Macbeth and Son (14 page)

Each battle is easier, thought Lulach, urging his horse towards the King.

And then there was no time to think. His body took over, and his sword arm—thrust, parry, thrust again—his horse, thank God, steady beneath him, unfazed by the clash of battle…

One guard down, blood welling at his neck. Two of the enemy crumpled on the ground. The guard had sold his life dear. A scream as another horse stumbled—theirs or the enemy’s, Lulach couldn’t tell.

Slash, parry, slash again, sparks rising as iron smashed into iron.

The sound of hooves again: one of the enemy, galloping away. A second following, and then a third…

We have them on the run! thought Lulach triumphantly, as his opponent twisted at his reins and galloped off.

The King sat straight in the saddle, his eyes wide. Safe! thought Lulach exultantly.

Then the King’s mouth opened. Blood flowed out, bright as a bird in the morning.

‘Father!’

But the King no longer saw. He fell from the saddle, his fingers still clasping the reins. Then the fingers opened. The King lay upon the ground, a knife between his shoulder blades.

Lulach leaped down and stumbled towards him.

‘The coward!’ cried Kenneth hoarsely. His scarred cheek had been slashed open. Blood flowed freely onto his shirt, but he made no sign that he felt it. ‘He must have stabbed him from behind.’

Lulach said nothing. He kneeled at the King’s side.

‘Father!’ he whispered.

The King stared unseeing at the sky. But his lips moved. ‘Tell them I did my best.’ And then, so soft it almost wasn’t there, ‘Remember me.’

Had he really heard it? The blue eyes were sightless now. There was neither breath nor life.

The King looked smaller suddenly. It was his strength that made him large, thought Lulach blankly.

‘Should we go after them, my Lord?’ cried Kenneth.

‘No,’ said Lulach. ‘They’ll make for the border now.’

‘But we must avenge the King!’

I have been a boy, thought Lulach. Now I must be a man.

The guard waited for his orders. Not just the guard, he realised, but all of Alba. They’re mine to care for now.

‘There’ll be revenge,’ said Lulach slowly. ‘But not today. Not when we’re tired, and they can ambush us again.’

Sweat blurred his sight. Blood dripped from his forehead. Years of battles stretched in front of him, against an enemy who could afford to pay anyone who’d fight for gold.

‘You were a king of peace and plenty,’ Lulach whispered to the man on the ground. ‘You’ve left me to be a king of war.’

How could he bear it?

My name’s Macbeth.

(
Macbeth
, Act V, Scene 7, line 7)

How could he bear it? Luke struggled desperately to wake up.

‘No!’ He tried to form the words, but his lips were numb. He had to wake up! It couldn’t be like this! He had to escape—into daylight, the modern world with Mrs T’s muffins on the table and the smell of coffee.

But the dream held him tight.

The scene blurred around him. The voices faded, the scents of blood and metal. The trees vanished.

There was another smell now, salt. The scream of seagulls, sea spray upon his skin. A deck heaved under his feet. Somewhere, sailors were singing as a lone piper played.

Where was he? What had happened? Where was the King?

And then he knew.

This was the King’s last voyage, as they carried his body across the sea to his final resting place, with Alba’s other leaders on the holy isle of Iona.

The wind blew from the island, bringing with it the song of dead kings.

‘Remember me…’

‘We won’t forget you, Father,’ whispered Lulach. ‘They’ll sing of you for a thousand years.’

Were the clouds weeping too? The mist came lower and lower still.

But it wasn’t mist, Luke realised. The dream, the ancient world, was vanishing.

The story had ended.

His dreams had begun when Lulach’s father died. Now they would end with Macbeth’s death. Whatever happened to Lulach, somehow Luke knew that the dream would never come again.

The day almost professes itself yours,
And little is to do.

(
Macbeth
, Act V, Scene 7, lines 27–28)

It was a shock to find himself in his bed in the silent house.

‘Please don’t end it yet!’ Luke begged. He wanted to see the funeral, the nation weeping for their king, the holy rites on the cold island, the mourning…

‘It’s my right!’ he whispered. ‘I was there. I was with you. I saw it all!’

But he was a thousand years and half a world away.

They did remember you, he thought. Lulach was right. You were remembered for a thousand years.

But as what? Not Macbeth the hero. Not Macbeth the ruler of Alba’s golden age, with his wife, the calm, the dutiful Queen Gruoch. They remember you as a coward and a villain, and your wife as a mad and scheming woman with bloody hands.

Lies, thought Luke. The world remembers lies.

Lies matter, he told himself. How could I ever have thought they didn’t?

His pyjamas were wet with sweat, as though his body had fought those ancient battles too. He lay shivering for a moment, then got up. Dawn was a blur through the curtains.

‘Lies killed you,’ he said to the dead king. ‘Malcolm lied. King Edward lied. They lied and said you had no right to the throne, because you were elected, not the son of a king. The English changed your history.

‘Now all that’s left is a lie too.’

Why me? he wondered. Why did the dream come to me?

Because I’ve been thinking about lies? Because I wanted a stepfather like Macbeth, a man I could admire? Or was there something more?

There was no way he could go back to sleep. He dressed quickly, then went out to the kitchen.

Sam was already there. He gestured at the kettle. ‘Like a coffee? I’m just having a quick cup before I head out to the airport.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon I’ve just got time to get down to Sydney, get the make-up on and start talking. Let’s hope there’s no hold-up with air traffic control.’

‘What if there is?’

Sam shrugged. ‘I’ve prerecorded stuff. Not as good as doing it live, but it’ll do.’

‘Sam…please can you help the Fishers?’

Sam put down his coffee. ‘Luke, I explained—’

‘But you can try! Please! Please, Sam.’

Suddenly he was so angry it was almost impossible to speak. Why couldn’t he have had a stepfather like Macbeth, someone who had the courage to do what was needed no matter what cost
to himself? But instead he had Sam, more like Malcolm than Macbeth—Malcolm the liar, Malcolm the thief, just like Sam had stolen Mum and their lives and the farm. And now he knew what to say.

‘Some things are important! Some things are worth fighting for!’

Where had the words come from? Megan, or his dream? It didn’t matter. They were his words now. ‘What sort of person can’t fight for what he loves?’

Sam looked at him strangely. ‘It means that much to you?’

‘More than anything,’ said Luke passionately. And it was true. ‘Megan would be great on TV. She really knows how to say things…’

Sam sipped his coffee. Thinking of another excuse, thought Luke. But, to his surprise, finally Sam nodded. ‘Luke, I can’t promise anything. But if it means so much to you—well, I’ll see what I can do.’

It was all he was going to get. But somehow Luke knew that he really meant it. Sam would try.

Suddenly his anger evaporated, leaving emptiness and something else too. Awkwardness? A small bit of conscience as well? Because Sam
did
try.

‘Thanks,’ said Luke. ‘Thanks for…for everything. And for looking after Mum too.’

‘Hey,’ said Sam a little self-consciously, ‘it’s my pleasure, mate.’ Then, as though he wanted to sweep the emotion from the room, ‘You’re up early. What’s up?’

‘Assignment,’ said Luke. ‘Due in today.’

‘Hard one?’

Luke shook his head. ‘Not now.’

It was true. He had to change everything he’d written. He might lose everything today. Not just his scholarship, but his friends too. Patrick. Megan.

He was risking hurting Mum as well. But Mum would cope. At last he knew what he was going to say.

Lies killed Macbeth. Lies were poisoning his own life.

Now he was going to tell the truth.

But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we’ll not fail.

(
Macbeth
, Act I, Scene 7, lines 61–62)

‘Lady Macbeth wasn’t evil,’ concluded Megan. ‘She was trapped. It was her duty to help her husband, who was too much of a coward to do what he wanted without her pushing him into it. Like him, she was trapped by the witches. But most of all, she was trapped by the time she lived in.’

Luke began the clapping. The rest of the class followed. Mrs Easson clapped too. She looked amused. ‘Fascinating,’ she said as the clapping died down. ‘Very good indeed. You’ve reminded us that there’s more than one way of looking at this play. Luke?’

Luke stood up. His knees felt funny, as though one of Macbeth’s witches had turned them into marshmallow.
Double, double toil and trouble
, he thought vaguely, make Luke’s legs begin to bubble.

It seemed to take an hour just to get to the front of the classroom. The faces swam before him.
Suddenly it seemed like the whole class was just one face.

For a moment he felt too scared to speak. What was he doing? They’d laugh at him…Then Megan grinned and mouthed, ‘Good luck!’

Luke nodded, and began to speak.

‘“Macbeth’s Progress into Villainy”.’

His voice squeaked. Someone giggled. Luke took a breath and tried again. ‘This is supposed to be how Macbeth was corrupted by the witches and went bad. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he asked Mrs Easson.

Mrs Easson looked startled. ‘This is your assignment, Luke.’

‘But teachers know what they want when they ask kids to do assignments,’ argued Luke. ‘There was lots of stuff on the Internet I could have used, really highmark stuff. That’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it? You steal other people’s ideas and put them into your words and you get high marks for it? But I’m not going to.’

‘Luke…’ said Mrs Easson. ‘I think you need to answer the question.’

‘I’m going to,’ said Luke. ‘But I’m going to do it in a different way. I’m going to tell the truth.’

‘Get on with it, man!’ muttered Jingo from the back, fiddling with the notes of the talk he’d given earlier. Luke ignored him.

‘Once there was a king of Alba called Duncan. Alba was what they called ancient Scotland. Scottish kings were elected in those days, like we elect people to Parliament and they elect the Prime Minister.

‘But King Duncan kept fighting wars to expand his territory. People were starving. So the chiefs and
churchmen elected the Chief of Clan Moray as king instead.

‘Outside Scotland royal families poisoned each other and made war. But things were pretty good in Scotland. The new King united the whole country for the first time. He made sure everyone followed the laws. Scotland was a place where the old and sick were protected, and where women had equal rights. Everything was peaceful and prosperous.’

‘What’s this got to do with Macbeth?’ This time Jingo’s voice was louder.

Luke ignored him and went on.

‘But the dead King’s son, Malcolm, had fled to the English court. The English didn’t have the same sort of laws as Scotland. The English didn’t elect their kings either—the king’s son became king no matter how stupid or bad he was. So the English King helped Malcolm raise armies to conquer Scotland.

‘But Malcolm’s armies couldn’t take Scotland. So Malcolm sent assassins to murder the Scottish King.’

Luke looked out at the class. They were all staring at him, trying to work out why he was telling them all this. ‘The Scottish King’s name was Macbeth.’

‘But Macbeth was a bad guy!’ objected Jingo.

‘No, he wasn’t. The Irish and Norwegian and Scottish historians said Macbeth was a really good king. Only the English historians said he was a bad guy. And then six hundred years later Shakespeare wrote his play.

‘Shakespeare made Macbeth even worse. He added witches, because King James hated witches. He made Banquo look really good, because Banquo was one of King James’s ancestors. He made Macbeth’s wife into
a madwoman, even though the real person was known as a really wise queen.

‘Shakespeare didn’t care what was true,’ said Luke. ‘He only cared about sucking up to the King.’

‘Luke, this isn’t fair…’ began Mrs Easson.

‘Isn’t it?’ demanded Luke. ‘I asked you two days ago, “How can Shakespeare have written all that when it wasn’t true?” and you said it didn’t matter. That the play was more important than the truth.

‘Well, I don’t think it is. Does truth matter? I think it does. What if someone wrote a play in a hundred years’ time about our prime minister? How he was so evil he secretly murdered all his opponents? Or how he was so brave he fought off the New Zealanders when they tried to invade?

‘Neither one would be true. But people might think it was true…especially if it was a brilliant play.

‘Shakespeare didn’t have to write about a real king. He could have written about, oh, King Jason, if he’d wanted to. Someone who never existed. But Shakespeare didn’t just want to write a brilliant play. He wanted money and a licence to perform from the King. So he lied.’

‘So what?’ It was Jingo again. But for once he looked interested. He wasn’t just objecting for the sake of it. ‘What does it matter if some old guy lied, like, a hundred years ago?’

‘Four hundred,’ put in Mrs Easson.

‘Whatever. Who cares?’

‘Because truth matters,’ said Luke slowly. ‘If someone in a hundred years’ time writes a play about you, for instance, and says you were, I don’t know, a wuss or something, would that matter?’

‘Man, I’d bash his—’

‘But you’d be dead! There’d be nothing you could do!’

‘But does it
matter
?’ asked Megan suddenly. ‘In a hundred years’ time, what does it matter if people think Jingo was a wuss or not?’

‘Hey, it matters to me!’ called Jingo.

‘That’s what I’ve been thinking about for the last week,’ said Luke. For longer than that. For ages.

‘What does it matter if Shakespeare lied? What does it matter if people lied about weapons in Iraq?

‘Everybody lies these days. Most ads on TV are just a lie. I thought: maybe lies are okay if they lead to something good.

‘But are they really?

‘I think lies are wrong. When you lie about something that matters…well, you know you’ve done the wrong thing, that’s all.

‘Maybe lies are wrong because they’re so easy. A company doesn’t have to make an iceblock that tastes better than everyone else’s. They just have to
say
it’s better. Or a government can hire people to say it cares about—oh, not having enough hospitals or something, without really doing anything about it.’

Luke paused. The class was quiet.

‘Maybe lies are wrong because every time you find out someone has told you a lie you trust other people just a little bit less. And if people can’t trust each other, well, how can we keep working together?’

He took a deep breath. ‘I sat the exam for St Ilf’s Grammar last month. And they gave me a scholarship. But I wrote a letter this morning refusing it. Because I’d already seen the questions on the exam paper. I didn’t mean to cheat—they must
have sent me the exam paper accidentally, with some old ones.’

Everyone was staring at him. Even Mrs Easson. Even Jingo. Luke tried to read Megan’s expression, but he couldn’t.

What were they all thinking? He couldn’t tell. But he had to go on.

‘I wasn’t a cheat then. But I would be now if I kept the scholarship. I’d be a liar. I’d always know that I’d been wrong.’

Suddenly he had run out of words. He looked at the notes in his hand. There was one more thing he had to say.

‘Some things are important. Some things are worth fighting for. Truth matters. Because if we don’t tell the truth we don’t just cheat other people. We cheat ourselves. How will we live if we don’t know what’s true, or who to trust? If our friends…or our leaders…or the people we admire lie to us?

‘It’s not easy sometimes to tell the truth. Sometimes it’s not easy to hear the truth either. But we need to try. And…and…if my great-grandson wants to write a play about a wuss, he’d better not call the hero Luke.’

His legs were marshmallow again. Swords would have been easier, he thought vaguely. You know where you are with swords.

What now? He’d lost the scholarship. Probably no one here would ever speak to him again, and that’d really matter now that he had to stay here for the rest of school.

He was halfway to his seat before he noticed the applause.