Birnam Wood

The Three Witches visited us in the night. They had made a prophecy to a King called Macbeth, that he would be defeated and overthrown when our home in Birnam Wood travels to Dunsinane Castle, where he hides away.

The Three Witches brought with them a large cauldron, and a strange assortment of ingredients, and began a strange chant as they added each item to the pot.

“Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble.” * They chant together in unison, three voices becoming one. My brothers and I stand as still as a tree, watching them with unblinking eyes.

The Three Witches move between us, snapping off a branch here and a leaf there. They carved at our rough skin, fished around inside our cavities, and hacked away at our roots with a dirty old blade. They took a part of every one of my brothers, and then came for me.

My arms were poked and prodded, greens ripped from my branches, leaving open wounds for insects to get inside. I’ve always hated the insects.

Once they were satisfied, they added what they stole to their cauldron of horrors, and it began to bubble and swell fiercely. A deep purple haze started to ebb and flow out as they stirred everything together. My branches ached where they’d torn at me, but I couldn’t look away.

The purple mist danced across the forest floor, increasing in speed as the Three Witches chanted louder and louder. They were impossibly synchronized, a strange echo bouncing around them as they spoke.

My brothers closest to the monsters began to move. In impossible ways, their branches began to curl and twist around each other in a way that seemed excruciating. They disappeared into the smog, but I could hear their cries in ways I’d never heard before.

As much as I wanted to, I knew there was no way I would be able to escape the mist. It reached me within minutes, and I too was subjected to the insufferable pain of my brethren. My roots, once deep and strong and keeping me grounded, sprung out of the damp earth, moving as if it had caught fire. My balance was thrown completely, and if not for my sudden ability to move my branches to catch myself, I would have crashed.

They swelled and forged together, becoming two feet that were large enough to flatten any man who came by.

I screamed in agony, a noise rising in a throat I didn’t know I had. It was deep, guttural, painful, and was resounded all around me.

My branches, hundreds of them once swaying gently in the wind, twisted around each other, forming arms and fingers. A throbbing pain came from where the leaves had been pulled from my rough flesh.

The Three Witches stood there proudly, smiling maniacally into the crowd of anguish and suffering.

It was then they spoke to us, told us of a prophecy they had created, and the plan they had for the man named Macbeth who was hiding away in Dunsinane Castle atop the hill. It was madness, what they told us, but our trunks were no longer our own, no longer under our control.

My body began to move before I could even process what they wanted. A man, no- a King, was to die by our arrival to the Castle. He believed it impossible for a forest to move, and until a moment ago, I did too.

Our march was slow: we were learning to walk for the first time, like toddlers but much larger, who could crush a house if we so wanted to. The ground was soggy, so it took more effort to wade through it for us than for the Three Witches. They seemed to float just above the ground, moving calmly, if a little too excitedly.

The Castle was impressive, but compared to my brothers and I, it was miniscule. We could pulverise it in minutes just by walking through the walls.

A small face appeared through one of the highest windows. He was wearing a shiny crown atop his sweaty head, and his eyes grew to the size of saucers when he saw us approach.

The Three Witches disappeared into the depths of the moving trees, but spoke in unison once more. It carried on the breeze, all the way to the castle.

Birnam Wood has come for you, Macbeth.

*'Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble' is a direct quote from William Shakespeare's 'Macbeth', Act 4 Scene 1.