Prologue
THE WIND BLEW with monstrous might and main out of the north and across the moor. An unstoppable primitive force, it seemed to derive its power from neither heaven nor hell, but some deep, dark recess not kin to this world. No mountain range or forest stood in its path, so unabated it rolled on. The wind increased in speed and ferocity, as was the awful noise it made, as if the suffering world had found a voice and screamed out in agony. Had there been a human being in this remote and desolate land to hear it, they would have been driven mad by the hideous sound.
A flash of blue lightning was followed by a sharp crack of thunder. The sound reverberated across the Moorland drowning out the wind. The thunder had a solidity that tossed tree branches about and even seemed to move small rocks. The angry heavens flashed again. A lightning bolt fell to earth as if thrown by some ancient god, and struck a tree. It was not a large tree, but rather sick and feeble-looking one. A branch dropped to the ground and the spot where the lightning hit caught fire. The wind soon put out the flame, and rain started to fall.
A female creature stood amidst the storm and laughed to see such things. She did not fear the elements as other mortals. She welcomed them. Standing in the middle of the moor, her arms outstretched, she beckoned to the wind and rain, the thunder and lightning. She felt akin to the elemental forces as they raged about her. Her body tingled as she felt a mingling with powers not understood or suspected by most human beings.
Her features were androgynous and some may have even assumed she was a man. Her face was anything but feminine; indeed, she was quite repulsive. Bad teeth and a
tuft of hair on her chin made her even more abhorrent. She
carried a coarse-cloth sack. From inside the sack a small creature squirmed, making pathetic whimpering sounds.
Another woman joined the first. Though she appeared younger, the second female looked similar to the first, dressed in rags and cast-off clothes. Her face was dirty and her thin lips chapped and cracked. The fingers on her hands, not the usual ten, were long and bony.
A third woman joined the other two. This one was older. Her right eye contained no color, making her unique appearance even more pronounced.
An aberrant bond existed between the three. It was a bond rooted in more than their history, or their background or blood. These three were tied to one another beyond any human ties. The powers of any one of them were enhanced by the other two. The number three was a special number in holy mysticism; the Holy Trinity, the three magi, and Peter‘s three denials. The number three held power in the unholy black arts as well.
Though female in nature, they were not exactly women. They had transcended their sex and their humanity, if they were ever human. Their human features were not exactly their own. They did possess female qualities, as much as nature could create gender, but their spirits, their essence was beyond the scope of human understanding, even beyond the scope of nature, for they were not of nature. There was something very unnatural about them.
The women stood close and faced one another. The first woman opened her sack and withdrew a rather small but remarkable-looking creature. It was a sickly-white and completely hairless. Unnatural oils allowed the rain to roll off its slimy skin. The creature was small like a child. Indeed it did have a head and limbs, but the digits that grew from its limbs were more like claws. Anyone would have difficulty guessing the nature of this grotesque. It may have been part human, part animal, part snake, and
perhaps part demon. The coupling required to produce such a creature was both revolting and mind-boggling.
The first woman held out the creature in front of her and began the incantation.
“Fair is foul and foul is fair: hover though the fog and filthy air.”
The young woman put her hand around the throat of the small creature. She began to strangle it as she joined in the incantation.
“Fair is foul and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.”
The oldest woman brought out a knife and sliced the creature open as she said, “Fair is foul and foul is fair: hover through the fog and filthy air.”
As the blood ran freely from the gaping wound, the woman holding the creature moved it back and forth and around and around creating an archaic symbol with its blood upon the ground.
When she finished, the first woman tossed the lifeless carcass behind her.
The three took turns spitting, urinating and defecating upon the blood-stained ground.
“When shall we three meet again?” the first woman said. “In thunder, lightning or in rain?”
“When the hurly-burly’s done,” the second woman said. “When the battle’s lost and won.”
“That will be ere the set of sun,” the third said.
The first asked, “Where’s the place?”
Answered the other two, “Upon the heath.”
“There to meet with…”
“MACBETH!” they cried out in unison
“Aggghhhhh!”
Gruoch, wife of Macbeth mac Finlay, looked up at her husband as the cry escaped his lips. His face went ashen
and the look of terror dawned on his face. She felt his
member inside her shrink up and lose its hardness.
“What is it?” she demanded.
His limbs stiffened and sweat broke out all over his body. Macbeth, Thane of Glamis, rolled off his wife and lay on his back in his bed.
“What is it?” Gruoch repeated, sitting up and placing her palm against his bearded cheek. “What is wrong?”
He stared up at the ceiling of their bedchamber and rubbed his chest. He was trembling.
Gruoch got out of bed and poured a cup of wine that was on a nearby table. She brought it over to husband, who continued to breathe deeply.
“Drink this,” she ordered.
He sat up and drank the wine.
She took the cup from him and had him lay back down. She sat next to him stroking his brow and speaking soothingly.
“There, there, now,” she said. “Just relax. More wine? No? Do you feel better? Good. What was it that startled you so?”
Macbeth lay there, still staring up at the ceiling. He shook his head, as if not knowing how to describe it.
“I feel as if… it felt like… someone had… I felt an icy grip… upon my soul, by Saint Columba, I did,” he said. “I thought I had… witnessed my own death… saw my own grave, and... glimpsed hell itself.”
She looked at him concerned. In the years she had known him, Macbeth had never experienced a nightmare in his sleep, let alone having one while they were making love.
Gruoch bent over and kissed his lips gently.
Macbeth, Lord of Moray, tried to slow his heart rate and breathe normal. He raised his right hand in front of his eyes and it shook noticeably. He looked up into her eyes.
They were beautiful. Never had he seen such eyes. Never had he been so completely in love with a woman.
The unexplainable episode was troubling to him. Never
had he experienced anything such as that before. It more than troubled Macbeth… it frightened him. He would have to find the courage to go on. But where would he find such courage? Macbeth knew. He would find the courage in her eyes. She had more than her share of strength, he thought. He had always known it. She would kill for him. And he would kill for her.
Give Me The Daggers by Stephen Gaspar
is available on Amazon!
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