The Supper

The wind had died down. The storm was finally over, just in time for the special dinner I was preparing. I whisked around the kitchen hurriedly trying to get the food prepared for my special guests that would be arriving soon. I was giddy with excitement as I pictured how our encounter would go, not so much with Beowulf and John Milton, but definitely Macbeth. He frightened me a little, but I still couldn’t wait to have them all at my glorious table. I stirred the chicken noodle soup some more as I contemplated what we would talk about.

I thought about all the things I wanted to ask, we only had a short time together as they all had things to do after. But there were things I must know, like when was the exact moment Macbeth realized he had made a huge mistake, an anagnorisis, or whether Beowulf knows his story is told over and over, an apocryphal story, or what it was like to write Paradise Lost when he couldn't see. These questions and so much more, but time was moving slowly as it typically does when I am awaiting something great.

The first to arrive was Macbeth, I let him in and showed him to the table. He was not one for words as he barely acknowledged me when I welcomed him into my home. Slowly he walked to the table, taking a seat in front of the window. He looked at me with a glare while asking if he could have a drink. I grabbed the mead from the refrigerator and proceeded to pour a glass for him. When I placed the glass in front of him he glared at me and stated that he was hungry and asked where everyone else was. I was hesitant to leave him alone in the dining room, but I still had to finish dinner. There was something about him that unnerved me, it appeared as though he was unhappy to be here. But still I had to walk away from him. Had to get back to the kitchen and check on the soup. I left after telling him that I needed to check on dinner and retreated to the kitchen. I could hear the tinging noise made when you hit the bottle on glasses, he must be drinking some more I thought.

The doorbell rang again and I raced to open the door. There stood John Milton and Beowulf staring back at me. I led them to the table, allowing Milton to use my arm as a guide, Macbeth was still sitting there with a full glass of mead. Odd I thought to myself, then realized all the glasses had some mead in it. I asked everyone to have a seat while I finished up dinner. I headed back to the kitchen, but stopped at the door. Looking back at the table I thanked them all for showing up, and said that I was excited to get to know each one of them, then turned and entered the kitchen.

I tried to arrange the questions in my head. I would talk with Milton first. The obvious question would be how hard was it to write Paradise Lost while being blind. Another thing I wanted to know was why write an epic that gave Satan such a big arena to display himself? I thought about his book, a long narrative poem that focuses on the fall of Adam and Eve and how they rose again despite losing their home in the Garden of Eden. The temptation from Satan to Eve and why he chose to destroy the paradise God had created. I also wondered whether there was a reason that he wrote the story the way he did, giving Satan a larger voice than anyone else has ever done, and to allow a look into the Pandemonium that Satan had created after he is defeated by Michael and kicked out of heaven. How had he wanted his exegesis to be interpreted by others I wondered. The last thing I wanted to ask was whether or not he was pleased with how his book has become what he had set out to do. Write an Epic.

I shifted my thoughts to Beowulf, wondering what it must be like to know you are the main person in another one of the best elegy poems in literary history, and that people have been reading your story for the last five hundred years or more. I thought about his memento mori scene in which he realizes that he is not immortal and he will die after fighting the dragon, I wondered how he felt at that moment. What are his feelings on mixing Christian beliefs and Pagan beliefs within the story but mostly at the end with his funeral. And whether he knows that the speaker of the poem is not Pagan, but rather a Christian. The last question I would ask him is how he felt about the Mass Christianization that started happening and whether he still believed in Fate, the idea that their lives were already determined, or does he believe that Providence, the idea that only God has power of the outcome of your life, is a true. That we are given Rational Faculty, the spark of God, and Free Will, that we have a choice to be good or bad, something that no one, not even God can take away from us.

The last person I would speak to would be Macbeth. I thought about how he had killed everyone he loved, his friend King Duncan, his best friend Banquo. Is he haunted by what he has done, especially now that he has been dead for many years? I wondered whether he would answer my questions truthfully, especially when asked if he could redo what he has done, would he? I also wanted to know why he interpreted the witches in such a way that he felt he was forced to kill people to make their prophecies comes true. Why didn’t he just wait to see if they were? There are so many things I want to know, but I feared he would not tell me the truth. What if he had fallen deeper into his separation from God?

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. The realization of what was happening had finally sunk in. I had made a mistake and I could see it now, I could feel it as though it flowed through my bones like lava coming out of the volcano. I placed the soup in the four bowls, opened the drawer and grabbed the utensils I needed and headed toward the dining room. It was awfully quiet in there. I realized I hadn't heard them speak the entire time I was in the kitchen. Opening the swinging door, I entered the dining room. There sat Milton and Beowulf, their eyes shut in what appeared to be the most peaceful sleep ever, their glasses were empty as they had already drunk their mead. Their hands hung low and their shoulders drooped down. I knew instantly that the mistake I thought I made was correct. Macbeth sat with his back toward me, he didn’t turn to face me, just told me to sit. I wouldn't move, or couldn't, not sure if I was more frightened or angry at what Macbeth had done. Slowly he got up from his seat, I grabbed the extra utensil I brought out, the knife. As Macbeth worked his way out of his chair I lunged at him, stabbing him in the heart. He fell like a sack of bones to the floor. Instantly I realized what he had done. He had poisoned the mead, but why? I will never know as he died on my dining room floor that night. My questions will forever go unanswered as I will never have the opportunity again to have them for dinner. This was a one-shot deal and I made a tragic mistake by inviting Macbeth. His separation from God was complete, even years after he realized his mistake before.