name was…Samuel, that was a good name for a king. And all the people would cheerhim 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’.
Chapter 14
Luke
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?
Chapter 15
Luke
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
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’.
Chapter 14
Luke
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?
Chapter 15
Luke
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
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