Act the Second
Difficulties show men what they are.
-
Epictetus
~ 2.1 ~
High in the boughs of a great oak
|
[Enter Jeremy and Brisby] |
Jeremy: |
Hast thou so much to say? We near the tree now. |
Brisby: |
It is, by troth, a great oak. |
Jeremy: |
It is more, and thou dost well to gape oakenly at't. 'Twere a right Teutonic tree, and held 'fore the reign Titanic, and rose a sprout from a fall of the world oak, and makes its roots in the deeps of the earth, and suckles nourishment from the secret springs. As a sapling, it housed the first of the Owls, [he curtsies] and their dynasty's lofty nest, and held the genesis of all we flighty souls, and birthed the first of the great eagles, tho' I'd venture he were then but an eaglet, and quite small. Ah! but I could sing for hours of its yore! What roots it has! |
Brisby: |
It has a fine lineage then, also |
Jeremy: |
But thou hast it not in half! Here, let me set it to thee in song: it is well known to we in the community: 'We wing our way from our
noble oak, |
Brisby: |
Have I not heard this song already? |
Jeremy: |
No, never. |
Owl: |
Who doth dare grime my step with foolish foot, |
Brisby: |
Was that the thunder, or was that a voice? |
Jeremy: |
'Twere the thunder, and 'twere a voice. That, lady, is the
owl. |
Brisby: |
O, mercy! |
Jeremy: |
That is, methinks, what brought thee here. |
Brisby: |
An' owls eat mice! |
Jeremy: |
Pray, what? |
Brisby: |
Owls eat mice - it is all I can remember. |
Jeremy: |
Is it? I should think thy friend the shrew should ha' minded thee of it! |
Brisby: |
Owls eat mice! |
Jeremy: |
Repeat that to thyself as thou goest; if it is indeed all thou canst conceit. |
Brisby: |
I take thy leave. Owls eat mice, owls eat mice, |
Owl: |
Stand thou there dumb, waiting for me to act? |
Brisby: |
It would be a fine day, Sir Owl, when your food delivered itself to you, and a fine day for me. |
Owl: |
I should grow glutton then, so I shall not |
Brisby: |
Ah, but I am the one taking the motions. |
Owl: |
Yea, I know precisely. |
Brisby: |
Having deliberated not to eat me, shall you then let me prosper? |
Owl: |
What does it mean to prosper, first I ask? |
Brisby: |
Thou hast lived in thy gloom too long, yet thou know'st me well, and see that I have indeed brought a concern to thy door. Yea, I have been told thou wert wont to help those in need... and yet... and yet..., O! O! - owls eat mice! |
Owl: |
I have heard no concerns yet, nor have I seen opportunity to help. From me, thou hast solicited nothing, and so I shall give nothing, and a few wise words to ponder, moreover. If thou hast a request, speak it. If thou hast a boon, let it boom. If thou hast come to repeat a standard of self-destruction, and wouldst elicit, not pity, but a rumbling in stomach, it were best to scurry away to thy motto, an' in a quick tempo, too. For I ha' given thee no cause to verdict on my benevolence - not yet. |
Brisby: |
May I, then, speak? |
Owl: |
I would not stay thee, on a matter of concern, for the life of this oak. I would not stay thee, on a quiddity, for remiss of a good laugh. If it is of import, let it be export; if it is of no weight, let it float from thee, and be heard. |
Brisby: |
Good owl - I trust thou art good - I am here, |
Owl: |
Move your family; make mobile your charge. |
Brisby: |
I cannot hear! |
Owl: |
O, an' owls eat mice, I've heard. |
Brisby: |
Have you heard? You mumble cold Sophist, and reverb echoes
of the depths. |
Owl: |
Permutations I prescript as you asked, |
Brisby: |
What good is insight thus, when it's applied, |
Owl: |
Thou art not wise, say ye no more! |
Brisby: |
Thou wouldst not hear another speech from me? |
Owl: |
Aye, I forgot, I promised something like. |
Brisby: |
O, Jonathan! Jonathan! |
Owl: |
What now, what are you whispering? Were it a name? |
Brisby: |
Yea, although you care not. |
Owl: |
It is easy to say "yea"; I am sure it was a name. If 'tweren't a name, then it must have been some invocation against me. Tell me the name, lest I assume it were otherwise. |
Brisby: |
Excuse me; I was calling Jonathan. |
Owl: |
Jonathan - is he thy husband? |
Brisby: |
What does it matter? He is one month dead, |
Owl: |
Look 'bout, and ope thine eyes, thou art not dead! |
Brisby: |
Thou art a changer for an ancient bird. |
Owl: |
I knew not the situation, and did not bother to ask the questions. Art thou of the name Brisby? |
Brisby: |
I did not know I were known in these parts. |
Owl: |
Seest thou that I am not thy enemy? If I spoke hard words afore, it 's best to forget them, and toss them away! I knew not thy name before, and I believe it makes a difference here. |
Brisby: |
My name shall save my son? |
Owl: |
No, not thy name, |
|
|
~ 2.2 ~
At Mrs. Brisby's house
|
[Enter Martin and Teresa] |
Martin: |
Thou hast been performing needlepoint, say'st thou? |
Teresa: |
Aye, though a hot spring's day's a'coming. In darkening hours last winter, I found it a good pass-time; quick days grew quicker, and the cold went speedier. |
Martin: |
A pleasurable diversion. I did that for a season. |
Teresa: |
What, Martin? I would not expect to discover such an interest in thee. |
Martin: |
Yea, though it weren't in the winter, 'twere the summer last. I found it made long days last longer, and the heat linger awhile more. My interest in the craft had a life story much like the interest in an usurer's loan: every time one asks of it, it is smaller. |
Teresa: |
Come now. |
Martin: |
I kid thee. It were a noble profession; that is why I do
not taint the needle. |
Teresa: |
Good morrow, Cynthia - thou rise an hour late. |
Cynthia: |
Not late, Teresa, not late. Good morrow, Martin. |
Martin: |
Good noontide, Cynthia - thou rise an hour too late. Befriend thee a rooster. |
Cynthia: |
I did not hear thy morning bustle, nor Martin's complaint of the day. How could I rise on time? |
Teresa: |
We were out walking in the calm. 'Twere most unusual. |
Cynthia: |
'Twere a sleepy morn, any how. I do not like it better that I am awake. |
Martin: |
'Tis the sound of death, good Cynthia, that is how our good patron the shrew would make it. All is quiet in preparation of the reaving. |
Cynthia: |
Where is the shrew? |
Teresa: |
I know not. Though Martin would guess. |
Martin: |
She's out with our mother, no doubt. Perhaps inciting us to light a bonfire of Timothy, or make him offer burnt incense, that Nero Caesar might be appeased. |
Teresa: |
Martin! |
Martin: |
I love the shrew dearly. I am not bound to love the shrew dishonestly. |
Cynthia: |
Thou art the shrew, Martin, the very... |
Shrew: |
O, death, doom, and woe! |
Teresa: |
Here comes Martin's prophecy. |
Martin: |
The very word! |
Shrew: |
O, calamity, resignation, and foul loss! |
Teresa: |
I do not know if I want to be with this person. |
Martin: |
Hark, hail, shrew stoic! What means this low mourn? |
Shrew: |
It is a day but devoted to death. |
Martin: |
No, your words, why are they smeared so with soot? |
Shrew: |
Thy mother slew herself, and then, knowing I could not bear living without her friendship, she had the good grace to slay me, too. |
Martin: |
If she is twice so dead as you are, I suppose she could manage it quite well. |
Cynthia: |
What does this mean, shrew? Tell us. |
Shrew: |
She told me she bleeds inside. |
Martin: |
Aye, I'm quick to believe it - she's quick too, is she not? |
Shrew: |
It is to be fervently hoped. |
Martin: |
Let Timmy fervently hope 't, he's as hot as Vulcan's hammer. My, but you're ponderous! All this talk of speed and quick and hotness has brought it out an' enhanced what - heaven knows, they can certainly see you! - needed no elaboration. Methinks it is lamping the sun, or fanning a hurricane, or fueling Etna. |
Shrew: |
Or perhaps it is more to giving Martin a browbeating. I am not in the mood I was formerly in; thy clever jests of my wide carriage are not in place today. Please, I bid thee, let us speak of thy mother. |
Martin: |
What is this insistence? I've never known you to be more serious, nay, no, but twice before I have seen you something like this. First, when you speak of my father, and second, once when I used your kerchief for a washcloth. Is this more akin to the first instance, or the second? How did my mother kill herself? How am I orphaned? I would know; it should go in my book. |
Shrew: |
On a crow. |
Martin: |
On a crow... I know no blade by such name sharp enough. |
Shrew: |
Thou knowest it not, only because thou canst not see thy tongue. |
Martin: |
Thy jibing speech of my too-willing wit is also not welcome. Please let us speak of my mother. |
Cynthia: |
If you would make jokes in this black hour, with the plow at our tails and heavy stones on our heads, can you not make jokes of each other, and not of my mother? |
Teresa: |
I knew her not as a joke. |
Shrew: |
And I love her far too much to jest about her. I am deadly
serious, deadly serious, I am afraid. Tho' I did not see her cold, this is
not a premature report. Last I saw her, she was merrily gallanting off,
whistling as she skipped to Doom. |
Martin: |
Likewise, I love her far too much to joke about her death. It is, however, equally true, I love my mother far more than does the shrew, for these two causes: one, I love her enough to joke of her life, if the occasion arose, although I am agreed this is not the time. The second proof is that I love her enough, and wisely enough, to hope. |
Shrew: |
Hope? Liar, you are jesting even now! |
Martin: |
I hope. Thou sayest she is cold? Betwixt the cold and Timothy's heat, I believe we shall find the medium. |
Shrew: |
You hope in her death? |
Martin: |
No, no more than I would joke in her death. But, just as I would joke, I would hope in her life. |
Teresa: |
[to the shrew] I understand him. Thou hast not seen her dead. |
Shrew: |
Aye, but I cannot see how it can be otherwise. She has gone to speak to an owl. |
Cynthia: |
Why would my mother do such a thing? |
Shrew: |
I am afraid to say what I have thought. |
Martin: |
I have a third reason discovered. If I believed for a
passing instant, if I assumed for a fraction of a thought, that my mother was
lost, I should let a pitiful mourning and wailing so bereft that all the
world should hear and be deflated, and all the stars should shake upon their
globe, and every living thing would breathe by force, and terror would uproot
the deepest truths. I hear no such horrifying thing, nay, I can hear the
grass growing. It is peaceful; she must not be dead. For our sakes she would play
trepidore to the edge of the earth; she has many times so said. Let
her live, shrew, she's breathing still. I have not done her drum to death. |
Shrew: |
Good heavens, child, get thee back to bed! |
Timothy: |
O, shrew, I must needs first know who is dead! |
Martin: |
[to the shrew] Now see what fruit a gossiped
harvest brings? |
Shrew: |
[to Timothy] O, blessèd infant, to my vast regret, |
Martin: |
List not to her, she winds mistaken tones! |
Timothy: |
Is the answer, then, my mother? |
Shrew: |
Thou art the victim of a doubled mall, |
Timothy: |
Death! Doom! Dear halting passion, I feel not! |
Shrew: |
Despair not, gentle kind, I shall thee take, |
Martin: |
O, that should do it! |
Timothy: |
Take 'way! Take 'way! Give way, thou lasting legs! |
Martin: |
He is taken by a spirit! Come, I shall exorcise it. |
Teresa: |
O, thou fool. |
Shrew: |
I know no demons as would know thy mother; if there were one there, 'twould do thee no good to interrogate him. |
Martin: |
But thou admit'st thou knowest demons? I should have thought. |
Timothy: |
What means this sorry buzzing in my head? |
Martin: |
I am thy constant stayguard when I'm right, |
Cynthia: |
I wonder what kind of devil crow it was. |
Shrew: |
O, the foulest type, a brutal, senseless rogue |
Teresa: |
He must truly be a horrendous villain. How did he look? For if I should ever see him, I should hope to escape his burning curses. |
Shrew: |
A fire burned unholy in his eyes, |
Cynthia: |
And what of poor Timothy? I hope Martin is attending to him rightly. |
Shrew: |
Martin attends at the crow's shirt-tails, and tailors impish pranks to please his master. |
Cynthia: |
O, don't be silly. |
Teresa: |
I should think my mother should be scared to sense if she ever saw such a horrible beast. He makes the cat seem hospitable. |
Shrew: |
I wished then that I were in the cat's belly, for the safety there. |
Cynthia: |
Surely you're exaggerating. My mother would not entrust herself and her family to a hellbeast. |
Shrew: |
And such I said, but had I not it seen |
Teresa: |
But, shrew, my mother sees a friend in thee. |
Shrew: |
What, child? Speak again, I did not hear. |
Martin: |
That was not a task I find becoming, |
Shrew: |
Thou art a baser rogue to wax his hope, |
Martin: |
One of your finer jokes, that. I should remember it. I
spent the time trying to clear his head of your poison; I could not well do
it. He was pale and nigh on comatose; I carefully listed to his breathing
hard, and found I made out many a whispered word. 'Twere verbations that did
bring tears to my eyes. A quiet, muted natal call he whined; pitiful
despairings, I heard him call our mother, and take me for her, in his heat,
and did I play the part? I tried my best. |
Shrew: |
I am but by thy mother's death depressed; |
Martin: |
I tried growing an ivory horn from my head in a minute, but this was a harder endeavour than I took it to be. Thou couldst do no better; and I would rue letting the viper near the slightly mouse. Thy spittle would but spatter him with venom; and speckle him with ichor, and smear base bilious humours excelling disgusted description all about his pillow. I would not make clean such a mess; therefore, I bar you reprieve to better me. Let him sleep, 'tis a day for 't. |
Shrew: |
There is too little good in thee, Martin, to dispel evil; yea, even the good thou hast revels in the drinking-pubs with thy worser parts, and between the two of them, they find there's little difference one to the other. |
Martin: |
Ah, but true good is that name enough to discern only when dry. If good cannot see when it is drowning in beer, steal away its mug and nim its harder brew, and let it be good. 'Tis easy for you to say I cannot evil dispel, but if you admit there is indeed evil there, and it is the evil I speak of, it is evil that you have placed, and bred and calculated. Thou meanest well, I am sure. Say no more. |
Shrew: |
I would not shorten Timmy's sickness by breaking his life. Good day. |
Martin: |
It still has not come yet, begone! |
Teresa: |
That was not a pleasant visit. |
Martin: |
Ah, dear Teresa, thou art more gentle |
Cynthia: |
Thou know'st not? Were she not alive? |
Martin: |
Aye, she were. An' is now, I hope. An owl! |
Teresa: |
An owl... tho' it is day yet. It seems not so. |
Martin: |
The sun is sinking 'neath the vapours now. |
Cynthia: |
I've just come up! |
Martin: |
Thou rise an hour too late. |
~ 2.3 ~
At a rosebush, elsewhere on the field
|
[Enter Jenner with Sullivan] |
Sullivan: |
And how was that? |
Jenner: |
I tell myself, Sullivan, at times I say that I am indeed the vilest rogue that ever walked this earth. |
Sullivan: |
Ha! why speak'st thou thusly? |
Jenner: |
Have I a friend? |
Sullivan: |
Yea, one here, who'd trust thee to death, who lives in thy life. |
Jenner: |
Aye, patron, aye, I have a friend under my cloak today for the Council. |
Sullivan: |
I guess not thy meaning. Who is thy friend, Jenner? |
Jenner: |
A blade, sir, a sword. |
Sullivan: |
Strapped under thy cloak? |
Jenner: |
Here 'tis. |
Sullivan: |
How vicious! But what's it for? |
Jenner: |
'Tis for safety; if I mark nuance well, I am not popular in our old men's club. |
Sullivan: |
But thou art so a rogue? |
Jenner: |
A rogue and a runabout. Why should, Sullivan, I ask again, why should a rat bring a sword into peaceful assembly? |
Sullivan: |
He fears it is not pieceably assembled. |
Jenner: |
You joke, but you are more correct than you think. But I know that the Rat Council is indeed a peaceful assembly. |
Sullivan: |
Than thou seek'st to shape it otherwise. |
Jenner: |
Ah! and I love the threat in it. |
Sullivan: |
Ha! I see thou art indeed a rogue. |
Jenner: |
Aye, a most dreadful, terrible rogue. |
Sullivan: |
And I'm sure thou'rt a villain, too? |
Jenner: |
Of the worst shade. |
Sullivan: |
And thou seek'st war and death, loss and calamity? |
Jenner: |
I proclaim them my knit brethren. |
Sullivan: |
I have never understood thee, Jenner, but I've enjoyed thy company for longer than I can remember. We have been close friends since childhood, and I worry for thee now. Why search for danger? Why live reveling in risk? I live in thy faithfulness, and what is death but loss, dear friend? And if thou art so unfaithful a friend to die, thou didst die in unfaithfulness, and I die too, and not by shedding blood. |
Jenner: |
Shedding your blood, stilling your heart, and drawing your last breath is Death, dear Sullivan. Death is death, untrueness is untrueness, fidelity is fidelity: words mean words, and words mean things. If I am an unfaithful friend, I am an unfaithful friend. I am not dead. I'm ruddy yet, and take breath, as well. |
Sullivan: |
Words mean words, Sir Jenner, and "unfaithful
friend" means nothing to my ears. |
Jenner: |
Go on. I meant to patrol the grounds an hour cackling to myself 'fore I went to Council. I could miss service today. |
Sullivan: |
Said like a true rogue, but surely thou wantest more produce from thy time than an hour's allowance of gloating. |
Jenner: |
Why should I go? I need no assistance as going to a church would give me; it wouldn't further my designs at all. No produce would it bear me; I know no deacon as sows tares, nor can I trust a priest to till corruption: though if I found such men, I'd recruit them in a dog's modesty. |
Sullivan: |
Ha! Thou art evil, good friend, sore evil! |
Jenner: |
Aye, I am. |
Sullivan: |
I've always loved thee for thy wit. |
Jenner: |
'Tis biting sharp, isn't it? |
Sullivan: |
Sharp as a dagger. |
Jenner: |
And stabs dangerously, doesn't it? |
Sullivan: |
Now, com'st thou with me to sanctuary? |
Jenner: |
Aye, though I still don't see the good it will do me. |
Sullivan: |
The Church can only be more incorrupt than her saints. |
Jenner: |
Yea, I know. I still see no good of my stencil. But I shall follow in a moment. Go off. |
Sullivan: |
Thou wilt be putting away the sword for an hour? |
Jenner: |
Of course. [aside] Nay, I'll keep't. Justin will be there. |
Sullivan: |
Good, then. Thou know'st the way. |
Jenner: |
Sullivan, thou friend! Thou seest but what thou wilt, |
~ 2.4 ~
At the owl's oak
|
[Enter Brisby and Owl] |
Brisby: |
'Tis cold here. |
Owl: |
Winter chilled doth have a place, |
Brisby: |
I have heard all, but what I hear is not |
Owl: |
Yea, uncommon thou art, |
Brisby: |
Good Owl - thou art good! - I'm debted to thee, |
Owl: |
Such reverence is not made necessary |
Brisby: |
My thanks are ever with thee, and my son's, |
Owl: |
What now? I'm hearing echoes! I have said |
Brisby: |
Good-bye, friend Owl. |
Jeremy: |
How of it? What'd he say? Art thou alive? Art thou now dead? Is all turned well? Is all turned sour? |
Brisby: |
All's turned round. |
Jeremy: |
All is turned round, and e'en the fixèd stars |
Brisby: |
Yes, all is back to... |
Jeremy: |
The waters move from mount to sea and back; |
Brisby: |
What hast thou concocted? Yea, all is mobile, e'en the year, and time runs short - the plow comes! |
Jeremy: |
The sun doth move from eastmost rise to west, |
Brisby: |
Yes, but dear Timmy... |
Jeremy: |
All things play prodigal and dance about |
Brisby: |
Thy mouth doth move. |
Jeremy: |
Ha, ha, he, ho, ho! |
Brisby: |
O, thou art Jeremy still. Come, we must go. |
Jeremy: |
Then we must be off then on this uplifting current. |
Brisby: |
Aye, we must go. A joyous swell's in me, |
Jeremy: |
I'm but thy friend, no demigod as such. |
Brisby: |
Both two and one are quandaries less than three, |
Jeremy: |
Ne'er was an ill a trifle, did I think, |
~ * ~