A desert place.
Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches
When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
That will be ere the set of sun.
Where the place?
Upon the heath.
There to meet with Macbeth.
I come, Graymalkin!
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
A fierce salty wind roared off the sea, covering a bleak Scottish heath with a stinging dampness. Sporadic forks of lightening exposed the barrenness of the place. There was no sign of life anywhere until a sinsiter cackle could be hard, adding to the gloom. Three witches appeared, hovering, barely visible, in the fog. They landed together at a spot were a cauldron stood, as if awaiting their arrival. Steam from the witches' brew mixed with the fog. The witches stood chanting in turns around their pot.
“When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning and in rain?” the first witch asked.
“When the hurly-burly's done,” the second witch said, smiling at her sisters, “when the battle's lost and won.”
“That will be before the setting of the sun,” the third witch assured them.
“Where's the place?” asked the first witch
“Upon the heath,” the second said.
“There to meet Macbeth!” the third said.
The sly purr of a cat could be heard.
Committed to their deed the witches now answered their familiars, demons on earth in animal form who assisted them.
“I come, grey cat,” the first witch said.
“My toad calls,” the second witch said.
Then without any prompting from her familiar, the third witch said: “I’m coming, too!”
Now drunk with the elixir of evil they huddled closer to their cauldron and chanted in unison to the devils of ill omen.
“Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.”