Pine View was quite prosperous, compared with so many of the starving villages of the plains and mountains. The older children formed a circle around him, staring in wonderment. Thompson told him as he joined the villagers, now gathering at a buffet table along the back wall. His stock was theater, and he meant to keep them hungry for it until it was time to leave. He had set firm limits there would be no encore. Timing his final bow for the moment before the applause began to fade, Gordon hopped off the stage and began removing his slap-dash costume. There were "peasants" once again in America, and like his predecessors in the minstrel trade, Gordon had learned to go for the unsubtle in his shows. But he was probably the only person within a hundred miles who had once minored in drama. Of course his performance had been pure crap. Gordon did a flourish with one hand, and bowed deeper than before. White-haired and bony, but still robust, she turned to encourage the forty-odd others, including small children, to show their appreciation. Thompson stood in the front row, clapping eagerly.
An exchange of a series of shows for his meals and supplies had tentatively passed by a fair majority of the voting adults, and now the deal seemed settled. Hunger and isolation had driven him to try the hospitality of this mountain village of fenced fields and stout log walls, and the gamble had paid off better than he'd hoped. Grinning, Gordon returned to take his bows onstage - a plank-covered garage lift in what had once been the only gas station in the tiny hamlet of Pine View. That part about "wind and wrack" he would never forget. Still, the final lines of his soliloquy had been canon. He had last seen a copy of the play almost a decade ago, and that a half-burned fragment. To be honest, some parts had been simplified less for brevity than because of his imperfect memory of the original. Obviously, they had liked his abbreviated version of the ancient tragedy. Younger citizens clapped awkwardly, those below twenty years of age watching their elders and slapping their hands awkwardly, as if they were taking part in this strange rite for the first time. Adele Thompson, the leader of this small community. But this bastardized, one-man version of Macbeth might have gone over their heads.Īn instant after he exited, though, enthusiastic applause began, led by Mrs. Out of the light of the tallow lamps, he swiveled to catch a glimpse of his audience. Gordon squared his shoulders, flourished his sword, and marched Macbeth offstage to his doom. "Ring the alarum bell! Blow, wind! Come wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back!" "I'm gettin' weary of the sun, and wish the world were undone. He motioned to an invisible aide-de-camp. Gordon clutched his wooden sword, contrived from planking and a bit of tin. "Arm, arm, arm yourselves! If this is what the witch spoke of - that thing out there - there'll be no running, or hiding here!" ".They said, 'Fear not, Macbeth, till Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane' and now a wood comes to Dunsinane!