Macbeth: The Novelization (Shakespeare’s Classic Play Retold As a Novel)

By William Shakespeare

Have you ever thought of Shakespeare as a fast-paced, action-filled, page-turning...novel?!

Shakespeare plays on stage make for fantastic theatrics! But when you read it as a book...some of it’s glory can be lost. This novelization of Macbeth uses a more modern language and narration to capture the story as a novel.

The story of Macbeth tells the tragedy of a Scottish general who is told by witches that one day he will be king. Macbeth, urged by both his wife and his own selfish ambition, murders the king and takes the throne. The real story takes off once Macbeth is king and civil war erupts.

This book is part of an expanding series that retells Shakespeare into fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookCaps
• Release date: Oct 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301512676

William Shakespeare

William Shakespeare is the world's greatest ever playwright. Born in 1564, he split his time between Stratford-upon-Avon and London, where he worked as a playwright, poet and actor. In 1582 he married Anne Hathaway. Shakespeare died in 1616 at the age of fifty-two, leaving three children—Susanna, Hamnet and Judith. The rest is silence.

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About This Series

This book is part of an expanding series that retells Shakespeare into fiction. If you’d like to be notified when the next book is available, visit: http://www.swipespeare.com/mailing-list.html

If you enjoy this series, check out our Shakespeare iPhone / iPad / Android / Windows app: SwipeSpeare. It puts all of Shakespeare’s plays into modern English with the swipe of a finger!

Part I

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.

Chapter II: A Camp Near Forres

The fog started to clear just as the battle wound down. soldiers with long lances walked from body to body, stabbing each to make sure the defeated were really dead.

From over a hill came a crowd of horses--King Duncan's entourage. He rode with guards one ach side of him, his attendants following behind him.

When the soldiers saw who was coming, one yelled out for the others to stop. He snapped to attention and jogged up to the horse. The other soldiers simply stood in place, lances held perfectly vertical.

When the running soldier--obviously the one in charge--got close to the King's horse, he stopped and fell into a low bow. The soldiers in the area bowed in synch.

The king regarded the bloody man bowing before him. Who is this wounded man? He asked. It seems he can report on the current state of the battle.

Malcolm, one of the king's sons, pulled his horse up between the kind and one of his guards. Malcolm was also bloody, but it was apparent that none of the blood that stained his leather armor was his. He is a sergeant, Malcolm said, who fought like a strong and good soldier to keep me from capture.

Malcolm looked down at the bowing sergeant and motioned for him to rise. My brave friend! Tell the king what you know of the war when you left it.

The sergeant gave another small bow before he started to speak, It was doubtful, just like two exhausted swimmers who cling to each other and choke one another. The man spoke with a shaky voice, week from exhaustion. Macdonwald was like a rebel with many forces of nature in him.

He pointed out to the fields, littered with dead bodies. He had a ready supply of foot soldiers and massive warriors. Fortune smiled on his damned war, and looked just like a rebel’s whore. But fortune was not strong enough. The sergeant gave another small bow and smiled. Brave Macbeth—he deserves that name—went against fortune with his sword drawn, and he cut through it all with blood until he faced Macdonwald.

The sergeant waves with his hands, reenacting the sword fight. He didn’t even shake hands or say goodbye to him. He just cut him in two, and put Macdonwald’s head on our fort’s wall.

When the sergeant reenacted the killing blow with his invisible sword, the king started to laugh. Oh, my brave cousin! What a worthy man!

The sergeant nodded in agreement. Just like when the sun rises and storms capable of wrecking ships and awful thunder end—that place where comfort seemed to come, instead discomfort came. The bleeding man stretched out his arms and gave another low bow. Listen to me, king of Scotland, listen: No sooner did justice come armed with courage, causing the foot soldiers to start running away, did the Norwegian lord see his chance to bring in more arms and new soldiers and begin a fresh attack.

The key shook his head. Didn’t this worry our captains, Macbeth and Banquo?

Yes, it did, the sergeant continued. Like it would worry sparrows before the eagle, or lambs before the lion. I swear, they were like cannons overcharged with cracks—they doubled twice over their attacks against the enemy: whether they aimed for a bloodbath or a second Crucifixion, who knows? Now the sergeant started to visit me shake, his voice growing even fainter. I am faint and my wounds need tending.

The king bowed his head to the man in respect, smiling broadly. Your words speak as highly of you as your wounds. They speak of your honor. Duncan turned to one of his attendants. Go, and get him doctors.

The attendant jumped from his horse and ran to the sergeant, giving him support as they both walked away toward a tent set up on the other side the battlefield.

As they left another man came running up.

The king squinted, trying to recognize the figure in the fog. Who is coming? Duncan said as the man approached.

Malcolm, whose eyes were young and better at seeing the distant fog, said, It is the worthy Thane of Ross.

Lennox, another member of the king's entourage, pulled his horse up and around the two guards.

He has such a hurried look about him! Lennox said. And looking that way, has so many strange things to say.

Ross arrived before the king, tired and out of breath. God save the king! he said between gasps.

King Duncan spoke up. Where have you come from, worthy thane?

I’ve come from Fife, great King, where the Norwegian flags fly chilling our people. The King of Norway was there with great numbers of men.

Ross finally straightened, and, after a