Read The Dead Hamlets: Book Two of the Book of Cross for Free Online

There’s even a hill in Scotland named after the place they met the real Macbeth in his travels—Macbeth’s Hillock. It’s a farmer’s field now. Crops grow very well in that field, thanks to all the blood that’s been spilled there over the ages. The Witches didn’t have angry mobs chasing them anymore, but there were still other things searching for them. You can’t be a Witch—or even a witch—without pissing off someone. And there was no better hiding place for the Witches than in a Shakespeare play. It was better even than fairy tales, because those old legends had some pretty nasty supporting characters that might not like the new neighbours.
Macbeth
was a safe, comfortable home for them, and one they wouldn’t want to give up.
    The Witches looked at each other without saying anything. I looked into the crowd. Several people were filming the scene with their phones.
    “Look at that,” I said. “We’re going to be online soon.”
    That made up the Witches’ minds. They knew they couldn’t allow me to reveal their secret in front of all these witnesses. They pushed me toward the cauldron, striking me hard with their bony hands, harder than old women should be able to hit. Actually, harder than most football players should be able to hit.
    “For a charm of powerful trouble,” one of the Witches said.
    “Fire burn and cauldron bubble,” another of the Witches said.
    “Don’t be shoving me about or we’ll be having a proper riot up here!” I yelled at them, back in my drunk character. I played the role well. I’d had my share of practice over the years.
    “Like a hell-broth, boil and bubble,” the third Witch said and shoved me into the cauldron.
    All right, I wasn’t expecting that.
    I
was
expecting them to give me the counterspell. I
was
expecting them to be unhappy about it and try a little witchery to get even with me—you know, turn me into a small rodent that would be chased by the city’s feral cats, or maybe just hit me with a curse that affected my sexual performance for a decade or so. I should have known better. The Witches have always been more Brothers Grimm than Disney. So into the cauldron I went.
    It burned pretty much the way you’d expect boiling water and whatever else was in there to burn. I thrashed about, trying to escape, but they pushed me back in with their long bone spoons. I could hear them chanting through my screams.
    “Round about the cauldron go!”
    “In the cauldron boil and bake!”
    “Cool it with a baboon’s blood!”
    Then I was spilling out of the cauldron and onto the ground as the stagehands suddenly appeared and pushed the Witches out of the way to upend the pot. They screamed as well as the hot metal burned their hands. I eased their pain with a bit of grace I breathed their way. They were trying to help me, after all. I didn’t do anything about my own pain for a moment. I deserved it.
    The air was thick with steam from the cauldron, but instead of dissipating it grew thicker, turning into a mist. I took that to mean the Witches were taking the play back to wherever I’d summoned it from.
    “Come like shadows, so depart!” the Witches cried from somewhere in that mist, confirming my suspicions.
    Fair enough. I had what I’d come for. The counterspell burned in my mind now, even though the Witches hadn’t told it to me. In return, they had some new flavours for their soup. Things had worked out well for everyone.
    There was more yelling and the sounds of people running into each other and falling over on the stage. I didn’t know if they were trying to find me or the Witches. And then came the sounds of the audience shrieking and cursing. The mist must have rolled out to cover them.
    I crawled over to the edge of the stage and dropped into the pit. Every inch I moved hurt about as much as you’d expect it to if you’d just been boiled alive. I couldn’t see anyone around me because of the mist, so I took a few seconds and a lot of grace to