Fool - By Christopher Moore Page 0,78

his rib cage, then fell forward onto the dirt floor. The breath shot from his body and he wheezed in pain. My cup of wine had been warming by the fire and I threw it on Gloucester's chest.

"I am slain," croaked the earl, fighting for breath. "The lifeblood runs from me even now. Bury my body on the hill looking down upon Castle Gloucester. And beg forgiveness of my son Edgar. I have wronged him."

Edgar again tried to go to his father and I held him back. Drool was covering his mouth, trying not to laugh.

"I grow cold, cold, but at least I take my wrong-doings to my grave."

"You know, milord," I said. "The evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones, or so I've heard."

"Edgar, my boy, wherever you are, forgive me, forgive me!" The old man rolled on the floor, and seemed somewhat surprised when the sword on which he thought himself impaled fell away. "Lear, forgive me that I did not serve you better!"

"Look at that," said I. "You can see his black soul rising from his body."

"Where?" said Drool.

A frantic finger to my lips silenced the Natural. "Oh, great carrion birds are rending poor Gloucester's soul to tatters! Oh, Fate's revenge is upon him, he suffers!"

"I suffer!" said Gloucester.

"He is bound to the darkest depths of Hades! Never to rise again."

"Down the abyss I go. Forever a stranger to light and warmth."

"Oh, cold and lonely death has taken him," said I. "And a right shit he was in life, likely he'll be buggered by a billion barb-dicked devils now."

"Cold and lonely Death has me," said the earl.

"No, it hasn't," said I.

"What?"

"You're not dead."

"Soon, then. I've fallen on this cruel blade and my life runs wet and sticky between my fingers."

"You've fallen on a puppet," said I.

"No, I haven't. It's a sword. I took it from that soldier."

"You took my puppet stick from my apprentice. You've thrown yourself on a puppet."

"You knave, Pocket, you're not trustworthy and would jest at a man even as his life drains. Where is that naked madman who was helping me?"

"You threw yourself on a puppet," said Edgar.

"So I'm not dead?"

"Correct," said I.

"I threw myself on a puppet?"

"That is what I've been saying."

"You are a wicked little man, Pocket."

"So, milord, how do you feel, now that you've returned from the dead."

The old man stood up and tasted the wine on his fingers. "Better," said he.

"Good. Then let me present Edgar of Gloucester, the erstwhile naked nutter, who shall see you to Dover and your king."

"Hello, Father," said Edgar.

They embraced. There was crying and begging for forgiveness and filial snogging and overall the whole business was somewhat nauseating. A moment of quiet sobbing by the two men passed before the earl resumed his wailing.

"Oh, Edgar, I have wronged thee and no forgiveness from you can undo my wretchedness."

"Oh for fuck's sake," said I. "Come, Drool, let us go find Lear and on to Dover and the sanctuary of the bloody fucking French."

"But the storm still rages," said Edgar.

"I've been wandering in this storm for days. I'm as wet and cold as I know how to get, and no doubt a fever will descend any hour now and crush my delicate form with heavy heat, but by the rug-munching balls of Sappho, I'll not spend another hour listening to a blind old nutter wail on about his wrong-doings when there's a stack of wrongs yet to be done. Carpe diem, Edgar. Carpe diem."

"Fish of the day?" said the rightful heir to the earldom of Gloucester.

"Yes, 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."
Chapter 20
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

Drool 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,