Act the Fourth

Resolve to be thyself, and know that he,
Who finds himself, loses his misery.
                                 - Matthew Arnold, Self-dependence



~ 4.1 ~

At Mrs. Brisby's house

 

                 [Enter Martin and Teresa]

Martin:

How were that?

Teresa:

I was contemplating the roundness of an egg.

Martin:

Yea, it's prolate, - the egg and the question, - tho' what does it mean? Shall I contemplate the granularity of corn? the pucker of a crab apple? the toughness of capes?

Teresa:

Fine things, those.

Martin:

I'll enjoy an egg when I can have it, and let its roundness my stomach philosophize.
                 [Enter the shrew]
Good evening, fair friend!

Shrew:

It is a good evening, but I'd know where thy mother is. The wind's a nip, I've come out of its chill for th'day.

Martin:

Ay, it's a tough whispered threat on Timmy's life.

Shrew:

But thy mother'd shake fists at the wind. O, such hard breath!
                 [Enter Cynthia]

Teresa:

[to Cynthia] How is he?

Cynthia:

Not so well.

Martin:

What a life, indeed, one for another.

Cynthia:

He's in a painful fit; speaking of... of strange things. Stygian substances; the shielding of demonic fires in an angel's garb. He spoke of tottering on the world's bank, fearing a dangerous alluvial transport... and yet, he's in such a transport now I would not touch him. Perhaps he is not in a fit after all.

Shrew:

Heavens.

Martin:

Tell him he need not fear disguised demons, and that he may trust his eyes.

Cynthia:

Those are good words, Martin, but to say them to him is another thing.

Martin:

So I shall, as always.
               [Exit Martin]

Shrew:

I wonder that such a one ever saw the light of day.

Cynthia:

How, now?

Shrew:

That such an product may be made from thy parents pulls me aback. I should think his a prime number.

Cynthia:

So's seven.

Teresa:

So's three.

Shrew:

Yea, so is thirteen.

Cynthia:

There are thirteen notches on the door.

Teresa:

Thirteen silvers are set on the mantel.

Shrew:

I'd fain check them for tarnish.
               [Re-enter Martin]

Martin:

I wonder at you all. That boy's placid as Dulcinea on a Sunday. I spoke to him about you and Mother, and he began counting the patches on his warming quilt. There's one more red than yellow, and one more white than black. Let anyone interpret these humours as he will, I'd ask Ages about it.

Shrew:

Thou wouldst weary Ages with it.

Martin:

Only until he told me what it meant - I am not unreasonable.

Teresa:

Perhaps it has more to do with the blanket than with Timmy.

Cynthia:

Or perhaps more with the one as sewed it.

Martin:

Wise words. But he's under the blanket now, sleeping soundly. I'd find it unfollowing that he were ill if my mother wasn't consternated.

Shrew:

Crestfallen mothers, when the wrong's their child,
Are always wont to guard them from their chill,
By no unhopeful word they'll be defiled,
Nor may unbalanced blankets great their ill.

Martin:

Yea, 'tis Mother as keeps his soul still; his worrying tremors shake life off as a cloak.

Teresa:

Then what's a sister to do? O, I should make more tea!

Martin:

Teresa, you emulate our mother's care with uncanny aptitude.

Cynthia:

Mother keeps the gears running. The shrew's to substitute her governance...
[to the shrew] What are you nosing at?

Shrew:

O, never mind me, child.

Martin:

Aye, Timmy's in such bristly care, when I
With glabrous smoothing lotions would attend
His paused pneumonia, which ne'er abdicate
Would be, but must be forcefully o'erthrown.
Force found in care! Aye, such's the lever as
Could displace all the world; things move by care:
Would Antony do but a thing by care?
How long for Menelaus did Helen wait?
Would art be made, would comely sounds exist,
Would poets lift their pens except by love?
For but in care's a force, the physics of
The world, the world unseen, the world to come;
Love only is effective in all spheres
And love, so gentle, bears a lion's claw,
A gorgon's stare, a viper's bite, and is
The sphinx's riddle to us daily posed,
Our outcome's in how we make our return:
We'll live in hate, or else we'll die in love,
For love's far greater than the substance of ourselves,
It us eliminates. We're nothing when
We're took by love: for then our efforts are
Wraught for another's well, we're nothing when
We're caught in love, it's stuff accumulate.
We're members of the same, when found in love,
No matter in what role it finds it cast:
The melding of the hawk and turtledove,
Or eagles nurturing the small eyas.
                  [Exeunt.]



~ 4.2 ~

In Nicodemus' chamber

 

               [Enter Brisby, Nicodemus, and Patrick]

Nicodemus:

Of trials of the weary and the worn
The ragged minstrel makes his songs forlorn:
His motley costume's patched of weary woes
Contributed by victims poor, their foes
Are Time and Frost and Evil; how can turns
Be made against such adversary? Burns
There such a fire in an icy night
To best Frost, yet will not cause burning blight?
How shall we slow Time's plodding march? It leaves
Our songwrite's friends but scraps of cloth and grieves
To tell him, then they give their relate's swathe
To stitch his sagaed song in gentle faith;
His traveling songs, that echo off the hills
Are mournful wailings of unmeaning wills;
The jester's pleasure's show, he's full of pain
But joy may be in sorrowed sighs maintained.

Patrick:

Joy's one source only, and is the wordless, inexplicable answer to many a question. I'd sing thee a song, father, and this needs no music; indeed, fits better without it:

'One day the farmer took his cat away,
The rats and mice made in the field a day
Of revel, and did in their folly steal
A pottage mess of proprietary meal...'

Nicodemus:

Nay, let thy voice not dwell upon those notes,
They mold too seemly to our present rotes.

Patrick:

Then I shall sing another.

'On Pegasus a man once made a ride
To hear effects poetic that betide
The mounting of this stallion: he waved goodbye
Apollo, Cronus, and those who came nigh
Olympus to bid well his faring steed...'

Nicodemus:

No, sing thee not that song; it seems too far
Moved from the time and place in which we are.

Patrick:

Now this is a demand. I'll search high and low, from the heathers' harmony to the mountains' melody, from the deepest note of the bass to the airiest strike of the soprano, but what's to do with an alto in a tree? Many want songs of their miseries; many want songs of pomp and myth to take their dwelling off the moan o'the day; very few want songs of happenstance they may not know, but may access at any moment.
              [Enter Ages, Justin, and a priest]

Brisby:

It matters not anyway. Here comes a new audience.

Ages:

A hail, Brisby! I suppose Nicodemus has told thee everything.

Brisby:

Well, it has been a telling, that's true.

Priest:

Ah, this is the one I am to aid?

Ages:

Aid, yea, I suppose. Such an odd thing to demand of a kettled fish.

Priest:

And here is Nicodemus' comical son.

Patrick:

Yea, here am I, and I am here.

Brisby:

Who is this, Patrick?

Ages:

Why, this is the priest, and also our finest medicinary and gallipot.

Patrick:

He's a drugger! Cackle and glee-guffaw!

Priest:

And you are as you've always been, a rosary of jokes: decades of the same.

Patrick:

Aye, but read with heartfelt devotion.

Priest:

Yea, you read their worn roundness faithfully, and fumble them through your fingers.

Patrick:

I handle them with due reverence. Anything that's served many a clown so long's quite the relic.

Ages:

[to Brisby] Everybody needs to learn their craft, and this has been a great source for me. This rat's archiving ability is phenomenal. He'll tell you in a split hair, what...

Patrick:

[to Brisby] We'll have you for our perdue.

Ages:

Pray, what, Patrick?

Patrick:

Ages, I am a bit more direct than you are. You'd fright coveyed quail with a pair of sticks; I'd just light a charge. I am to the point. That is what you were going to ask her, isn't it?

Justin:

'Perdue' is such a harsh word. It makes us sound ungrateful... to send the widow of our late warrior into the battle alone!

Patrick:

You were going to appoint the wife to fill the dead husband's place. That's not ingratitude, but it would be well for the contracted to know what she was in.

Brisby:

[to the priest] Father, tell me strait what I'm to do... and let it be as round as one of Patrick's jokes.

Patrick:

How, now?

Priest:

We've need to stay the cat for work tonight;
If he'll attack our party, all our plans
Are naught, thy house will stay, and we shall stay
And meet anew thy husband; we shall have
Occasion not to set aside the task,
The cat must be detained! Herein's thy ploy:
I've packaged half a dram of sleeping powder,
Thou shalt it take, and from its drowsy grains
The mutton dust of which the cat shall eat.
Thou'lt make thy entrance to the farmer's house
A narthex on the setting sun's shine's side
An aperture to which thou'lt gain admit
The vestibule in which thy name's reposed.
Take care, be quick! But if thine errand fails,
If he'll eat thee, he'll eat the package too,
To think the last, think how thy children are
Saved in thy death; but if thou shouldst succeed,
All's well. There is no substitute for thee,
The op'ning's small, too small for all but thee.
When it's accomplished, return the same way
To take rewards of dangerous dispatch,
Enjoy a heroine's feast. 'Tis such a night!

Ages:

You need not her intimidate.

Priest:

                                            Is't so?

Brisby:

I understand, and am not taken back,
Though rounder could the explanation be.
I'll hear it from the fumbler of the beads.

Patrick:

[to Brisby] Jonathan's role, though beautiful, was repetitive. His phrase of melody was continually the same, which left him ample room for innovative variation. His size - his small size - which allowed him to drug NIMH's food, allowed him also to drug the cat's food. The only entrance to the farmhouse we have unseen is a knothole on the side: and that too small for any of us, except Jonathan and Ages.

Ages:

The first is dead, the last is incapacitated.

Justin:

Although Jenner may command echelons of sense, take to our front ranks! He has
no such sense, for we have all of our motives intact, and in our presence, he is senseless.

Priest:

Child, we have no choice, and it is with grave apology that we present this to thee.

Brisby:

I'd take a part, the saving of my son's
Too large to exclude me, who is quite small,
I've done what I could do, yea, ev'ry thing,
And would not pause at danger; I am lief
To take thy perdue's armour on, may it
Brave service do me, make me who I am,
Who I was meant to be. I'll do thy chore
As I've no choice, I'd die before my son!
For if all'd been well, and I'd live to age
I'd die before him with no regard to
My safety. Now that I'm with Doom and Death
I'll say four words before I'd do their bid,
Make free my son; I'd sacrifice myself
For tinier things than this, and as it was
That Jonathan for thee did do this, too,
I find it fitting. Lead me to the place
I'll enter, and the shining, setting sun
Shall warm my turnèd back, as I take leave
And enter icy catacombs of Fate,
The grave and crumbling stones of ancient fears
As house my husband's death, my child's ill
And keep me from myself. I'll come alive,
And shall return to my heart's promised feast,
The keeping of my child, my brave rescue;
I'll take my share in glories as accede
The office of a soldier, who, if dead
Ne'er lets the glories become obvious
To any, but does know them to himself
And keeps them to him only, and to God.
But I shall live, I shall, if for my son
And other children, as they have no need
To be abandoned, I shall taunt the cat
And feed him drams of powdered potent sleep
If I must force them down its throat, if I
Must pull its tail to draw it to its food:
I'll drug the cat, I'll feed the dragon bane,
I have no lance, O, and on George's errand!

Justin:

No lance, no horse, aye, and I shouldn't think the purdue has any armour, correct?

Brisby:

I'd need not them, I'd make up for the lack,
For all I'll need's a clutch, a steeling will,
A means to add the potion to the food -
Still me no more! I'll take it, let's be off!
I need not hear these prophesies of doom,
I'll set my visor down, then I'd not fear
Nor hear thy words, nor see the dragon's face;
I'll trust no horse to guide me, and no spear
Nor truncheon to support me, such enforce
Is sickly, not a source of firm reliance
As courage, love, the products of a heart
Which know that tasks are set before to do
And know no questing means are worth neglect;
It's all to ends, the goal narrows my sight;
I venture forth to keep it, in my plight
I've naught to keep me, but my living kin
And they would not lose Timmy as gain sin,
I'll slay the od'rous dragon for the night,
He'll shadow not thy work in preying flight,
I'll honour pacts my husband bound himself
For I know well he'd never take on gyves
Too weighty for his wife, or for her health
Nor which could keep his children from their lives!

Justin:

Keep your clutch for now, but when the time comes, lose it before your life!

Brisby:

The trench is cut, the melt has only one
Direction to fluate, I'll brave its flow
And seek to ford the currents that away
My hopes might sweep, but once the stream is crossed
I'll never need to suffer it again.

Priest:

That's the talk!

Nicodemus:

And so, the beset are beset e'en more
Much further, and unpressed oppress the poor,
The minstrel's song ne'er ends, it seems to those
Who must its chords repeat, and to their foes
No protest venture, but to meekly sing
A phrase of which tune's theirs, a tinny thing
Which makes the violent laugh, the victims cry,
It drives the virtues down, and vices high.
The wailing cannot cease, for holding in
The pleading of one's soul is to begin
The stifling of the spirit in its see.
The motley minstrel's music's melody
Is medley, to his costume one accord,
And to this soul whose misery would ford,
May she a brave divulgence from that flow
Make, and off wails repeating staunchly forego
To touch e'en once, so briefly; I do pray
This list'ning soul, who builds of care her day,
May hear the promised coda in her life
And may soon see the end of all her strife.
                     [Exeunt.]



~ 4.3 ~

At Mrs. Brisby's house

 

                    [Enter the shrew]

Shrew:

The even lumbers to our door to cast
In shadows all the joy we knew of last
And throw with doubt and laden with distress
The garnish of our former happiness;
The night soon makes its leave, and sets our lives
To light, to hobble hurt and sewn of shives.
                   [Enter Martin]

Martin:

My brother's ill... O, O, he is so ill; good shrew, I know I've been hope's very mirror, but I cannot keep a reflection much longer... the only reflections I make give me pain. O, Timothy! How I've played with him; how I've teased him; how I've loved him!

Shrew:

Do not despair; that is the only irreparable damage that might be done. Remember thy mother's admonition for faith.

Martin:

Faith... O, that I had something easily believed in!... but wait. Let me pace about you. Heavens! Glorious heavens - you have sent me a vision that fills my eyes! Surely I can easily believe in this great and massive sign before me; I have the evidence of it before my eyes. The less empirical evidence becomes me in the vision.

Shrew:

That is the Martin I know; that is the Martin I know, the sly, wicked taunter I love. Thou hast one modoc and one aim only, but a violent and versatile throw to thee.

Martin:

Macronic monster!

Shrew:

Irreverent nincompoop!
                 [Enter Teresa]

Teresa:

What's the wrong?

Shrew:

Nothing; we are vastly enjoying ourselves.

Teresa:

Aye, 'tis thy spectator's game, Martin. How's the score?

Martin:

Bright and brilliant. 'Tis a fine music.

Shrew:

Lyres don't have the bite of the tongue. It is as is written, the smallest members may control the entire body.

Martin:

Just as a thin baton leads the entire orchestra... lyre and all, and sees the score through the bright and glum parts, the speedy and slow, the glorious and gloomy... the fleet and the ostentatiously ponderous.

Shrew:

Thou devil.

Martin:

To wit, I am always at the keel.
               [Enter Brisby]
Mother again!

Teresa:

Mother!
              [Enter Cynthia]

Cynthia:

More noise? O, it's mother!

Shrew:

I'm glad to see you in one piece. Did you decide not to go to the thornbush, and scavenge for dinner instead?

Brisby:

No, I've been to the bush... and I must leave shortly.

Martin:

This is, indeed, a story of repeated themes.

Brisby:

Yea, Nicodemus said something to that effect...

Cynthia:

Nicodemus?

Brisby:

Of matter of fact, the Rats' leader. He told me how they were sought by mysterious recluses with ill-gotten knowledge, and how their resource lent them measures of sapience...

Shrew:

That's a bed-story; you might entertain Timmy with it.

Brisby:

And I attended a rather unpleasant parliament with great pomp and half a degree of eloquence... and a fine blade to hurt. The sharpest thorns cannot be seen with the eye.

Shrew:

You've learned some lessons today.

Brisby:

I was even seen by a clown!

Shrew:

Do you want a cold poultice, or some wintergreen to chew, or perhaps both?

Brisby:

But I am away. I came first to reassure you. I'm glowing! Timmy, I think, has a safe and sure sleep.

Martin:

A safe and sure sleep is the last thing to be wished upon him.

Brisby:

I came secondly to tell you something important. If anybody strange should come to the door, let him in.

Shrew:

Now this is madness, plain madness!

Brisby:

I'm leaving for the house, the farmer's home
Wherein the tiger takes his food, when no
Appropr'ate fare is found among this grass
And caught; I shall within his hauntings slip
To sneak the fiend scant scruples of a mix
Which should him set to sleep; when that is done
The Rats shall come to move our house away:
The house, a whole! no more the need to move;
The answer's fast and firm, and could not be
A'more made tidy; it was told to me
My husband was caught in this very snare:
He ventured it too soon; he knew not when
The hour was struck, he could not tell the time
Nor gauge the blown direction of the wind,
'Twere north for him, but yet it's south for me.
The winds that would warm Timmy save our home
And house, our hearts, our lives, our family.

Shrew:

She'd shoot the hare and ignore the hart! She'd wipe the mote away and fasten the plank in! Aye, she'd save Timmy in losing the rest of us!

Cynthia:

She is a brave one, shrew. Remember, 'tis such a life, one for another.

Shrew:

One for another - one for another! Who for whom? I've had doubts afore, I could not speak my venturesome worries, I could not breathe suspicion; now, I'd pile my speculation to the stars and let it topple in my wind or stand blatant as the truth! First, the Owl: he did not accomplish Brisby's seeking, then secondly the Rats, who did not claim her life either. Two unsure dangers she's sought to fall by, and neither has done so much as slap her wrist. So, for her charmed third attempt, she'll brave a sure danger: one she's known before, the very one her husband fell by. The cat gives her an open promise. He'll be glad to gobble her away; he'll be glad to crush her into voidity. A stark and unveiled nihilism I see; I fear her nobleness is a show; I fear her weakness is untempered by any braveness. That is the record as the shrew reads it; that is the story as the shrew sees it.

Brisby:

That is a fine bed-story to destroy Timmy with. Didn't you do this before?

Shrew:

I saw then as in a dark glass.

Martin:

Leave my mirror out. I will not return the reflections of ghosts, and I don't know whether to believe.

Brisby:

Believe if I live. Believe if I die. Believe if the shrew tells thee every dark tale between here and Khartoum. Believe if Timmy burns like a furnace. Believe if the rain should come down dry and the snow searing. Believe if an apple should taste like an eggshell. Believe if the stars shine by day and the sun by night. Believe in God, believe in thyself, believe in thy mother; I love thee! If thou canst not believe, nothing lives for thee. If thou believest not, no wonder's overt, only those as might catch thee off-guard, in a moment of weak doubting. A dead world welcomes no life; an unsanctioned, unblessed, unmeaningful life can offer no worth. It cannot lend of goods it was never given. Believe, believe, or thy life is gone. It is a simple lesson; learn it well, dear Martin.

Martin:

A good study; I should start by believing it.

Cynthia:

Is't true? Is anything the shrew says true?

Teresa:

Whether anything here is true, first I'd know. We can easily remember how Martin's swearing can wear; Gibraltar might be a'tumbling. It is easy for a letter at the front to be slaughtered.

Martin:

You know I've meant what I did swear to you,
My erstwhile promises bind me today,
If I were vilesome, I'd rue the true
And ne'er set 'nay' nor 'ay' to what I say.

Shrew:

That is an easy trick for devils' minds,
The brave would blather, grace is running swift,
Mice freeze like water, bowls are wise like owls,
A mother's other, and to speak's a spire,
Lot to a swale for wale he did decry,
Such nonsense! Speak like thou art listening;
Thy mother's mad, and I am following;
I've had two restless nights, and as it seems
I'll have a triad, afterwards a life
Quite lonely, and a laboured year to follow,
Thy jokes are now displaced! Take on a face
Of mourning, let thy scry be led to cry,
Set foolish games to more appropriate things.

Brisby:

I see that you can keep yourselves amused,
I shall be swift, if nothing does convene
To slow return, and if that should occur,
Mourn not for me, I'm caught in deeper bliss
In death than I could e'er attain in life.

Shrew:

Spoken like a true disdainer of life.

Brisby:

My goal's to greater life than was before,
Why should I otherwise give birth at first?
My masterstroke to end my fev'rish work
Must only be to portal unto death
And passage seek through strait and narrow gates,
I'll crawl to see the instate of the world,
I'd end to see the instigation first,
Not that I enjoy death, nor seek to speed
Its coming, aye, it's passage that should now
Come but at cost, my children are still young;
But I must seek to end our annual curse
And to strike 'gainst the cat with forceful blows
Shall not be done with little enjoyment.

Shrew:

Then I shall play my rotund part. Be as thou sayest! Let me never catch thee going back on thy word.

Brisby:

What good is speaking words, without a mind
To do as one gives voice? Breath's store's too small
To waste on unsound words, I'd ration it.

Martin:

Such a rondo I hear played! If the ending is still set in the major key, all shall still be well, I should think.

Shrew:

Thou shouldst think indeed - but thou rarely dost.

Teresa:

I've no mind left for such sport. I should think you both are asleep. Do you hear our mother?

Shrew:

I hear thy mother, and I'll live as if
I'd never heard a word, nor heard her voice,
I shall live henceforth by necessity,
So as her fading wick sputters for last
I'll turn my face aside in shadowed veils
Of widow's weeds, I'll see this hateful world
Through sieves of black, with darkened pangs of lack,
How I shall hurt!

Brisby:

                           We're hurting even now
For Timothy is caught in sick'ning spin
In webs of darkness pitch, and to thy gown
He'll wear it for thee first, thy raggedness.

Shrew:

Be gone no more! Stay, if this house is moved, stay, if Timmy is saved, stay, if we've no more worry!

Brisby:

I cannot. I've said I shouldn't. If I should forget my task, and play idle, many may die, and Timmy almost certainly shall. Call me not benevolent. I could not live with myself should I manifest such a fault.

Shrew:

Then away, before I say a hateful word, and let the sun set for aught on a grieved friend. I love thee, and shall miss thee!

Martin:

Good mother, thou wert brave beyond my know;
I've felt believing, this is something like -
Ha! Cats and chill, the spring and sorrow's reign!
A simping sickness, and a limping threat,
What care I for? Thou'rt brave, all's better for't.
And when the morrow dawns, this promised end
Is past, I'll rise from groveling to Death
And Loss, they shall no edict speak to me,
No pow'r to damp the joyspring within me,
No pow'r to halt a spring of joy and life;
I live, I live for what's of right, I'll stay
Too pure for this world's rule, I'll pray for thee
For hastening the chastening their reign;
What was that speech about the trick of devils' minds?
I'm greater them, I'm lit by Heaven's lamp
Of holy love, I'll see this to its end!

Shrew:

Mad! All mad!

Teresa:

I'd think the cat's mad. Good faith, mother! This night's the press. Live one night, mother, one night! Thou hast slept many nights through... live this night as easily.

Brisby:

I'll try. You three have faith e'en more than me.

Cynthia:

We've sought to be good children, and take our mother at her word. If thou must go to the farmer's house, the cat's house too, I only wish I could attend, also.

Brisby:

O, I love thee; hours! Just a matter of hours!
If not the watch of men, by Heaven's watch,
Hours die; the passing of our lives is but
The ticking of the gears which process on,
Our kin press on, our love is vapour not,
Nor aether, stuff of fabled search and thought,
'Tis marked on wheels, and shall come 'round again,
But hours! This life's not ours to fend
Nor parry, we must bravely take our due
And live our love, I shall see thee again
In hours; live as I have promised thee.
                   [Exit Brisby]

Shrew:

So leaves intrepid her I'll never see,
Nor did I see. I thought I knew her mind.

Cynthia:

Mayhap you know it better than you suppose, but fancy thine emotions more.

Shrew:

I wish I knew Love better, how it seems
So flighty, stuff for birds and airy men!
Love must know Brisby better than a trove
Of poets, must e'er court and flirt that one
Who's known him softly, shortly, and at length
With Jonathan, and with thine adored souls.
A markèd mind! She were e'er meant for this,
It does intrigue and doth beguile my sense.

Martin:

It would approach thy giddy mind of sense.

Shrew:

I have thee still, Martin, such rough consolation! Sorrow shall now envelop me in the night. Be off to bed, such young souls should not bear this sight.

Cynthia:

I hope she is happier tomorrow.

Martin:

She would quote the danker writ. 'Joy cometh in the morning.'
                   [Exeunt, manent the shrew]

Shrew:

I know no eve as dimmed so lossfully,
The sun which sets bears off another soul
Which cared and loved her children tenderly,
But who could not bear living half a whole.
I know no ancient moon nor glist'ning stars
That shall their pallid shine and chillèd glow
Bear counter to the fiery heat that chars
My being, and assumes that which I know.
I know no sign nor star in heav'n above
Which can yield for my worries right explain,
But in her sadness and her misplaced love
I find more answer than could sight obtain.
I know no noon so searing as to burn
To earth the fading grasses of the field,
But with the bleaking of my friend's discern,
My plain is left without a sproutling yield.
I know no wind that could my saying blow
To ears enough, I'd shout for souls to hear
That any living creature's love might know
My warning: life's a toy for changing years.
I know no dream that met uncaring hours
Which could unwary catch me of the night,
No shadows may retract my trustless cowers,
Nor may illusion stray me from my sight.
I know no rain that e'er in turrents down
Could match the downpour of my falling tears,
Which run to wash my trav'lling-dusty crown
As weathers passing of life's fitful years.
                   [Exit.]



~ 4.4 ~

In the farmhouse

 

                [Enter Brisby]

Brisby:

This domed cathedral's walled, there is a limit its expanse,
To me it exceeds wonder, but its tall inhabitants
Think nothing of its breadth, nor find an awe in surveyed size;
So small a chapel theirs it must be measured through their eyes.

Voice:

[off-stage] How! Speak'st thou? Who's there?

Brisby:

This does a bit offset me. Where art thou?

Voice:

I've spoken, come follow my voice! I see thee not.

Brisby:

Art thou behind the wall, the mud and straw?

Voice:

Not I. Art thou behind the wall, forsooth?

Brisby:

I see a wall before me, whether side
Confuses me, but let it stand record
I'm on the peopled side, or so I thought.

Voice:

I heard thee speak of our vast cathedral. To the sufficiently large, everything's small. A brave and beautiful night 'tis, but there's a cat about.

Brisby:

I've ne'er a mind for chatter; I've a sombre task before;
I've ne'er took breath 'till now, nor have I lived aright,
I've come with choler and a timid gait,
I've taken no guess if more day I'll see,
Or whether time shall frozen into night
Be evermore for me, until the day
When earth and heaven topple from their stands
When stroke eschaton draws down streaking stars.
List well to me, my voice you shall hear more
When I first see your face, you've woke to see
The morning star sink shyly from your view,
Time still plods on, I'm not superior it
To stay its force, I'm but a chapter in its book,
And I'm not great to be remembered long.
You've come belated, witnessing the flow
Walburga cease in its fashioned allot,
In March to seek the snow to keep in frost
September's strawberries, you take appoints
With Time upon his patience's extreme.
You've jumped the startled swallow in depart;
You've held the ferry's aft to cross the stream,
Time stops for me, thou'st found me yet alive,
Speak swift to me! at any time I'm dead,
My husband here, in shine of likewise moon,
Gasped songs of passing tongue, embracing calm
To sing his praises in a higher form;
Our sorry stonèd altars are so small
For worship of Infinite, when we can
In pace mark out the circuit of our shrine!
In higher spheres my husband's measured out
A circled love, which is ne'er fully trent.

Voice:

I am sorry. I would doff my cap, if you could see me - but if you could see me, you could also see that I am not wearing any cap.

Brisby:

Is't dark and lonely on that side of the wall? Stuffy, perhaps?

Voice:

You've no idea.

Brisby:

I'd wonder at this dwelling, for I live within a case
So large for me; this room'd attain a king;
This room'd attain a Pope...

Voice:

                                            My room's of mud
And hollowed breadth which surveys set
At inches; yet this space is kind accourt
For social comment, and the present friends
Swift drive the murk from heavy air aloft;
When angels touch my chamber, and alight
My house for entertainment, I'd not waste,
Greater demands than that should never find
Their asking; they'll no need for kingly drapes
Or papal regiments express, for in
Themselves they've every quality and worth
And they'll have too much virtue to surfeit.
For friends, there's nothing shameful in my home,
By reason of its contents.

Brisby:

                                        Yea, that's true.

Voice:

You seem a sorry soul. What drives you here?
The cat's a'prowl, I'd ne'er show face within
A deft-dreamt two-rod's possibility
The cat. You have a sterling motive here,
An urgent need, or else you are a fool.

Brisby:

My forfeit hangs beyond my reach, I'm trothed
A crow my crook, to poke 'mong dying leaves
A life that's sheltered there; I only found
An owl more wise than is alive; I'd ask
My ransom him, my bluff is not yet through,
What actions spring demands in evil games!
Spring set me to my husband's tomb; spring led
My lacking blindness to repository
Where keepers of my token's held redeem
Should set me to the cat to beg! What life
That taunts its members and its players test,
If it is cruel, no fondness have I for
It yet, I'll catch its prize, or first I'll die,
I jump for it, and what a bobbling pole
Spring holds, it'd catch a narwhal with its sway,
Why can it not a mouse? I grope in air,
Such stern and childish games the ancients play,
Who see more than we mortals, and less say.

Voice:

That is a mystery.

Brisby:

                             My child is ill.

Voice:

I've not a child my own.

Brisby:

                                      My life is torn,
I must move soon, the farmer comes to plow!

Voice:

I that assert my own example, yea,
I've moved my lodge, I cannot bear a nook
Of mud more than a fortnight's swift array.
Once passed, I take the nomad's wand'ring stance,
I'll search to make of my new chalets home,
And lay my purveyed satchel down; there set
My measured stake for but another month,
O! Yes, I understand the wanders of the man
Found homeless; I may visibly conceit
How mis'rable life is for pilgrims ill
Who seek chapels their own; but see more length
And hope someday to set their ivied staff
Or crook at rest by altars circled 'round
With prophets, lovers, sainted souls and those
Who have lived weary, and hold no great love
The world, but set their longings after God.
Yea, staff or crook - how easy's flight! - or cane,
Their wont is only on life's longing lane.

Brisby:

This is even the great cynic's conclusion: 'Fear God, keep his commandments; such is the entire duty of man.' I've never lived as a cynic, how emphatically I must repeat the same in my conclusion!

Voice:

So must we all, to vapour I must go,
How soft a singing was our voiced exchange!
Now softly may I take my leave of thee,
Tho' ne'er I saw thee, yea, therein's no lack,
I know more of thee for't. Stay thee alive,
Swift get thee to thine errand! else thou'rt dead,
The cat's no furthering end for pilgrimage,
By crook or crow or trespass in its house,
But not by it! Heed me, farewell!

Brisby:

                                                   Farewell.
               [She turns away from the wall]
This world's alive! There are things to learn everywhere... and there also is the food dish I must venture. If only I could be closer to heaven!
               [She scurries to the food dish and adds the drug]
And so I coat its meat with breezy calm,
And add its gluttonous lust a gentle peace,
Its suffered victim is imbued in balm,
Reciprocary fast into the feast,
Byway the gentle may yet best the beast.
Eat that, ye cat!
              [A knock comes at the farmhouse door]
                          Hark, thunder at the door!
A vault, a giant sepulchre, a tomb,
A monolith, but yet, indeed, a door!
What news this brings must only be as great.
              [Enter the farmer, shaking his head in annoyance]

Farmer:

Oy, I'd make it eight of the clock; I need be in bed! What, is it raining?

Brisby:

[to herself] But a drizzle.

Farmer:

Yes, it is, but a drizzle.
               [He opens the door]
But the sky is foreboding. A salute, good sir; come in.
               [Enter a messenger, dressed in a glum but long traveling cloak]

Messenger:

Good evening, kind bauer. If you are uneasy, that is a good thing. Tonight, the sky is more than foreboding, and it has seen everything from one horizon to the other.

Farmer:

That may be the case, but how can any such calamity involve me? What am I caught in?

Messenger:

It rises from the paradoxes of men. We own our land; in doing so we own some measure of responsibility for those dumb creatures in our land.

Brisby:

[to herself] Hm. This kind of talk might put Jenner straight.

Messenger:

Taking land our own! It is 'round the forest to your neighbor, is it not?

Farmer:

Aye, is this his complaint? O, it's not those rats, is't?

Messenger:

Nay, it is not your neighbor's complaint. Of the rats, I shall not say more than is necessary.

Farmer:

They've made colony in my sprawling rosebush, that much I know.

Messenger:

Listen, listen! I care not about your rats. I have come to tell you of a visitor who shall come to this door tonight... or more than one visitor, I do not know the number. You will know them by the talisman they will present you. On the front it will bear the letters N-I-M-H, some intaglio scrawls and a design that could well be a cartographer's curlicue. On the back will be assorted legends, the name of the token's bearer, and a warning: it is death to counterfeit, it is death to give to another.

Farmer:

I am to be shown a criminal's signet! Why are they not in prison?

Messenger:

There is no gaol as could hold these men... the king knows it is safer to give them a supervised parole. I pray that you shall never met an unholier man than he who will come to you tonight. He may have nets; he may have some assorted trappings of capture. If you should hear strange speech or unidentifiable noises come from this man, attribute it to the buzzing of an insect. Do not affront your visitor, he is your guest... but do not turn your back on him.

Farmer:

They are polite to send a herald ahead to announce their coming.

Messenger:

I am no herald. I am a sentry of the king, and I have come to warn, not announce! Remember my words, if you have to carve them into your palm! It would be better for you to have a sore hand for a week than to forget one word I have said to you tonight. It is my duty to observe their comings and goings, and I'd trade my post with a decoy on the front if I could.

Farmer:

I hear.

Messenger:

Hear me, indeed. Five hundred years from now your house may be a cairn of gloom for weary travelers, and a grim foreboding edifice less temporal than tonight's ill-sheening sky. God's blessing upon thee! Thou art in need! Thou'rt in need, good man.

Farmer:

I am slightly overcome. You are from the king; such a wonder! Pray, what is this matter? You may tell me, I am a gentle man.

Messenger:

Substances hellish. The foulest, most infernal affair I have ever been blighted with, cursed with, ah! I am bound my life to watch these fiends; they show me spectacles that would steal the breath away from lesser men. See the furrows on my face! I am half the age you'd expect, or a third; life is so dilated for me I cannot tell. But I must be gone. There are two fewer eyes watching this band, and that is a curse on England greater than Gallic legions five thousand strong. I now take my leave, but, O, I pray and plea that you shall condition yourself wisely! Be guided from above, or be lost!

Farmer:

I shall pray for your relief.

Messenger:

Pray for yours, at first.
                [Exit the messenger by the door]

Brisby:

[to herself] NIMH... roving malignancies! Not in my house!

Farmer:

O, the cat! I nearly forgot. I must set him in for his food, the arrant beast! If he were of any worth, he'd have caught the whole lot of those rats. 'Tis all right anyhow, I shall be up all night, I fear, waiting for some ghoul. I wonder if I shall be rested enough to break the ground tomorrow.

Brisby:

[to herself] Breaking the ground! O, but that is now the least of my worries... wait, I am alive! All's well, I'd best be off if the cat is coming; all's well! Can I really say that? All's well. How that sounds well!

Farmer:

'Tis going to be a night. How strange a man
To stop here, to announce a horror's flight!
And speech of rats and forest, odd a man!
'Twere mad, I guess, but yet, I'm bound to him,
I shall sit up the night.

Brisby:

                                   And waking hours
Have boundaries set by no rigorous day
For me, I'll sit through greys of dawn and blues
Of day, and purples of the eve.
The royal night has bright a starry host,
What words speaks she tonight? Shall I be brought
Her court's attention, or shall I escape
Her boundaries still unscathed, if so
Shall Timmy me accompany? To ask
Such questions is impertinence, air shall
Breed answers none. Rhetoric's not my size
Nor is a sophist's chair my own, I'll leave
Such musings to the farmer by his fire
He kindles. Long a night it is! My flame
May sputter.

Farmer:

Such blaze! Methinks I've caught a dryer clutch
Yesternight's moss-green fuel; its earthy smell
Still hangs about this place with lichen-cling,
But such a heat tonight!

Brisby:

                                     Yea, may sputter, and, if so,
I've not a tale to tell, I'm but another phrase
The minstrel's song. Now, quickly I'm away!
The song's not over, but the coming day
May hear a blissful eclogue in our field
As sung by its inhabitants, which steeled
Their souls and voices, and did calm their tongue
In air suspended, for above there hung
Their young, such forfeit! such a game to play!
The life pastoral may in songs convey
A shine of stillness, O, where life belongs
There only can be multitudes of songs
Of sorrow, and yet psalters set in joy
Such meld is found in Love's heat-cast alloy!
It takes in calm collection offered souls,
An oblation to the Maker of the whole.
As hand to hand, but closer set, in prayer,
Love binds life as one body to forbear
The strength'ning of the hateful, which do fight
As singles, not with merely doubled might
They're scattered in the wind as winnowed chaff,
So end the wrongly ardent, by the staff
Bucolic shall they pass on sinister side
Ashamed, and with no recourse shall abide
Alone, as they did wish, were't only they
Could find the motions to their call obey,
Love sounds the call at once, the hunt will start,
And Happiness shall trap and take the heart,
Love sounds her trumpet twice, the tonic call
Expectance laden, that may draw us all,
She'll sound her trumpet thrice, a hastening blast
She begs rush-force upon the lagging last,
She'll pass her trumpet to the mouth of Death
But yet shall sound it while we souls take breath.
                   [Exeunt severally.]



~ 4.5 ~

Outside of Mrs. Brisby's house

 

                [Enter the shrew, in haste]

Shrew:

Help, O, help! This is an astonishing day for all! Help! Our field is being overrun with evils I cannot comprehend!
               [Enter Jeremy, much entangled]

Jeremy:

Help! I seem to be at a heavy inconvenience! O, help!

Shrew:

Stay thee where thou art, lest I trip thee.

Jeremy:

I shall trip me. [He stumbles] A good stop, that.

Shrew:

It is not often that one can conquer such a foul beast. Thou'rt a stunning trophy.

Jeremy:

I am a stunning sleeper.

Shrew:

O, be muffled. I caught thee nobly well. [aside] Help! Help! [to Jeremy] Be still; I know thou'st demons encroached upon thee.

Jeremy:

Take up a tally.

Shrew:

Thou vehicular monstrosity! Ill omen or no, I should think demons could find better lodges. Pray tell, who cast thee into thee? Was this a matter of will or of force?

Jeremy:

Kind shrew, if you should ever come upon a genuine demon, I believe you should speak him into stark madness.

Shrew:

O, thou wouldst weaken my resolve with flattering - a fine trick, but I am too wise for't. Thou must perjure thyself now. Didst thou sweep Mrs. Brisby to her death today?

Jeremy:

Good lady, I am sure I do not understand you.

Shrew:

Thou art evasive. Speak something definitely.

Jeremy:

I definitely wish to be away from here.

Shrew:

Nay, something stronger than that... the Nicene Creed! Recite ye the Nicene Creed!

Jeremy:

Help! Help! I'm taken by an inquisition!

Shrew:

O, I have not put on my gendarme's cap yet. Help! Help!
                      [Enter Brisby]

Brisby:

How is this call... O, no!

Shrew:

Brisby! O, thou art alive! But new shadows have fallen upon this field... O, we are lost! Timmy shall die! The plow shall destroy us, for it has a masthead in the shape of a devil to guide it, and evil eyes set all around it - O, it shall plow its waves deeply, and set a wake tall enough to cover us all decisively, bury us... drown us... O, it drives through hurricano winds unabashedly! We are lost! We are lost! O, Brisby... I... I...
                     [She cries]

Brisby:

Perhaps thou'rt seeing the grasses' dark shadows. It is a pitch night, but there is a brilliant moon out, and full.

Shrew:

Full misery! It shines on full misery!

Brisby:

Calm, now. I say, sometimes I have five children.

Shrew:

Thou hast been brave until now, but in that black pile thou'st a roll of convoluted demons, black spirits, a spiral of night's forces, who live by rapine. They shall take us! They shall take us all!

Jeremy:

Who's taken whom?

Shrew:

[continually to Brisby] The plow has lasted through thy storms, thy challenges, and yet has kept her keel steadily. This field is an ocean, and shall take us all!

Jeremy:

Thou hast a shrew's acuity, indeed. Wishing to remain good, I shall not say more than that.

Brisby:

Good Jeremy, what is this matter? She's taken thee in ribbons; to whom shall she present thee?

Jeremy:

She means to take me for herself.

Shrew:

I mean to take it for the scrutiny of all that is good.

Jeremy:

She took to my neb with a riding crop!

Shrew:

A switch of sounder means than thy tongue... this corbie's a harpy, and I'd sooner set it away than prattle with it, tea with it, befriend it!

Brisby:

Good Jeremy, let me apologise. I fear having me for a friend has caused thee more grief than good, and I'd cut thy fetters once more.

Jeremy:

Cut my wingfeathers first!

Shrew:

To take the screaming flight from banshee's right,
To ground a gloating roc's a matter of might,
To cord a demon round's to regain sight,
To weigh down clouds is to unveil the light.

Jeremy:

To be a clipped and helpless crow's a plight.

Shrew:

Aye, I suppose. As Mrs. Brisby is still alive, I shan't be harsh with you.

Brisby:

Then I shall take to these strings again - what was that about an orchestral theme? I fear my part's a tad redundant. But if I bow the violin, I've bested the cat; if I pluck the harp, I join the angels; if I play the cello, 'tis a reverbant sound that should swell throughout the hall, and reveal its secrets to me.

Jeremy:

I hear a ringing in my ears. Pray, cut these strings.

Brisby:

I play the strings; I cut the ribbons. Yea, that makes the round complete and consistent. Here, to new freedom I set thee. Shrew, shall you help me?

Shrew:

My rapiers are set to the vast taunting of evil... and thy son.

Brisby:

True enough. For such an oceanic beast, shrew, these knots would turn any sailor to laughing.

Shrew:

He cannot well undo them.

Brisby:

A proud achievement. Thou hast him in bonds which he could set himself in.

Jeremy:

Pray, do not fray the cords too badly. I may use these for my nest.

Brisby:

The freedman is always welcome to keep his former chains.

Shrew:

I spent the last hour collecting that bird's snare-stuff, but don't ask me!

Brisby:

Remind me to ask you two sometime where you collect all of these bits of twine and cord. My entire life I've lived in the same field as you, and I've found very little such hempy miscellany. Thou'rt natural accumulators.

Shrew:

I've known pack rats to envy before.

Brisby:

I have just about freed thee... there, 'tis off. I should think thou canst shake them away now.

Jeremy:

[rising] I can! Escape, I'm free again, and off -
I'll bundle up my cords, with thanks - I shall
From here my post up in the air retake;
A post which freely moves, my captive strings
Are cut! Now I shall fly free through the air;
Such bliss to ride the evening's dying sigh
Which lofts her off to heaven, I'm unpent
To ride the warming updrafts of the wind,
Soon night's chilled misting vapours seize their hold
On the temporal moment! I know no
Barred obstacles to keep me my traverse
To do my pleasing - life's a laughing flight
Which may in all directions grow, up, down
Or swaying to the side, I shall view from
My altitude's long visage for thine ills.
But I am tiring, I my vigil keep
Too faithfully, I'll take me to my nest,
But rest assurèd, as I travel there,
My wings shall whip the evil from the air.
Farewell!
                  [Exit]

Brisby:

Now, shrew, art thou not jealous?

Shrew:

I mourn the evening bound to the ground. I must now go home and convince myself this was a dream - my friend letting go of captured evil; such taint must stain her soul, I am afraid.

Brisby:

Thou art afraid of shadows, as thou said,
Thou seest the living as those not yet dead,
Thou view'st those dead as remnantless today,
Thou say'st a shallow bight's a tractless bay,
Thou sail'st our millpond as an ocean sea,
Thy man-o'-war is but a plow to me,
Thy demon bird is a bedeviled crow,
Who wings above thy sinking shape below;
Thy sun forewarns a furnace afternoon,
And in thy deep-cored ear confides the moon,
A winter comes tonight!, pray, get thee, shrew
And take thy friends and quarrelers with you,
Nay, thou canst never sit an hour still,
For fear of tremulous earthquakes, which thee will
Take thee up to a fault, and pull thee down
Below the circumference trod around,
And in infernal darkness, share thy woe
The companied busybodies there below.

Shrew:

If I am afraid, I take it as my business. Truly, thou speak'st like one insane! I will away now; I am tired, too. Take thee some rest, if thou canst set aside thy ratty inventions; if not, stay thee up the night and converse with the moon while full.

Brisby:

Good night, friend shrew.

Shrew:

Good night, friend mouse.
                [Exit the shrew]

Brisby:

O, why have I such ache? Ah, if it weren't I, it would be somebody else, I suppose, somebody greater than I. How ductile is the soul! Mine's been stretched over this entire field, to the deeps of the forest, to the hollows in the ground; that is well enough. May it someday be golden tinsel for a spotless gown. Hark! The crickets play!
                 [She listens to it]
When music sings from unseen things,
Deeps well from common springs,
When unknown acts are open facts,
The smallest life's errings,
From meekest things the hero brings
To take from grace's being.
If they be friends which purvey ends
To faith, to freely take
What we first lost, and lift our cross
To die for living's sake,
These friends are true, who cloy for you
The cup of mortal ache.
                   [She sits to wait]
Yea, paucity have I, but not in friends.
No instrument I lack, for every quest
Demands the help of others, how assured
I make myself in lacking nothing yet!
But buttressed wills are set upon the road
Of pride, so I shall not enforce these friends,
For friends for using ne'er were friends at all,
I plead them, yea, I beg, I set on knees,
I do whate'er they ask - to keep 'way pride -
For once I'm prideful, I have naught at all,
No person proud has e'er attained a friend.
To use a friend's to make them enemies,
Though they may love thee, and may you love them,
Their love is forced and purchased in their deeds
So ne'er was love, nor friendship true, alas!
'Twas fiction from the start. How fraught with fear
To nullify the actions of the past,
To sink to barbarism low, to break
A sculptured art, to vandalise the meet
And beautiful! But there's redemption yet,
'Tis found the person named Forgiveness, though't
Requires another quest - he is the means,
The one to seek - but should you value him
No more than what he gives thee, e'er shall thee
Naught find, and live in fragments of the past.
Forgiveness is the greatest friend thou'lt have.
Yea, friends are wealth, not to be spent or used,
For once the coin is spent, you shall it lose.
                   [Exit.]

 

 



~ * ~