Blast, Heave

(A Carriage clock, cobwebs, velvet & panelling, marriage photo of S, photo of E)

Heave, Blast

(alone, he waits. The storm outside)

S:
Winding from the foot of the hill, a narrow road leads up to the rolling meadows where lay his house. The sun, bleaching grass and drying sticks, beat upon the door wherein lay the woman, who lay silent. Silent she was and always would be from this point on. And her last gasp was the boy. He was her last gasp…

(The door opens and the other enters)

(He closes the door against the wind and takes off his boots. Pokes in the fire for food. Pours himself something from the pot. Sits. Eats.)

E:
…Blasted…

(silenced by a look)

…Blasted… (the look, but he prevails) …blasted sheep. They get themselves up there when they should be sheltering in the glen.

(eats)

S:
…Great storms blow and sift the strong from the weak. But the pyramids of Egypt old prevail; the stone stumps of primaeval forests weather the blast; sheep weather it…

E:
(grunts)

S:
…Thanks.-

E:
(grunts)

(a pause. S leaves).

E:
(Drains the bowl dry, licking the drips from his fingers. Looks around for somewhere to put it but, finding the furniture lacking, dumps it on the floor).
… Not thanks. Storms make me strong.

S:
(enters, carrying wood. Manages to close door.) We’ll need this, getting colder.

E:
Cold in my bones, cold regardless.

S:
Yeah? Well, fuck you and fuck your bones. I’m living beyond my means for one night. I’m going to live and in the morning, I’ll stretch my toes out in front of that nice, blazing fire and I’ll be happy in my heart. And you, cold-bones, you can just freeze. No warmth from me. None at all…

Ma mammy used to wrap us up in weather like this. Bliss. She used to cry, terrified. A woman so strong every other day, brought low by a wind and a rumble of distant thunder in the maelstrom of Heaven.

E:
Ma mammy was a wanderer. She wondered what every other bugger was up to and she wandered off to find out.

S:
Light the fire. Stack it high. Watch sap-sparks fly. Watch as the twigs slowly die.

E:
My mammy was a swallow or a goose, she stayed here for breeding, feathering her nest then fucked off somewhere nice when the Winter came.

S:
Pottage for dinner, porridge to look forwards to when the night was conquered and the morning floated out of the silver mist. Morning chorus a hymn from heaven, though the murmurations had come early and silent the noon before: A-rhythmic dive-bombs getting heavier, darker, fatter. Then left, gone to their caves and hollows. Then the rain-drops. Heavy, dark, fat. Heavy, dark, fat.

E:
And fat through pride. Not a normal pride. Not a pride of hearth, and home and family. A snide pride, the knowledge that this community – that had borne her, that had created her - wasn’t good enough for the likes of her…

S:
…You always liked to leave in the storm.

E:
Work to do.

S:
You always left as the barometer ploughed widdershins.

(E leaves)

You always wanted to be the storm.

I love the storm too, but I’m sheltering. The hut my armour. My Sou’wester the roof. My castle, my cave… womb.

…At least when I die, you’ll find my corpse. (he goes to sleep)

(E re-enters. Sighs. Watches over his sleeping form. Gently sings the psalm:)

E:
Why are you downcast, O my soul?
Why so distanced within me?
Put your hope in God,
For I will yet praise him,
My saviour and my God.

(He builds the fire)

(When the light rises, E is seated alone, whistling. S enters from a damp, cool, still morning.)

S:
There’s a good day ahead.

E:
Market?

S:
Aye. First of the new season.

E:
Stock?

S:
Nah, we can wait a while. They’ll be plump as pudding in a week or two. Best not to sell too early; profit’s security.

E:
Luxuries?

S:
…Grain, salt, cheese, there’s a pan needs mending. Wine, for Sundays. Salt-fish, sugar, gossip…

E:
Girls…

S:
…The gossip I count a luxury. A touch of warmth to bring back to this crag. Women? That’s no good anymore.

E:
…She was a beauty.

S:
…But salt-fish and a bit of gossip, these are the things, boy, That Will Nourish Me.

E:
You wanna cook on a more even flame.

S:
?

E:
…The pan. If you let the embers settle before cooking, you won’t get holes in it.

S:
A more even flame!? You’re one to talk, you old fool! A more even flame? Fool.

E:
Sandy.…

S:
You, who have no care for others. Not even your own. Dare… Tell… Me…

E:
…Burn it all you want

S:
Fool. Lovely, feral, fool (E consoles him).

E:
…She wouldn’t mind.

S:
I know. But she’s not here to tell me that. And if she was, then she’d be here… And I like to hear the gossip, it makes me feel a part of the life. She always cared about the scraps and thrills.

E:
Aye. It wouldn’t be untrue to her. But it would be untrue to your own heart.

…Let’s pack it up then: The pan and the handcart, and a breakfast of porridge to fight the walk. And a hat for the rain or the sun. And a smile, at least, for the ladies’ gossip.

S:
Oh, smiles; always smiles.

E:
And Myshkin will be coming

S:
... Myshkin's dead...

E:
His tail bobbing and his grinning jaw panting. Wuffling through the long grass, sniffing even though there's a path to walk upon.

S:
...Myshkin's dead...

E:
...(exiting) Here boy! (Whistles and calls)

S:
(Shaking his head) Oh well. Fire, out! Crumbs, away! Dusty windowsill... now that can be left dusty - it'll trap intruders' prints. Glass empty. Oh, no it's not. Just finish that bit. Waste not want not. Confession to the piss pot.
(as he does) Bless me Father, for I have sinned
And bless those who have sinned against me.
Blessed are the children and the sheep and the potatoes. Blessed is the market and hallowed be thy name.
Don't leave me like this.
Amen. (The rain starts to thud on the roof and on the window)
Oh blast! (up) I didn't mean to do a bloody rain dance there, Father.
Oh sod it. Now what'll we do? (inspects some outdoor clothing) There's holes in this. And it's a long way. The boots are cracked.
Breakfast. If I make breakfast then the rain will stop again, given time. (Thunder; he sets about the porridge) Bit o' whisky in to separate the grains. Makes it less stodgy. (lights stove. Stirs) Storm go away!
- Of course. He hasn't got it yet. We live inside ourselves so much that it’s a surprise to look in the mirror.
I look like a boy, in my mind. I look like a healthy young colt who successfully manages 60 acres of prime sheep hill.
The horizon is as far as I look. I understand all within that. I know which ridge hides the pass. Where the best river crossings are. Which direction the wind will come from. All the plants and grasses and rock types and bwgs and birds to be found here. I know the taste of the water. The play of the light, the sounds of my house. The names of it all. The names. The resonance of the names within me like a bolt in its target or a blanket at night. And it's all with me. I am an expert on what's from here to the horizon, there's nobody living knows it better 'cept the sheep. And they're not bleating.
If it gets as far as market, I'm a little bleary and, to be honest, further than that and I'm deliberately lost. No, I like it here because here it is with me. I am perfect here. I am whole.
He hasn't got it yet because he won't look into his heart. He sees into my heart but he cannot see himself for what others know him as. A valiant man fighting ghosts there's no need to fight.
I used to be a sailor. I am not one now.

He used to be a champion. He cannot let it go. Though he won all his battles and could rest amongst his laurels as though on a woolsack.

Winding from the foot of the hill, a narrow road leads up to the rolling meadows where lay his house. The sun, bleaching grass and drying sticks, beat upon the door wherein lay the woman, who lay silent. Silent she was and always would be from this point on. And her last gasp was the boy. He was her last gasp…

He is my brother.

E:
Brother! (enters)

(clapping loudly). Hup to! Hup to! McCorkindale’s out on the path. He’s looking for a loan of your expertise on some matter involving thatching.

S:
What’s he doing out there? It’s pissing down! Tell him to get inside.

E:
I told him, I told him but he’s in a desperate way, says his silo’s breached and all he’s got’s the materials he needs but not the tools…

S:
Gah! (Exits)

E:
(shakes of the rain and goes about wringing himself)

(He begins laughing until he reaches a crescendo and stops) Aye, it’s a bad storm.

‘Winding from the foot of the hill, a narrow road leads up to the rolling meadows where lay his house. The sun, bleaching grass and drying sticks, beat upon the door wherein lay the woman, who lay silent. Silent she was and always would be from this point on. And her last gasp was the boy. He was her last gasp…’

Who was? He’s a fair nonsense, Big Sand. A big nonsense. (Shouts after him) Big nonsense!

Fish gasp when their minds are blank. They do a lot of it. They gasp and they gape and they stare as if unblinking is the innocence you require of them. Mindless, cold blooded like a knife in the water, lifeless and blank not innocent not stupid. Vain, self-regarding, insensitive to things with a soul.

Fuck it’s cold.

Ah, fire in me. Work away my pains and warm my knees. Warm my hands. Warm my groin. Warm my thighs. Warm my chest and my heart and burn my eyes. They say I’ll take the storm in my lungs and breathe it out through my work. But, y’know, I’ll equally take the fireside and breathe it in for my own use. I’ll happily work if there’s work needing done. But if others are taking care of it, I’ll slip out of memory and take some respite for my pay.

Pay! That’s townsfolk talk. Pay! When you’re here you don’t need pay. The Earth is a farm and we are farmers upon it. We take what we extract from its rhythms and we give back in investments of fertiliser or care or balance or faith. Sure, we occasionally need a coin or two to barter with at market but that’s only because the town folks have forgotten the rhythm. Long ago they thought they could build something grander and I suppose, in some ways they have. Progress is not all about grinding the little folk into the soil with your heel. Progress is not always a forward motion however. Look back for learning. Pause for learning. Then do. And don’t call doing learning, learning comes from consideration. Doing is doing and is fine for being what it is.

There’s nothing in Heaven is dear to me
There’s no voice or chorus or song
We’re here on this Earth, just you and me
With courage, conviction is strong

There’s no way an angel could speak to me
There’s no way a fanfare could come
Your ears and your eyes are all that are dear to me
And your arms are where I belong…

Now then (he fills up Sandy’s mug, puts out the fire, gently knocks over the chair, opens the window and sits on the bed to sharpen a scythe)

(S enters)

Both:
There’s no way an angel could speak to me
There’s no way a fanfare could come
Your ears and your eyes are all that are dear to me
And your arms are where I belong.

S:
Your heart is the beat that collides with me

E:
The pipe and the whistle and drum
Your thoughts are the wine and the meat to me

S:
I’ll worship you after you’ve gone

Both:
(pause) There’s no way an angel could speak to me
There’s no way a fanfare could come
Your ears and your eyes are all that are dear to me
And your arms are where I belong.

S:
(builds and lights the fire, though his hands are so cold he can barely strike the matches. Picks-up his chair. Sits. Is surprised at the fullness of his cup. Drinks)
Aah. (belches) It’s better out than in. You can’t say that tonight!

E:
Oh, aye.

S:
You’d have thunk they’d forgotten me, these past few months. You’d have thought they were leaving me be and not too bothered how I was doing or if I was doing it. Then you get one night like this…

E:
One?

S:
…One, or two, nights like this and they can remember your inventory of tools better than they can remember you in your grief. Necessity. And their wives are as bad: ‘have you visited him?’ ‘Nawh.’ ‘Well, y’should.’ And neither of them do. The one talking about shoulds and shouldn’ts, the other probably worrying about the same and not talking about it. But shoulds and shouldn’ts are as much use as buying me a natty hat in these circumstances. Borrowing my tools, that’s of use. That’s treating me like a person. That’s getting back into the rhythm of things. That’s not moping or asking if I’m coping.

E:
…Throw us some of that (S fills a second mug and puts it by the bed; E drinks from it)

S:
Tell us your favourite

E:
Story?

S:
Aye, story. Or memory or impression or something I’ve heard or not heard.

E:
The life!

S:
The life of a thousand moons. Selene, the Goddess of the Winter Dawn.

E:
Well now, Selene, Goddess of the Winter Dawn, came from we know not where. Oh, yes, she may have had parental beginnings on the Earth, she may have come from a farm not so very far from here but Selene, wanderer, had another side…

S:
A Spirit side!

E:
…A spirit side that shone from within her bones and out through that skin of hers brighter than the sun. She was never warm and you could never truly know her. But that was her allure. You wished to succeed where others had failed. You wished to penetrate through that frosted glass and melt her heart with your joy. You yearned for her to want to know your fears and care for them as children care for a flower patch beneath the kitchen window. You wanted to be her.

S:
A wicked side!

E:
She was fun and she was capable and she taught you as much about these hills as you already knew. It was pretty much the same knowledge, hers and yours, but with her it sounded better, it looked better, it was fresh and true and it worked! God-damnit, it worked!

S:
And we grew!

E:
You grew in life together as you had grown-up from your early years. And the simple pain was forgotten as strength you had never known rushed-in to fill those spaces. And you called me home.

S:
And you came!

E:
And I was glad to come. Glad to feed off the glow of your partnership. Glad to experience this place as I had never known it. Glad to leave behind the darkness of the life I’d come to have and to bathe in what should have been my life from the start, had I not turned my back on it as it had seemed to do for me. My tongue was in the air for once, tasting the sweet, sweet air that you had always breathed. And the Moon waxed full and laughter filled the house.

S:
But something happened. Something went on.

E:
Nothing happened. Nothing went on.

S:
It must’ve done. We cannot come from such radiance to such shadow. This house was not born for shadows, this was my house and I had filled it with the light of heaven! It’s now barren LOOK AT IT! Barren from neglect. Where’s my light? Where is Selene?

E:
That’s the way with light, Sandy.

S:
When it’s gone, it’s gone?

But, what happened, you bastard? What happened to take my light away from me? Where did my light go?

E:
It faded and it went away. But to Heaven.

S:
Lies, lies. And you’ve never believed that either. ‘To Heaven’? A scurrilous disgrace to hear you try that one. She CAME from heaven, she didn’t go back there once she’d been here. She’s been hidden! She’s been hidden from me.

E:
Where?…

S:
She’s been hidden from me and you’re the only one who can tell me where and you’re not telling me the secret of her life. You’ve described her. You probably coveted her…

E:
Only for you, Sandy. I only ever coveted her for you. I’m your brother in everything…

S:
Not in this! Tell me how she died!

E:
: IT WAS THE STORM… IT WAS THE STORM, Sandy…
Sheep
(S walks over and strangles E the fight is terrible and almost still. E comes out from underneath S, who continues to compress till there is nothing left in his arms or in his back and he is left defeated and alone on the bed.)

E:
Winding from the foot of the hill, a narrow road leads up to the rolling meadows where lay his house. The sun, bleaching grass and drying sticks, beat upon the door wherein lay the woman, who lay silent. Silent she was and always would be from this point on. And her last gasp was the boy. He was her last gasp…

Sheep

{Enter unto here, you lonesome beast
From whence shall rise no more the tide
As armies march upon this Heaven
Lonely herdsmen ride.}