Somewhere and nowhere. A terrifying storm. Lightning, with blinding white glimpses of a weird landscape. Each flash gives birth to an earth-shaking crack of thunder. Out of the darkness, three voices wail.
‘When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning or in rain?’
‘When the hurleyburley’s done,
When the battle’s lost and won.’
‘That will be ere the set of sun.’
‘Where the place?’
‘Upon the heath.’
‘There to meet with Macbeth.’
A cacophony of bloodcurdling yelps and inhuman screams, cutting through the noise of the storm. ‘I come, Graymalkin!’
‘Paddock calls.’
Lightning momentarily reveals three deformed shapes linking hands in a grotesque dance.
‘Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.’
A mighty crash of thunder, a terrifying whiteness, then darkness and silence.
Tis book be sweet like a mug of ale