Author's Note: This story is a prose adaptation of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Act III, Scene III, meaning all dialogue in this excerpt was written by Shakespeare. Shakespeare's work is in the public domain and can be found here: http://shakespeare.mit.edu/macbeth/macbeth.3.3.html
It’s night-time in the park near the palace. A golden, crescent-shaped moon hangs in the sky, which is sparsely speckled with silvery stars. Now that the clouds have moved on, the sky is clear, and the air is crisp. The grass beneath the two men’s quickly-moving feet is damp from the day’s rain, and rustles barely-audibly beneath their feet. Other than that soft, deadly rustling, it’s quiet here.
A third man, called Torion, approaches the two, who are called Fergus and Sinclair. He nods to them, and then gestures at a dagger concealed in his belt, matching those of the others. They are all here for the same purpose, to end Banquo’s life. Until yesterday, Fergus, Sinclair, and Torion had no reason to hate Banquo, nor his young son, Fleance. Yet after a conversation with Macbeth, their vigilant king, their minds have changed, and they hunger for Banquo’s blood. They firmly believe what Macbeth has told them: Banquo is their enemy.
Fergus doesn’t recognize Torion, and his hand defensively flies to his belt, ready to defend himself. Sinclair lightly shakes his head at Fergus. Fergus decides to speak before drawing his weapon. He hisses into the darkness, his voice no louder than a whisper, “But who did bid thee join with us?”
Torion is a man of few words. He is simply here to carry out his job and to gain the king’s hard-earned approval, not to exchange small-talk. So he responds, simply and gruffly, “Macbeth.” He senses Fergus’s distrust and animosity toward him, and prepares to draw his dagger in self defense.
Sinclair, wondering why he must always be the voice of reason, quickly steps between Fergus and Torion. “He needs not our mistrust,” says Sinclair, vaguely gesturing toward Torion. “Since he delivers our offices and what we have to do to the direction just.”
Fergus doesn’t trust others easily, but long ago, he placed his unerring trust in Sinclair. If Sinclair trusts Torion, so does he. He says quietly, “Then stand with us.” He extends his hand to Torion, who grudgingly shakes it. Fergus continues, “The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day: Now spurs the lated traveller apace to gain the timely inn; and near approaches the subject of our watch.” Banquo would be here soon. A thought briefly passes through Fergus’s mind: Would it be right to kill Fleance, a mere boy? However, he pushes it aside. This is no time to be doubting himself, no time for second thoughts. Duty to the king comes first.
“Hark,” mumbled Torion, “I hear horses.” A neigh can be heard in the distance, along with a cough. A deep, muffled voice is heard from closer, now: “Give us a light, there, ho!” Instantly, Sinclair knows it’s Banquo. This could only be him and Fleance. Nobody else would be travelling at this time of night. He passes this knowledge on to the others, whispering, “Then 'tis he: the rest that are within the note of expectation already are in the court,” Torion nods.
Fergus notices, “His horses go about.”
Torion replies, speaking more than he usually does, perhaps from excitement, “Almost a mile: but he does usually, so all men do. From hence to the palace gate make it their walk.”
Silencing the others, Fergus says, “A light, a light!” And at that very moment, Banquo and Fleance enter. Banquo has one arm around Fleance’s shoulders, always the protective father. He carries a torch in his other hand, the source of light that Fergus had spotted. Fergus, Sinclair, and Torion draw back into the shadows, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
“Tis he,” mutters Torion, thrilled.
Fergus replies, “Stand to’t,” practically quaking with anticipation.
Sinclair gestures to Fergus and Torion to take their positions. Slowly, taking care not to step on any dry leaves or branches that might reveal them to their prey, the predators surround Banquo and Fleance.
Banquo, blissfully unaware of the inescapable danger closing in around him, looks up at the sky. The clouds have begun to return, and the sky, once clear, is now dull and murky, and the light emanating from the stars has seemingly been snuffed out. He realizes how grateful he is for his torch, a source of light and warmth for him and his son. Gently squeezing Fleance’s shoulder, he says, “It will be rain tonight.”
Banishing any remaining hesitation from his mind, Fergus cries out, “Let it come down!” The murderers emerge from the shadows, drawing their glistening daggers, and set upon Banquo. Banquo’s eyes widen as he realizes his fate. Macbeth’s bloodthirstiness had reached the point of no return. Banquo had sensed Macbeth’s attitude toward him had changed, but he never would have predicted Macbeth to send murderers to end his life. Banquo always tried to find the good in people. He hadn’t realized that there was no good left in Macbeth until it was too late. “Oh,” Banquo cries out, as he desperately and helplessly tries to defend himself, “Treachery!”
Fear floods Fleance’s body as he watches his father become prey to the predators. He snuffs out the light from his torch and attempts to use it as a makeshift club to fend off the attackers, but Banquo rips it out of his hands and tries to shove Fleance away, shouting “Fly, good Fleance, fly!” If only he could keep his son safe, then maybe his death wouldn’t be in vain, he told himself.
Fleance shakes his head. He refuses to leave his father’s side, even as a dagger sinks into Banquo’s back, he falls to the ground, and his blood spills into the dirt. Tears begin to spill from Fleance’s eyes. If only he had been able to protect his father.
“Fly, fly, fly,” murmurs Banquo, as the murderers slowly begin to close in on Fleance. “Thou mayst revenge.” The word “revenge” turns Fleance’s cold sadness into burning anger. He couldn’t save his father’s life, but at least he could make sure he hadn’t died in vain. Fleance squeezes his father’s hand one last time, and then trembling, the boy begins to run from the park as he hears his father cry out with his last breath, “Oh, slave!” Mustering all his strength to resist the urge to turn back and rush to his father’s side, Fleance keeps running. He flies, as his father had begged him to.
Fergus, Sinclair, and Torion stand by Banquo’s body. They feel no remorse. Banquo was, after all, their enemy. Minutes pass. All is quiet. Only the wind is heard softly wailing through the trees in the distance. Fleance has escaped. He is far away by now. The clouds have woven an even thicker blanket in the sky, leaving no trace of the moon or the stars, and darkness envelops the park.
Finally, Torion speaks. “Who did strike out the light?”
Fergus asks, “Was not the way?”
“We have lost the best half of our affair,” says Sinclair, bitterly referring to Fleance’s escape,
Fergus shrugs. They’d done what they could. Hopefully that would be enough to satisfy the king, at least for now. “Well, let’s away,” he says, “And say how much is done.”
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