never take it for granted. Moreover, Malcolm and Donalbain, under Macbeth, were still in the field, and, despite his trust in them, their father worried. Lennox and Macduff, two of his most trusted nobles already returned from their assignment, flanked their sovereign, turning when Duncan indicated an injured newcomer stumbling into camp and asked, "What bloody man is that?"
"This is the sergeant, who, like a good and hardy soldier, fought 'gainst my captivity," Macduff answered as he led the king over to the man in question. "Hail, brave friend! Say to the king the knowledge of the broil as thou didst leave it."
The man struggled to remain standing, even trying to bow to his king as Macduff slipped an arm under him to support him, easing him down to sit on a nearby empty crate that'd once held supplies. After a moment and a pained grunt, the blood-smeared soldier began to make his report. "Doubtful it stood," he admitted, "The merciless Macdonwald—worthy to be a rebel—from the Western Isles of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied."
This news made the royal party frown, although it sadly was little surprise to them. Horses and soldiers from Ireland...Duncan had not wanted to believe that his sometime-ally would have betrayed him, but neither had he wanted to believe that Macdonwald would rebel.
"And Fortune, on her damned quarrel smiling, showed like a rebel's lover. But all's too weak, for brave Macbeth—well he deserves that name—" The sergeant groaned slightly in pain and Macduff started forward, afraid the man would topple. Yet the soldier rallied bravely and continued to speak through nearly-clenched lips. "—disdaining Fortune, with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution, like Valor's minion carved out his passage 'till he faced the slave; which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, 'till he unseamed her from the nave to th' chops, and fixed her head upon our battlements."
At the news of the monumental victory—and at the fact that the man had said nothing of ill fortune befalling the twins, which spoke strongly to their continued health—Duncan could not suppress a genuine smile, or the exclamation, "O valiant cousin! Worthy gentleman!"
But it seemed their friend had not yet finished his report. "As whence the sun 'gins his reflection shipwracking storms and direful thunders break, so from that spring whence comfort seemed to come, discomfort swells." The man had to groan again, but as soon as he had his breath back, nothing could stop him from finishing his report. "Mark, King of Scotland, mark: no sooner justice had, with valor armed, compelled these skipping kerns to trust their heels, but the Norwegian lord, surveying vantage, with furbished arms and new supplies of men, began a fresh assault."
This news caused a groan from all within hearing. Now the threat was external, from Norway, rather than an internal rebellion. Duncan turned to the sergeant yet again. "Dismayed not this our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?" *...and my children, Malcolm and Donalbain?* He thought but dared not to ask for fear of showing partiality, even to his own family.
"Yes, as sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion," the injured fellow replied, even managing a dry chuckle, despite the pain it obviously caused him. "If I say sooth, I must report they and their men were as cannons over charged with double cracks, so they all doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe. Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell—" At once, he broke off again, doubling over and all but crying out, now that he had reported all that he could: "but I am faint, my gashes cry for help!"
Duncan laid a hand on the man's shoulder, saying earnestly, "So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; they smack of honor both." Straightening, he called to a nearby cluster of soldiers, "Go get him surgeons."
One ran ahead to alert the camp's main medic while the others came and helped the soldier to his feet, leading him slowly after their swifter companion. The king, Lennox and Macduff turned instinctively to watch them go, and in doing so caught sight of two Thanes hurrying into camp. Unable to make out their faces from a distance, Duncan asked the slightly younger nobles, "Who comes here?"
"The worthy Thane of Ross," Macduff replied on recognizing his cousin in the lead.
By now, the two groups were close enough for the second figure to be recognized as Angus, one of the few female Thanes, and for Lennox to make the observation, "What haste looks through his eyes! So should he look that seems to speak things strange."
"God save the king!" Ross cried, entering camp proper and dropping to one knee in front of his sovereign liege.
Extending a hand, King Duncan lifted the Thane to his feet, inquiring, "Whence camest thou, worthy Thane?"
"From Fife, great king," came the answer, "where the Norwegian banners flout the sky and fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, assisted by that most disloyal traitor, the Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict."
Duncan heard dismayed and disbelieving murmurs behind him, nor could he blame his generals and nobles. *Cawdor hath rebelled as well? To be sure, I never counted to mistrust such a one. What reward could have enticed him to rebellious arm?*
His tale not yet told to completion, Ross continued, and there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the man he spoke of was any other than Macbeth, Thane of Glamis. "'Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapped in proof, confronted him, point against point, rebellious arm 'against arm, and to conclude: the victory fell on us!"
"Great happiness!" Duncan exclaimed, echoing the sentiment of the camp at the news. The King of Scotland thought quickly. The Thane of Cawdor—cursed rebel that he was—was still at large with an unknown number of followers. In all likelihood, he would fall upon Macbeth and the soldiers with him before they could return to camp. If possible, Duncan wanted to get reinforcements to his undeniably victorious but inescapably weary nephew before he faced his third battle in as many days. Also, such service as the Thane had shown should be rewarded even as rebels were punished. He turned to Lennox and Macduff. "No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive our bosom interest: go pronounce his present death, and with his former title greet Macbeth."
The two saluted, and turned to gather weapons and what few men they could muster. Ross glanced at his liege lord and then at his cousin, Macduff. "I'll see it done," he offered, as much a request as it was a statement.
Duncan nodded his permission for the young noble to join the reinforcements, noting that Angus had done the same. Macbeth, Banquo, Malcolm, Donalbain, and their fellow soldiers would have good, noble help should they encounter the damned rebel. Thoughts of Cawdor's betrayal soured the king's hopeful mood, and he strode to the command tent, calling after the retreating backs of his men, "What Cawdor hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won."
Several day's march from the king's camp, upon a deserted a fog-covered battlefield strode three figures that belonged to no part of the natural world: the three weird sisters. The oldest detected a bloody odor clinging to her sister, and asked as soon as the middle sister was within earshot, "Where hast thou been sister?"
"Killing swine!" the dim-witted witch replied with a cackle.
The youngest turned the inquiry back to the eldest. "Sister, where thou?"
In response, her sister growled in her throat, pleasant mood banished by unpleasant memories, then commenced to act out the tale she related. "A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, and munched and munched and munched. 'Give me,' quoth I. 'Aroint thee, witch!' the rump-fed runnion cries." The eldest was satisfied to see that her sisters were just outraged as she at this indignity. As it was their way to let no insult go unpunished, however slight, the speaker began to lay out her plan of revenge. "Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master o' th' Tiger. But in a sieve I'll thither sail, and, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do."
"I'll give thee a wind!" offered the second sister, as desperate to please as ever.
Her offer gained her a grateful nod from the eldest. "Thou'rt kind—"
Not to be outdone or left behind, the youngest scurried over, crying, "And I another!"
"I myself have all the other—" mused the eldest, firmly ignoring the glares and growls her sisters exchanged as they battled for her goodwill. "—and the very ports they blow—all the quarters that they know I' th' shipman's card." Satisfied revenge was possible, the misshapen fiend began to imagine details, capturing once more the imaginations of her sisters and ending their brief quarrel. "I'll drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid—he shall live, a man forbid. Weary sev'nnights nine times nine shall he dwindle, peak, and pine. Though his bark cannot be lost, yet it shall be tempest-tossed!" As she fell silent at last, she felt the object deep in her brown cloak's pocket—a treasure she'd found before confronting the sailor's wife—and remembered how eager she'd been to share her find with her sisters. "Look what I have!"
Cackling, she scurried away from the others, the second twisted figure hard on her heels, all but begging, "Show me; show me!"
"Here I have a pilot's thumb," relented the eldest, pulling out the small object once known as a thumb drive in the days predating the cataclysm, "wrecked as homeward he did come."
The inhuman sisters shared a cackle over all Hecate had taken from humanity in the endless years following the disastrous virus. The merriment of the three cruel hags was interrupted by the martial sound of marching drums.
"A drum, a drum!" cried the youngest, unnecessarily. "Macbeth doth come!"
This was the moment they'd come here to await, and with malicious, gleeful smiles, they began their final preparations, linking hands once again and stepping carefully in a circle as they chanted in unison. "The weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, thus do go about, about: thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up nine!"
As they finished, a peal of thunder shook the very ground, and the youngest cackled. "Peace," she managed, "the charm's wound up." At last they sat in the fog that clung slovenly to the battle-scarred heath, awaiting the chance to exact revenge on behalf of their master.
On the hill behind the witches, the battered and footsore remnants of Macbeth's unit could be seen, led by their captains Macbeth and Banquo. The small band of fighters paused on the top of the hill, Malcolm exchanging a worried look with his sister. Macbeth was pushing himself to near exhaustion, clearly needing but refusing to take a break from marching, so desperate was he to return to the king and report the happenings of the past several days of fighting. As the unit's designated medic, it was technically his place to insist that his superior officer rest, but as the youngest in their band, such action could viewed as inappropriate or even insulting in the eyes of the other soldiers and nobles, king's son though he was.
Macbeth, for his part, had noticed his royal cousin's unease, and deduced the reasoning behind it. The rational part of his mind knew the young prince was right—in such a state, he'd be an unfit leader if they encountered further battles—but the part of his mind fueled by his berserker-like rage kept screaming at him that he could push himself further. In the end, he decided to compromise, ordering his men to rest on the lower slope of the hill, but giving Malcolm such a look that the medic knew his commander did not want to stop for the whole day, nor have his wounds seen to. The prince thought this more folly than wisdom, but also knew this was not an argument he could win with his cousin, and followed the rest of the unit down the hill, leaving Macbeth and Banquo alone at the top, surveying the seemingly-deserted battlefield.
The Thane of Glamis stood tall, glancing at his oldest friend, Banquo, who crouched beside him on the hill, and remarked, "So foul and fair a day I have not seen."
The other fighter was not one much for philosophic musings, especially when practical matters—like how long before they reached the king's camp—occupied his mind. "How far is't called to Forres?" Whatever reply he may have received was supplanted by a cackle on the other side of the hill than that which their men had descended. Squinting, Banquo could just make out the twisted shape of the withered sisters as the fog began to clear. "What are these, so withered and so wild in their attire, that look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, and yet are on it?" Macbeth, as much taken aback as his lieutenant, had no answer, thus Banquo descended to the heath where the strangers waited, laughing boisterously as he called to the objects of his curiosity: "Live you? Or are you aught that man may question?"He paused to take in the silent response—the still-universal signal for quiet, seemingly aimed at themselves and not at the warrior addressing them. "You seem to understand me, by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her skinny lips."
"Speak, if you can," Macbeth called, following Banquo, his curiosity aroused enough to loosen his tongue. "What are you?"
The sisters, silent and nearly still when Banquo challenged them, suddenly scrambled to kneel before the startled Thane, each bowing as she spoke in turn, from eldest to youngest.
"All hail Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Glamis—"
"—all hail Macbeth! Hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor—"
"—all hail Macbeth, that shall be king hereafter!"
As the twisted hags had expected, their bold pronouncements stunned the noble general, leaving him staring in confused apprehension. Banquo shook his head, still laughing, and clapped a hand to his friend and leader's shoulder. "Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear things that do sound so fair?" The black-haired warrior turned to the weird sisters once more. "I' th' name of truth, are ye fantastical, or that indeed which outwardly ye show? My noble partner you greet with present grace and great prediction of noble having and royal hope that he seems rapt withal." A single glance confirmed that his assessment was still truthful. "To me, you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak, then, to me, who neither beg nor fear your favors nor your hate."
The fantastical fiends exchanged knowing looks, cackling at the opportunity all but handed to them. They had wanted to sow discontent between Macbeth and those in authority over him, and now his closest friend had given them the chance to break Glamis's world apart even further. They therefore scrambled around to stand in front of Macbeth's lieutenant, kneeling, bowing, and speaking in turn once more.
"Hail!"
"Hail!"
"Hail!"
"Lesser than Macbeth and greater—"
"—not so happy, yet much happier—"
"—Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none. So all hail Macbeth and Banquo—"
"Banquo and Macbeth; all hail!"
With a final thunder peal, lightning flash, and cackle, the three began to run into the fog, when Macbeth shook off his stupor and called after them, "Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more! By my father's death I know I am Thane of Glamis, but how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, and to be king stands not within the prospect of belief—no more than Cawdor!" Another taunting cackle furthered nettled the Scottish warrior, and he all but yelled at the half-concealed figures: "Say from whence you owe this strange intelligence, or why upon this blasted heath you stop our way with such prophetic greeting. Speak, I charge you!"
But all was in vain, for after a final clap of thunder, the fog swallowed the twisted fiends, and the two warriors could find no sign of them, however hard they searched. Banquo at last abandoned the attempt, shaking his head as he exposited his theory. "The earth hath bubbles, as the water has, and these are of them. Whither are they vanished?"
"Into the air," his friend and general replied in a half-distracted tone. "And what seemed corporal melted, as breath into the wind. Would they had stayed."
"Were such things here as we do speak about?" Banquo mused. Then, as if embarrassed by the events of the past few moments, he broke out in boisterous laughter. "Or have we eaten on the insane root that takes the reason prisoner?"
Macbeth took the lead from his friend, mock-bowing as he joked, "Your children shall be kings!"
Banquo responded in like kind, correcting the Thane: "You shall be king!"
"And Thane of Cawdor," Macbeth prompted. "Went it not so?"
"To the selfsame tune and words."
The merriment was interrupted by the sound of approaching men, and both turned, looking back over the hill they'd descended—the direction of the sounds. Banquo called out instinctively, "Who's here?"
In another moment, they could see Malcolm, Donalbain, and their other men approaching, accompanied by what appeared to be fresh fighters. Leading the new fighters were four Thanes Macbeth knew well: Lennox, Macduff, Ross, and Angus. The five noble generals saluted each other, then Ross stepped forward.
"The king hath happily received, Macbeth, the news of thy success. As thick as tale can post with post, and everyone did bear thy praises in his kingdom's great defense and poured them down before him."
Now Angus took over the tale: "We are sent to give thee from our royal master thanks; only to herald thee into his sight, not pay thee."
"And for an earnest of a greater honor," Ross continued, taking up the role of messenger once again, "he bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor: in which addition, hail most worthy Thane, for it is thine."
Banquo and Macbeth met each other's startled gaze, jesting now forgotten, and the loyal lieutenant whispered in utter astonishment, "What, can the devil speak true?"
Instead of answering, Macbeth turned back to Ross and Angus, questioning sharply, "The Thane of Cawdor lives. Why do you dress me in borrowed robes?"
"Who was the Thane lives yet," Angus, the female Thane, answered, realizing now that Macbeth did not know of his predecessor's treason, "but under heavy judgment bears that life which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined with those of Norway, or did line the rebel with hidden help and vantage, or with both he labored in his country's wrack, I know not; but treasons capital, confessed and proved, has overthrown him."
Macbeth tried to not betray his own surprise, but even he could not hold back a murmur. "Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor! The greatest is behind." With a great effort, he returned his attention to the new arrivals, who were beginning to discuss routes with some of his men. "Thanks for your pains." Macduff nodded in acknowledgement, then Macbeth pulled his lieutenant aside, hissing a question in his ear: "Do you not hope your children shall be kings, when those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me promised no less to them?"
"That, trusted home, might enkindle you unto the crown, besides the Thane of Cawdor," Banquo admitted, frowning in concern. He was not so quick to trust 'strange intelligence' as his old friend had termed it. "But 'tis strange. And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths—win us with honest trifles, to betray's in deepest consequence." Still, there were practical concerns to be addressed; namely, the former Cawdor's treason. Turning to the four new arrivals, Banquo called, "Cousins, a word, I pray you."
As they pulled aside, they left Macbeth to his own thoughts.
*Two truths are told as happy prologue to the swelling act of imperial theme. This supernatural soliciting cannot be ill...cannot be good. If ill, why hath it given me earnest of success, commencing a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If good, why do I yield to that suggestion whose horrid image doth unfix my hair and make my seated heart knock at my ribs, against the use of nature? Present fears are less than horrible imaginings. My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, shakes so my single state of man that function is smothers in surmise, and nothing is but what is not.*
Banquo grew concerned that Macbeth did not join them, but tried to cover his worry with a jest. "Look how our partner's rapt."
*If chance will have me king,* the new Cawdor mused, still standing apart, *why chance may crown me without my stir. Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day.*
Banquo called to his commanding officer, hoping to wake him to the world around him once more. "Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure."
Duly reprimanded, Macbeth tried for an apologetic smile. "Give me your favor, my dull brain was wrought with things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains are registered where every day I turn the leaf to read them. Let us toward the king." As the others turned to march on, Macbeth laid a hand on Banquo's shoulder, staying him for a moment. "Think upon what hath chanced, and, at more time, the interim having weighed it, let us speak our free hearts each to other.
"Very gladly," came the reply.
"Till then, enough."
With that, they followed their men and the fresh soldiers, unable to hear a demented cackle off in the foggy distance.
I'm sorry if the language in this one was a bit confusing, but I love how it sounds, so I didn't want to change how the characters talk. If you struggle a lot with understanding the text of this one, 'No Fear Shakespeare' provides a great, side-by-side translated text, available free online.
Oh, and if the titles of the chapters look or sound weird, all of them are lines or phrases from the actual play (with the exception of 'Prologue,' of course). You probably found a lot of them in this chapter!
If you like it, or if you see something that I can improve on, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!