Macbeth Act 1 Scene 3

Where have you been, sister?

Killing pigs.

And you, sister?

A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap,

and she munched, and munched, and munched.

'Give me some,' I said.

'Get lost, witch!' the fat old hag yelled.

Her husband's sailed to Aleppo as captain of the Tiger.

So I'll sail after him in a kitchen sieve,

and, disguised as a rat without a tail,

I'll get him. Oh, I'll get him.

I'll give you a wind to sail with.

You're too kind.

And I'll throw in another.

I've already got all the other winds —

every port they blow toward,

every direction they know

on a sailor's compass.

I'll drain that sailor dry as hay.

Sleep will never rest, night or day,

on his heavy eyelids again.

He'll live like a cursed man:

for eighty-one exhausting weeks

he'll shrivel, weaken, and waste away.

I'm not allowed to sink his ship —

but I can absolutely batter it with storms.

Look what I've got.

Show me, show me!

It's a ship pilot's thumb —

he wrecked on his way home.

A drum, a drum!

Macbeth is coming!

We weird sisters, hand in hand,

speed-travelers over sea and land,

dance around, around, around:

three times for you, three times for me,

and three more to make it nine.

Shh! The spell is fully charged.

I've never seen a day this ugly and this beautiful at the same time.

How far to Forres? And — what are these things,

so shriveled and so wild-looking

that they don't seem to belong on Earth,

and yet here they are? Are you alive? Are you even something

a person can talk to? You seem to understand me —

you're each pressing a cracked finger

to your skinny lips. You look like women,

but your beards make it hard

to be sure.

Speak if you can. What are you?

All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, Thane of Glamis!

All hail, Macbeth! Hail to you, Thane of Cawdor!

All hail, Macbeth — the future king!

My friend, why are you flinching? Why look afraid

of news that sounds this good? Seriously though:

are you three hallucinations, or actually

what you appear to be? You've greeted my noble friend

with his current title, plus grand predictions

of new honors and royal prospects,

and he looks hypnotized. But to me you say nothing.

If you can look into the seeds of time

and say which grain will grow and which won't,

then talk to me — I'm not begging for your favors

and I'm not scared of your hate.

Hail!

Hail!

Hail!

Lesser than Macbeth — and greater.

Not as lucky — but much luckier.

You'll father kings, though you'll never be one.

So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo!

Banquo and Macbeth, all hail!

Wait — you're leaving out details. Tell me more.

I'm Thane of Glamis because my father Sinel died — fine.

But Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor is alive

and doing very well. And me becoming king

is about as believable

as me becoming Cawdor. Tell me where

you got this bizarre information — and why

you ambush us on this blasted moor

with prophecies. Speak. I command you.

The earth has bubbles, just like water does —

and those three just popped. Where did they go?

Into thin air. What looked solid melted away

like breath into wind. I wish they'd stayed!

Were those things really here?

Or did we eat some hallucinogenic root

that takes the brain hostage?

Your children will be kings.

You'll be king.

And Thane of Cawdor too — wasn't that the line?

Exact same tune and lyrics. Who's this now?

Macbeth, the king was thrilled to hear

of your victory. And when he reads

what you personally risked fighting the rebels,

he can't decide whether to be amazed

or just keep praising you. Speechless, he scans

the rest of that very same day

and finds you deep in the Norwegian ranks,

totally unafraid of the gruesome corpses

you kept producing. Thick as hail,

messenger after messenger arrived, every one

carrying praise for how you defended his kingdom,

and poured it all out before him.

We've been sent

to deliver the king's thanks

and to escort you to him —

not to pay you. That part comes later.

And as a down payment on a much bigger honor,

he told me to call you Thane of Cawdor.

So with that new title: hail, most worthy thane!

It's yours.

Hold on. Can the devil actually tell the truth?

The Thane of Cawdor is alive. Why are you dressing me

in someone else's clothes?

The man who was thane is still breathing —

but he's living under a death sentence,

and he deserves it. Whether he openly allied

with Norway, or secretly propped up the rebels

with hidden support, or worked with both

to wreck his own country, I don't know.

But capital treason — confessed and proven —

has finished him.

(to himself) Glamis, and now Thane of Cawdor.

The biggest prize is still to come.

(to Ross and Angus) Thanks for your trouble.

(to Banquo) So — hoping your kids become kings yet?

The same beings who handed me Cawdor

promised exactly that to yours.

Trust them all the way

and you might catch fire for the crown itself,

not just Cawdor. But here's the strange part:

often, to lure us to our own destruction,

the forces of darkness tell us little truths —

they win our trust with honest trivia,

then betray us where it matters most.

Gentlemen, a quick word, please.

(to himself) Two truths have already come true —

like a promising opening act

before the grand royal drama. — Thank you, gentlemen.

(to himself) This supernatural sales pitch

can't be evil... but it can't be good either. If it's evil,

why did it hand me a real reward up front,

starting with a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor.

But if it's good, why am I already picturing something

so horrific it makes my hair stand up

and my steady heart pound against my ribs

in a way that isn't natural? Real dangers

scare me less than my imagination does.

The murder is only a fantasy so far,

but it's rattling me so badly that I can't function —

I'm smothered in what-ifs, and nothing feels real

except the thing that hasn't happened.

Look at our partner — completely zoned out.

(to himself) If fate wants me to be king, maybe fate will crown me

all by itself. No effort required.

His new honors sit on him

like brand-new clothes — they won't fit right

until he's worn them a while.

(to himself) Whatever happens, happens.

Even the roughest day eventually runs out of hours.

Macbeth — whenever you're ready. We're waiting on you.

My apologies — my tired brain got tangled up

in things I'd forgotten. Gentlemen, your efforts

are written in a book I open

and read every single day. Let's go see the king.

(to Banquo) Think about what happened today, and later,

once we've both had time to weigh it,

let's speak our minds openly to each other.

Gladly.

Until then, not another word. Come on, friends.