“’Ello,” said the giant face, sounding Cockney and a little drunk.
“Hello, large and steamy face,” said I.
“Fool, Fool, you must save the Drool,
Quick to Gloucester, or blood will pool.”
“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.”
“We’ll use two next time,” said Sage.
“Well, all right, then…
“To reverse the will of a flighty king,
Remove his train to clip his wings.
To eldest daughters knights be dower,
And soon a fool will yield the power.”
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).
“A princess to your will shall bend,
If seduction in a note, you send,
And fates of kings and queens shall tell,
When bound are passions with a spell.”
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.
“In lover’s breath these spores release
An enchanting charm you shall unleash
Passion which can be never broken
For him whose name next is spoken.”
“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.”