Synopsis

Macbeth’s Spinners begins in Eleventh Century Scotland with the supernatural transformation of the three Greek fates, but witchcraft only serves as a cover for their true mission. To thwart their ancient nemesis, the Greek god Apollo, they consolidate their power to help the warlord Macbeth, though Apollo is aware and tries to crush Macbeth in favor of the Northern invaders. But the purpose of the Fates and Macbeth are intertwined, and in the depths of secrecy and devotion the dominant Fate, Clotho, takes Macbeth into realms beyond himself to set him on his true path.At its heart, Macbeth’s Spinners is a story about love that withstands place and time, while the details of that love are hidden and inescapable. Redemption seeps through the corners of the story and shows innermost vision to be a trustworthy guide, for love is the ultimate transformation. Haunting and sublime, the story follows the shift of mythic personalities at the most important points of their lives.

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Excerpt

Excerpt from Chapter Three

Scotland, Eleventh Century

…Clotho stepped deeper into a dimness that chilled her to her human bone, but she felt drawn ahead by the force of intrigue and inner sight, as though the hand of fate had gripped her with icy fingers that would not let go. The damp smell of inner earth overcame her and made her leery; a lack of breeze and birds unnerved her regardless of her surroundings; the trickle of distant water caused her to hesitate, though she sensed no other life within the labyrinth. She squinted and reached out to touch the earthen wall beside her with sensitive fingertips. Macbeth followed immediately after her, and she led him by memory. Each time she felt the moist earth with her footfall, she heard the friction of his boot on the ground behind her. The echo of remotely dripping water consumed her imagination…as though her heart melted with desire and drew her further toward the mystery that she created. She pressed her palm against the earthen wall, but dirt fell over the back of her hand so she quickly pushed away and took another step forth. Dark shadows dashed before her as though new life forms animated past sorrows. Though there was no breeze at this depth, the coolness that swept past her face taunted her with a sense of the unknown. She slowed her step until she stood still, the earth floor cool and motionless against her feet. Macbeth stood beside her, silent and barely breathing. He no longer smelled of chestnuts or sweat, for the blood stains and matted dirt had dissipated at her will before they entered the lair. She wondered if he noticed, if the peculiarity of it was why he hesitated at times, for she knew she unnerved him; she knew he did not want to be caught off guard and she did just that.

She then caught sight of a deeply shadowed space within the cavern that seemed filled with an invitation to mystery. A mild array of warmth was cast upon her flesh as a glow began to emulate from the room, if it could be called a room, with an intensity that triggered defensiveness in Macbeth. She heard his armor abruptly shift and she glanced toward him; his stance was battle-like, his hands cautiously held out as though he were prepared to fight any warrior that dared attack him. She was somewhat unnerved herself, for she had hoped he would react more calmly when facing an unknown threat. Regardless, she took another step forward until she could discern that they had indeed reached a primitive opening in the cave wall. When she turned fully toward it, the opening glowed brighter as though it thrived off her attention, so that it illuminated even the tunnel in which they stood.

“What is this?” he blurted with caution, for anyone could be lurking in the depths of the room; his eyes were haunting and surreal amidst the glow, as though he were the cryptic one. Why he did not trust that he would be safe with her, she did not know. His battle stance was a constant. His lips were parted and his eyes were narrowed, but he took a step toward the opening with one hand firmly on his dagger. He must have been so engrossed by the glow that when he stood beside her, he seemed unaware that his arm pressed against hers. She said nothing but watched him stare into the glow that was dispersed over the earthen ceiling of the lair, like lightning amidst clouds. Little did he know that they had entered into a golden realm of time. “What secrets are inside that room?” he asked under his breath; she was taken aback, for she had thought for a moment that he forgot she existed.

She stared toward him with the room’s glow so bright in her eyes that he shifted his gaze to his own boots of untanned hide. “A different world,” she answered, cornering a grin; she was eager for him to know what she knew about him, and to recognize the majesty of his inherent fate. “Time does not pass in there like time passes in the world you know. The answers to your questions need that time,” she said, and took a step within the glow. Macbeth did not linger before following her, for she heard his footsteps as though he were almost upon her. She raised her arms to her sides; the ceiling was low enough to cause Macbeth to bend a little at his waist. Clotho watched him but deeply inhaled the damp air, then closed her eyes until she felt centered where she stood; something was happening, she could sense it. She was unfazed when the earth began to tremble beneath her feet and the smell of fresh dirt as it shifted from the cave walls was strong; water tricked down the edges amidst the dirt. She opened her eyes to see him brace himself against the wall, for he still did not trust her strength. Frustration upbraided her concentration as much as the trembling earth. He looked toward her, his hand still pressed against the cave wall as the glow of the room began to fade. “What is happening?” he asked.

“Why do you doubt me, Macbeth, even now?” She sighed but looked deeply into his eyes as though she would find the understanding he did not know he had. “You have entered the domain of Truth,” she said. She watched and willed a single lit candle into a niche in the earthen wall in the glow’s wake. “Here, you cannot deny truth, nor can you speak falsely. Your judgment will be just; you need not be anxious,” she announced as the glow faded.

“Is the same true for you, Witch?” he asked, turning to see bones nestled into the wall amidst the candle flame as though they were the secret she tried to hide. Bones, from bottom to top, like the bones in a rack of lamb.

“It is,” she answered, keenly feeling the air breeze into her nose.

He seemed drawn to her again, and without glancing toward the flame he asked, “What is this place?”

“It was created by the Scots, who dwelt in this land before the men from the North tried to claim it… then I claimed it.” Her eyes had assumed the same glow that the room itself had only moments earlier; she tilted her head down but steadily gazed into his eyes. “The spirits of the ancients dwell here.”

“Where do you come from?” he questioned her with a narrowed glare and reluctance of breath. “What is your history?” Before he had spoken his last she moved briskly toward him, so rapidly that she was certain he had not seen her move.

“I am even more ancient than this lair.” Then, slowly and with more patience, she drifted away from him and said, “I come from a land with a greater history than your own. My land is that of Zeus; my legacy is that of Mankind…I will show you why I am here -” She pivoted toward him, raised her chin, and waved her hand in front of his face as though she could draw the oceans into her lair if she wanted; a slight breeze emulated from her motion. His gaze followed in the direction of her hand…toward a fire that blazed and crackled within a small space in the middle of the room that was enclosed by a short, wrought iron gate. Swirling plumes of light rose up from it but she did not hesitate to approach, for there was no fear in her. She reached over the iron gate, toward the fire. Without a thought for getting burned she reached into the flames, took hold of something dense in her fist, and pulled it out of the enclosed area. Methodically, she straightened her back, her grasp held at her waist.

“What is it?” Macbeth asked, and she could hear his footsteps coming near her.

“Your heart,” she answered, “you burn with a passion that you are not aware of. You burn with life.” She turned toward him, still holding his heart in the palm of her hand. The flames whirled and crackled behind her as glowing bones stuck out from the earthen walls beside her. “This is the fire of divination,” she uttered, “and we are in a burial lair for the ancients. Their spirits rise throughout your body like fish swim upriver. They will seek out and reveal the truth they find within you, then they will bring your truth to me. You see Macbeth, you are my vision, just as you are enchanted by the vision I show you now. The truth you will tell me will set you free from your guilt, for your guilt stands in the way of my plan to make the Scots victorious. It is your guilt that makes your heart retreat and then locks it within iron gates. Tell me, I want to know your truth…why are you so afraid to become king? From wince does your guilt arise?”

“I am not afraid and I am guilty of nothing,” he assured her as he shook his head. “But I admit that I doubt what you say. You may have power, I see that in your eyes, they blaze like the gated fire blazes – but if I am king, I do not understand what I would help you gain. I do not see how a Scots victory would assure your rightful place in wherever your quest may be.”

“You do not believe me – your doubt has reared its ugly head.” Her sisters hissed beside his neck in a flash of time, screeching and taunting, then Clotho withdrew and stood by the iron fence once again. “You are afraid to be king; my sisters can smell your fear. You cannot hide what we smell. I want to know why you are so afraid.”

“I am afraid of nothing,” he answered again, though less confidence strengthened his voice. He could not hide his reluctance. “I am at the mercy of God.”

“Do not blame the gods for anything, for attaining your fate is still your responsibility. You are afraid to be king; I can hear it in your voice. You will tell me why – and remember, I hold your heart in my hands.” She glanced down to her hand, her fingers securely curled around his dark heart, then she peered back to him. Her sisters made no move within her.

“I have no desire to be king.”

“You do, I can see it behind your eyes. You crave power, you have always craved power. That is why I chose you above all others. I can smell your craving for power on the wind,” she said, inching closer to him. “What have you done to gain the power you crave, what are you guilty of?”

“I married my cousin’s widow.”

“You married advantageously. Why should that make you afraid to be king?”

Macbeth hesitated again, but since he was in the chamber of truth, there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to talk about. “Because,” he answered honestly, “I killed him in battle and made his wife, Gruoch, my wife.” He took a deep breath, though there was no freedom in it since he was held captive by her gaze.

“Did you really kill him in battle?” she asked. She could feel her sisters push against her flesh from within, she did not need to see the rippling bulges in her arms and neck to know that they were fighting to be heard. They wanted to question him too. “Did you want to live his life?” Atropos seethed; Clotho could have done nothing more to hold her back.

“I burned him alive, along with fifty of his warriors,” Macbeth averted his gaze as he answered. He cleared his voice, breathing deeply of the musty air with a slight cough. A chill obscured the earthen walls.

“Is that the reason you are afraid to be king?” Lachesis hissed into his ear, then lurched back within Clotho as though she were a snake retreating into a hole.

“I am pleased with being a warlord. I do not need to be thane or king.”

“You can already be king with the murder you have done. Stretch you mind – you know you can. You know the power is yours. You are afraid the Scots will rise up against you.”

“They will be too afraid of me to be set against me.”

“Spoken like a man who will be king. And so it may be true, but it may also not be true,” she said sternly as she stood solidly upon earth. He would not shake her spirit, nor would her sisters intervene. Fairness would be their law…

About the Author

Justine Johnston Hemmestad is an editor, the author of three novels, and is included in several anthologies, including Chicken Soup for the Soul: Recovering from Traumatic Brain Injuries (after having been in a car accident that left her severely brain injured at 19). She is a graduate of The University of Iowa and has also graduated from the English Literature Master’s Degree program with distinction at Northern Arizona University.

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