Macbeth and Son (8 page)

‘No,’ said his mother shortly.

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, Lulach, how can I make you understand? You have no brothers, no cousins or uncles. Anyone else who could stand for election as mormaer is dead. There’s only you. The clan must have a leader. The land must have a chief to tend and guard it.’

‘And there’s only me?’ said Lulach slowly.

‘There’s only you.’

‘Duty,’ said Lulach. It seemed the heaviest word in all the world. ‘If…if you have another son, can I be a monk then?’

‘Perhaps,’ said his mother softly, smiling slightly. ‘If I do.’

Lulach stood up, and followed her down the hill.

Duty, thought Luke, only half awake, a world and an age away from the small boy on the hill. How lucky to have someone to tell you clearly what your duty was.

And now the Mormaer would be king.

Or would he?

Luke rolled over and let the dream claim him again.

All hail, Macbeth!

(
Macbeth
, Act I, Scene 3, line 48)

The King was dead. It was time to elect another.

Down in England the king’s son became king when his father died, even if he was evil or a fool. But here in Alba the mormaers and the bishops met at Scone to elect one of their number as high king.

The three of them rode along the muddy road into Scone—Lulach, his mother and his stepfather. The men of Moray marched behind them.

Flakes of snow drifted from the low grey clouds and melted on their faces, and the horses’ hot breath turned the cold air into mist.

Lulach stared. He had never dreamed that any town could be so much bigger than the rath at home. There were more houses than you could count! Whole streets of tanners, potters, coopers, cobblers, shield makers…

Out from the houses, down from the hills, people ran towards them—men in ragged leggings, women with tattered skirts, hungry children with fingers blue
from the cold and feet bound up in rags, cheering, cheering, cheering…

‘Moray!’ they yelled. ‘Moray! Moray!’

A woman ran up to them, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands. It steamed in the frosty air. She thrust it at the Mormaer.

‘For you, my Lord!’ she yelled. ‘Fresh baked!’

It was an oaten bannock, hot from the firestone. The Mormaer broke off a piece and ate it, smiling down his thanks, then passed the rest to Lulach and his wife.

Lulach tasted it. It was gritty and sour. The oat flour must have been old and full of weevils. But it was the best the woman had to give.

Lulach had wondered if King Duncan’s subjects would hiss at them, or hurl the contents of their chamber pots at the man who had killed their king. But these people didn’t mourn for Duncan. Instead they cheered the man they hoped would be their next ruler.

That morning, at the guesthouse where they’d stopped for the night, Lulach had heard his stepfather practising what he’d say to the assembled chiefs.

‘Duncan gave you war and hunger,’ the Mormaer had recited. ‘Black fields, with nothing to harvest but ruined hopes. I will give you peace.’

And he would, thought Lulach, as they rode between the cheering crowds. The Mormaer always kept his word. Surely the Council of Chiefs would see that too?

The chieftains and church leaders argued for three days, while the candidates waited in the monastery guesthouse, carefully polite to each other.

There were many candidates, but only two who really had a chance of being elected: the leaders of the two most powerful clans in Alba. The Mormaer of Moray and the new Mormaer of Atholl, King Duncan’s brother. Thorfinn had been right.

King Duncan’s father, the Abbot of Dunkfield and the former Mormaer of Atholl, had been lobbying the Council to vote for Duncan’s brother. Duncan’s son was too young to stand for election.

But Alba had had enough of Duncan’s clan and their wars. On the third day the herald called out the name of the Mormaer of Moray.

Lulach stood at the front of the crowd on Boot Hill with his mother. She wore her best yellow gown today, with a red cloak and scarf. There were tears in her eyes; the tears she hadn’t let herself shed in the years of terror and sorrow fell now, from happiness, as they watched the Mormaer stride up to the ancient Stone of Destiny, Lia Fáil, his head bright in the sunlight, his face intent and sure.

The new king put his hands upon the golden sandstone rock. His voice was strong and clear. ‘I swear by my honour and by Almighty God to defend the Commonweal of Alba. I swear to defend the happiness of her people.’

One by one the clan chieftains stepped forward and pledged allegiance to the new high king. Each carried a little soil from their homeland in the bindings of their boots. They emptied it into a small mound, then yelled the new king’s name so loudly
the ravens rose in a thick cloud from the battlements and squawked in protest at the noise.

‘King Macbeth!’

‘Macbeth MacFindleach! All hail!’

‘Macbeth! All hail our King Macbeth!’

‘All hail, Father!’ cried Lulach, and heard his mother laugh beside him. It seemed right to call him ‘Father’ now.

The new king grinned. He swung Lulach up onto his shoulders so that all the crowd could see him.

‘Wave, my son!’ he urged him.

Lulach waved. The crowd roared their approval. ‘Moray! Moray! Macbeth! Macbeth!’

This is how it should be, thought Lulach. This is right.

No!

The dream shimmered as Luke struggled to wake up. This
wasn’t
right! It
couldn’t
be!

Suddenly the dream released him. Luke sat up panting, as though he had been running, not lying there asleep.

Not Macbeth!

That couldn’t be the Mormaer’s name! Macbeth was a murderer! How could he use Macbeth’s name in his dream? Duncan, yes, even the three witches…but not Macbeth!

Luke lay back down. He had to think of another name for the new king. Arthur, maybe, or Jason. Did they have Jasons way back then?

He had to go back to sleep, he had to dream it right!

The King’s name was…Samuel, that was a good name for a king. And all the people would cheer
him and there’d be a feast…and then he’d do something heroic again too…

Luke shut his eyes and tried to see the dream again. But it was like playing with his action figures when he was small. You could move them all about but it wasn’t
real
, not like the dream.

Real. The dream was
real
.

Suddenly certainty washed through him and his skin prickled. Whatever this dream was, it didn’t come from him.

No dream he’d ever had before had been as clear as this.

How did he know what snow felt like? He’d seen snow on TV, but never felt it on his skin—so cold it hurt, then left you numb. How did he know what kale tasted like, boiled with seaweed in a pot? Or what a tanist was?

Where did the dream come from, then? Had he read a story like it, long ago, and then forgotten? But why would he want to read stuff like that? He wasn’t even into history. And surely if he’d read all that he would remember!

It really happened, thought Luke dully. And I’m seeing it happen all over again!

But how? Why?

Maybe when things happened they left an echo. Like a yell travelling over a vast distance, until it was too faint to hear. Maybe, somehow, a distant ear could pick it up.

Maybe history never really dies, thought Luke, lying in the darkness and staring at the dim ceiling overhead. Maybe everything that’s happened just waits for someone to listen to it again.

Somehow the darkness made it easier to think. Okay, suppose the dream
were
true…

But it
couldn’t
be true, because the Macbeth he’d dreamed about was a hero. The real Macbeth was a coward and a murderer.

Except of course Shakespeare’s Macbeth wasn’t real either. Shakespeare’s Macbeth was just a guy in a play.

Luke sat up again.
Had
it all happened? Then there’d be records. But how could he find out?

Now he was awake he was starting to think clearly. The same way he found out stuff for an assignment, he decided.

Google it.

Luke slipped out of bed. The computer sat dark and silent on his desk.

He pressed the power switch. The computer chimed as it booted up, so loudly Luke was sure that everyone in the house would hear.

What words should he key in? And then they came to him.

‘Alba’. ‘Tanist’. ‘Duncan’. ‘Moray’. ‘Mormaer’.

Then, finally, ‘Macbeth’.

Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart.

(
Macbeth
, Act IV, Scene 1, lines 110–111)

Dawn was a pale smudge between the curtains when he finally looked up from the screen. A cuckoo sang out in the loquat tree. Dad had told him years ago about the cuckoo, how it sang just before dawn, or even by moonlight sometimes. The kookaburra called next, then the rooster and all the other birds.

Luke turned off the computer. His body felt almost too heavy to move. He would be able to sleep now, he knew.

There were lots of sites that talked about Macbeth—too many for him to read them all. But he’d read enough to know the Macbeth he’d imagined was real.

The dream was true.

The real Macbeth had been a hero, just like in his dream. Then Shakespeare had written a play, making him a villain.

Shakespeare had called liars evil in his play. But it looked like Shakespeare had lied too.

And Lulach? Did he exist as well? Luke had typed in ‘Lulach’. Most of the Macbeth sites didn’t even mention him. But a couple of them said that Macbeth had married Gruoch, whose son became Macbeth’s stepson…

Lulach. The boy he’d been.

Luke rubbed his eyes. Sleep. He had to sleep. Proper sleep, without the dream this time. There was no way he could read more now.

He knew enough already. Knew what was true and what was a lie.

Did it matter, any of it? And if it did, what should he do now?

this dead butcher, and his fiend-like Queen…

(
Macbeth
, Act V, Scene 9, line 35)

It was a relief to meet Patrick and Megan later that morning, school bag on his back, Mrs T’s banana and cheese surprise muffins heavy in his stomach. Even Mrs Reynolds’s false teeth looked good, because they were familiar.

Normal, thought Luke. Part of him still felt trapped back in the dream. Green hills and purple heather, the yells of the crowd, the smells of chamber pots, the taste of ox roasted on a spit at the coronation feast…

‘Hi,’ he called, as he staggered down the bus, bracing himself as it bounced over potholes.

‘Hi, yourself,’ said Patrick gloomily. ‘I have to go to the dentist this afternoon,’ he added. ‘I got a toothache last night. Mum rang for an appointment.’

‘What time?’ Luke sat down between the two of them.

‘Two. At least I get the afternoon off school.’

‘You’ll miss English,’ Megan observed.

‘Yeah. I’m crying already,’ said Patrick.

‘No, I mean Mrs Easson asked you to read the part of Macbeth today, remember?’

Patrick shrugged.

‘She should ask Jingo,’ said Luke. ‘He thinks he’s king of the school.’ He spoke without thinking. Dumb, he told himself. It sounded like he was jealous of Jingo. And he wasn’t. Jingo was like a shiny bubble. One gust of wind and he’d evaporate.

Was Megan interested in Jingo? It was hard to tell what chicks felt. They’d been arguing yesterday. But sometimes girls pretended to be really down on a guy just because they liked him.

Megan didn’t answer. Maybe she wasn’t interested in Jingo, Luke thought hopefully.

Then she said, ‘Luke? Has Sam said anything more about the TV show?’

Luke shook his head. ‘I haven’t spoken to him since he left for Sydney on Sunday,’ he said honestly.

‘Could you ring him tonight? Please? It’s just that the Council is meeting next week…There isn’t much time.’

Luke hesitated. Yes, he would call Sam, he decided. So what if Sam just said no again? At least he’d have tried. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Megan beamed at him. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

The school staff room was between the library and the Principal’s office, part of the original school from more than a hundred years before. It was cold even on the hottest day, and dark unless the lights were on, the windows small and square in case those longago teachers needed to barricade out rebel convicts or settlers’ kids who didn’t like the idea of homework.

The staff room was full this early in the morning. As he knocked on the open door, Luke could see teachers gulping down final cups of coffee or photocopying notes on the machine in the corner.

‘Mrs Easson, please,’ he said, as the sports master looked at him inquiringly.

‘What is it, Luke?’ Mrs Easson came out into the corridor.

Suddenly he wondered how to start. He couldn’t just say, ‘I had this weird dream and wonder if it’s real.’

‘It’s about Macbeth,’ he said instead. ‘I didn’t want to bring it up in class because it’s a bit embarrassing…’

‘Macbeth? Embarrassing?’ Mrs Easson looked taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I…I just had an idea last night. I looked up Macbeth and Scottish history and, well…I found out something.’

‘Yes?’ asked Mrs Easson encouragingly.

‘I…I looked up the play last night, and it’s all real!’ He knew it wasn’t coming out right, but he really needed to tell her what he’d discovered.

Mrs Easson looked puzzled. ‘Yes, it’s one of Shakespeare’s history plays. Like
Julius Caesar
or
King Henry V
. We talked about that in class.’

‘No, I don’t mean that…’ Megan would know how to put it, Luke thought desperately. ‘I mean, it’s all a lie! Macbeth was real—Shakespeare didn’t make him up. But he wasn’t like that at all. Shakespeare lied about him. Macbeth wasn’t evil, he probably didn’t even kill King Duncan. And he didn’t seize the throne, because Scottish kings were elected in those days, and people must have thought he was okay or
they wouldn’t have elected him. And Lady Macbeth didn’t go mad, and—’

‘Luke, hold it. It’s just a play! It’s not supposed to be true in all its details!’ said Mrs Easson.

‘But you just said it’s a history play!’

‘Yes, it’s based on history and has historical figures in it. But it’s still fiction.’

‘But that’s just it—it isn’t! Shakespeare pretended he was writing about real people! But it was all a lie!’

‘Luke, you keep using the word “lie”. Fiction isn’t a lie. A lie is when you deliberately change things.’

‘Well, he did!’ said Luke stubbornly. ‘Shakespeare knew he was changing what really happened. So he lied.’

‘All right, maybe he lied. But it doesn’t matter! What’s more important? A bit of forgotten Scottish history or one of the greatest plays the world has ever seen?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Luke, confused now. ‘The…the play, I suppose.’

‘Well, then,’ said Mrs Easson, relieved. ‘Of course, the history is very interesting,’ she added kindly. ‘I’m really impressed at all the trouble you’re going to, Luke.’

‘Thanks,’ said Luke vaguely, his brain still far away. It wasn’t enough that the play was brilliant, he thought. Surely it could have been brilliant
and
true. But he couldn’t think how to explain that to Mrs Easson. Maybe if he were smart like Megan…

But it was too late, anyway. ‘There’s the bell,’ said Mrs Easson. ‘See you in class this afternoon. Luke…there’s nothing else wrong, is there? Nothing at home?’

‘What? No, why?’

‘You’ve just been looking a bit worried lately. You must be excited after winning that scholarship, though.’

‘Er, yes—everything’s fine,’ said Luke.

‘Good.’ Mrs Easson didn’t look quite convinced. But she smiled at him, then went back into the staff room.