Fool (english)

that’s it. I’m invoking the fish of the bloody day, you git. I liked you better when you were eating frogs and seeing demons and the lot. Drool, leave them half the food and wrap yourself as warm as you can. We’re off to find the king. We’ll see you lot in Dover.”
    ACT IV
    As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.
    – King Lear, Act IV, Scene 1, Gloucester

TWENTY – A PRETTY LITTLE
    THING
    D rool and I slogged through the cold rain for a day, across hill and dale, over unpaved heath and roads that were little more than muddy wheel ruts. Drool affected a jaunty aspect, remarkable considering the dark doings he had just escaped, but a light spirit is the blessing of the idiot. He took to singing and splashing gaily through puddles as we traveled. I was deeply burdened by wit and awareness, so I found sulking and grumbling better suited my mood. I regretted that I hadn’t stolen horses, acquired oilskin cloaks, found a fire-making kit, and murdered Edmund before we left. The latter, among many reasons, because I could not ride upon Drool’s shoulders, as his back was still raw from Edmund’s beatings. Bastard.
    I should say here, that after some days in the elements, the first I’d spent there since my time with Belette and the traveling mummer troupe many years ago, I determined that I am an indoor fool. My lean form does not fend off cold well, and it seems no better at shedding water. I fear I am too absorbent to be an outdoor fool. My singing voice turns raspy in the cold, my japes and jokes lose their subtlety when cast against the wind, and when my muscles are slowed by an unkind chill, even my juggling is shit. I am untempered for the tempest, unsuited for a storm-better fit for fireplace and featherbed. Oh, warm wine, warm heart, warm tart, where art thou? Poor, cold Pocket, a drowned and wretched rat is he.
    We traveled in the dark for miles before we smelled meat-smoke on the wind and spotted the orange light of an oil-skinned window in the distance.
    “Look, Pocket, a house,” said Drool. “We can sit by the fire and maybe have a warm supper.”
    “We’ve no money, lad, and nothing to trade them.”
    “We trade ’em a jest for our supper, like we done before.”
    “I can think of nothing amusing to do, Drool. Tumbling is out of the question, my fingers are too stiff to work Jones’s talk string, and I’m too weary even for the simple telling of a tale.”
    “We could just ask them. They might be kind.”
    “That’s a blustery bag of tempest toss, innit?”
    “They might,” insisted the oaf. “Bubble once give me a pie without I ever jested a thing. Just give it to me, out of the kindness of her heart.”
    “Fine. Fine. We shall prevail upon their kindness, but should that fail, prepare yourself to bash in their brains and take their supper by force.”
    “What if there’s a lot of ’em? Ain’t you going to help?”
    I shrugged and gestured to my fair form: “Small and weary, lad. Small and weary. If I’m too weak to perform a puppet show, I think the brain-bashing duties will, by necessity, fall upon you. Find a sturdy stick of firewood. There, there’s a woodpile over there.”
    “I don’t want to bash no brains,” said the stubborn nitwit.
    “Fine, here, take one of my daggers.” I handed him a knife. “Give a good dirking to anyone who requires it.”

    At that point the door opened and a wizened form stepped into the doorway and raised a storm lantern. “Who goes there?”
    “Beggin’ pardon, sirrah,” said Drool. “We was wondering if you required a good dirking this evening?”
    “Give that to me.” I snatched the dagger away from the git and fitted it into the sheath at my back.
    “Sorry, sir, the Natural jests out of turn. We are looking for some shelter from the storm and perhaps a hot meal. We’ve only bread and a little cheese, but we will share it for the shelter.”
    “We are fools,” said Drool.
    “Shut up, Drool, he can see that by my kit and your empty gaze.”
    “Come in, Pocket of Dog Snogging,” said the bent figure. “Mind your head on the doorjamb, Drool.”
    “We’re buggered,” said I, pushing Drool through the door ahead of me.
    Witches three. Parsley, Sage, and Rosemary. Oh no, not in the Great Birnam Wood where they are generally kept, where one might fairly expect to encounter them, but here in a warm cabin off the road between the Gloucestershire villages of Tossing Sod and