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Experience "Macbeth" as You Never Have Before: A Thrilling Novel Unleashed
Ever imagined Shakespeare's masterpieces pulsating with the adrenaline rush of today's bestsellers? Imagine no more! Delve into a reimagined "Macbeth" that marries the Bard's genius with the allure of modern storytelling. While Shakespeare's plays are unparalleled when performed on stage, reading them can sometimes dilute their vibrancy. This novelistic rendition breathes new life into the tale, ensuring every twist and turn is as captivating on paper as it is in the theater.
Journey to the rugged landscapes of Scotland and follow the tale of Macbeth, a formidable general whose life is irrevocably altered by a fateful encounter with three enigmatic witches. Their prophecy? The crown is his for the taking! Succumbing to a maelstrom of ambition, spurred on by his relentless wife, Macbeth embarks on a dark path of treachery, leading to the throne... and beyond. But his reign unravels rapidly as the weight of his crimes bears down, plunging the nation into chaos and warfare.
This novelized "Macbeth" offers readers a fresh lens through which to explore one of Shakespeare's most celebrated works. With contemporary language and gripping narration, every nuance of betrayal, power, and guilt comes to the fore, making Macbeth's descent into madness all the more visceral.
Prepare to be entranced as you navigate the tumultuous corridors of power, ambition, and deception. This isn't just Shakespeare - it's Shakespeare redefined for a new generation of readers.
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EXCERPT
Chapter I: A Desert Place
Fog drifted over the sandy plain, floating along like slow waves. A storm echoed in the distance, thunder booming after each flash of lightning.
Three shadowing figures, huddled and murmuring as they walked along, followed each other in rough line. They were three women, witches.
To say they were ugly would be an understatement. The first was fat, the rags she wore barely covering her large breasts and round belly. The second was tall and thin, thick beard of white hairs across her chin, long, black robes trailing along the sand as she walked. The last woman was would have been pretty, young with full lips and fair skin, if it weren’t for the nasty scars that mared her face—four lines, as if an animal had struck her with its claws. One of the lines passed right across her nose, which was nearly completely missing. She wore a white gown, now dirty from the sand.
The fat witch stopped, leading the others to do the same. She bent over and scratched at the ground. Satisfied with the spot, she reached into a fold in her raggedy clothes and pulled out a golden coin. She placed the coin in the small hole in the sand he’s made with her hand.
When the first lady stepped out of the way, the second approached the hole with the coin and pulled a small vial from her robes. She opened the lid to the vial and poured the liquid that was inside onto the coin. The liquid seemed red and thick, like blood.
Finally, the third woman, the one in white, approached the small hole. She spit into onto the coin and then bent down and cover the coin again with sand.
Almost immediately, the distant storm grew stronger. The lightning intensified, and the thundering booms became so constant it was like a continuous roar.
The three women looked at each other and laughed, the fat woman laughing louder than the others. They stood and admired their work for a moment. The storm was looking increasingly ugly as it rumbled out to the distant sea.
When the storm paused its thundering for a moment, the women turned in the opposite direction to, hearing another kind of thunder. There were screams and yells and the thudding of horses running. Instead of lightning, there were the high-pitched striking sounds of sword against sword or lance against shield.
The fat witch looked at the others. “When will the three of us meet again?" she asked. Her voice was low, lower than most men's, like the growl of an animal. "Will there be thunder, lightning or rain?"
The tall woman looked back at her young companion and then down at the fat witch. "We will meet when the commotion is over," she said, pointing out over the hills to the sounds of battle. "We will meet when the battle has been lost or won."
The young witch spoke up now. “That will be before the sun sets.” Her voice was pure and true, like a beautiful singer’s.
The fat woman grunted, again, like an animal. “Where will we meet?”
The tall one pointed again, but in a different direction from the batter. “We’ll meet in the open field.” Her voice was high and scratchy, like a machine that needed oil.
The third witch, smiled, revealing something else absolutely ugly about her otherwise lovely form--her nasty and blackened teeth. "We’ll meet Macbeth there."
The first woman growled again, but smiled, too. She started walking off, holding the rags she wore to keep them from falling off her completely. As she left she began to sing, her voice darker and scarier than even the storm's thunder. "I’m coming, Graymalkin, gray cat of mine!”
The tall woman chose another direction at started to hobble off, one hand on her long staff to keep her from falling herself. She called out in her scratchy voice, “Paddock, my frog, calls me, too!”
The youngest woman waved at both of them. “Soon!” she yelled. She stayed behind as they started to walk off.
The storm played like a symphony, the rumbles and flashes and booms falling into a perfect rhythm. As the three witches went their separate ways, they fell into a song, each singing the exact same words, again and again and again.
"Beautiful is ugly, and ugly is beautiful. Let us float through the fog and filthy air."
In the distance, the battle continued, and men continued to screamed as they died.
Fog drifted over the sandy plain, floating along like slow waves. A storm echoed in the distance, thunder booming after each flash of lightning.
Three shadowing figures, huddled and murmuring as they walked along, followed each other in rough line. They were three women, witches.
To say they were ugly would be an understatement. The first was fat, the rags she wore barely covering her large breasts and round belly. The second was tall and thin, thick beard of white hairs across her chin, long, black robes trailing along the sand as she walked. The last woman was would have been pretty, young with full lips and fair skin, if it weren’t for the nasty scars that mared her face—four lines, as if an animal had struck her with its claws. One of the lines passed right across her nose, which was nearly completely missing. She wore a white gown, now dirty from the sand.
The fat witch stopped, leading the others to do the same. She bent over and scratched at the ground. Satisfied with the spot, she reached into a fold in her raggedy clothes and pulled out a golden coin. She placed the coin in the small hole in the sand he’s made with her hand.
When the first lady stepped out of the way, the second approached the hole with the coin and pulled a small vial from her robes. She opened the lid to the vial and poured the liquid that was inside onto the coin. The liquid seemed red and thick, like blood.
Finally, the third woman, the one in white, approached the small hole. She spit into onto the coin and then bent down and cover the coin again with sand.
Almost immediately, the distant storm grew stronger. The lightning intensified, and the thundering booms became so constant it was like a continuous roar.
The three women looked at each other and laughed, the fat woman laughing louder than the others. They stood and admired their work for a moment. The storm was looking increasingly ugly as it rumbled out to the distant sea.
When the storm paused its thundering for a moment, the women turned in the opposite direction to, hearing another kind of thunder. There were screams and yells and the thudding of horses running. Instead of lightning, there were the high-pitched striking sounds of sword against sword or lance against shield.
The fat witch looked at the others. “When will the three of us meet again?" she asked. Her voice was low, lower than most men's, like the growl of an animal. "Will there be thunder, lightning or rain?"
The tall woman looked back at her young companion and then down at the fat witch. "We will meet when the commotion is over," she said, pointing out over the hills to the sounds of battle. "We will meet when the battle has been lost or won."
The young witch spoke up now. “That will be before the sun sets.” Her voice was pure and true, like a beautiful singer’s.
The fat woman grunted, again, like an animal. “Where will we meet?”
The tall one pointed again, but in a different direction from the batter. “We’ll meet in the open field.” Her voice was high and scratchy, like a machine that needed oil.
The third witch, smiled, revealing something else absolutely ugly about her otherwise lovely form--her nasty and blackened teeth. "We’ll meet Macbeth there."
The first woman growled again, but smiled, too. She started walking off, holding the rags she wore to keep them from falling off her completely. As she left she began to sing, her voice darker and scarier than even the storm's thunder. "I’m coming, Graymalkin, gray cat of mine!”
The tall woman chose another direction at started to hobble off, one hand on her long staff to keep her from falling herself. She called out in her scratchy voice, “Paddock, my frog, calls me, too!”
The youngest woman waved at both of them. “Soon!” she yelled. She stayed behind as they started to walk off.
The storm played like a symphony, the rumbles and flashes and booms falling into a perfect rhythm. As the three witches went their separate ways, they fell into a song, each singing the exact same words, again and again and again.
"Beautiful is ugly, and ugly is beautiful. Let us float through the fog and filthy air."
In the distance, the battle continued, and men continued to screamed as they died.
Translation missing: en.general.search.loading