RUTH
Quarry land bin common land fer alla way back to da Garden a Heden, ’n’ I care not a pin ner a fart fer his paper a ownership. What own? My little cottage burnet. My shitten rocky farm dug up. Now dey say, ef you wanna eat go work fer da swollen stench Browne and his devil digs. Fuck be dat.
SARAH
My ma bin a witch, Dame Dorothy, a forest witch. Han’t been much good at it; mostly deliver babbies with a coupla harmless tricks. Dat’s all. A good fellow creature ’n’ ranter; she teachet me, ’n’ we livet inna woods by Bury St. Edmunds till dey encloset da woods, ’n’ den da trouble come.
DAME DOROTHY
Bury St. Edmunds.
SARAH
You know dat name.
My ma curset da squire dat bought da woods, ’n’ even though she han’t got no talent ’n’ her curses nevah carry, da squire go white ’n’ freaket, ’n’ his yeart stop beatet, ’n’ he die, ’n’ dey arrest my ma ’n’ dis other woman fer witchcraft. ’N’ dat other woman bin lessa a witch den my ma, she han’t even call herself a witch, bin just a woman.
DAME DOROTHY
Your mother was—
SARAH
(Nodding) ’N’ no one think more’n a flogging’s likely, since dey han’t hung a witch fer forty year, but den dey call fer a witness inna trial; a great thinker ’n’ man a words, a doctor.
DAME DOROTHY
Oh God.
SARAH
Just bin knightet by da king. Bin a sir.
(Silence. They all look at Browne.)
SARAH
’N’ he talket, talket like a angel sing, but his words bin wicked, twisty words, ’n’ bya time he shut his yatch dey got my ma swinget by a rough old rope. ’N’ dat bin da enna my mama on dis earf.
DAME DOROTHY
Please. He was used. He never intended that. He thought he was raising a few harmless points, minor theological speculation. He came home with a fever, he didn’t sleep for weeks.
SARAH
Dat happent ten year ago. ’N’ last week we bin headet fer da wilds a Scotland; my ma come ta me ’n’ say: “Sarah, turn about’n’ vistet him on his deathbed. Bring him a blessting from me.”
DAME DOROTHY
But your mother—
SARAH
(Fierce) Bin dead.
(A smile) She bin a poor witch. I be much more talentet.
MARY
Sarah hear things.
RUTH
Talket to her mama nightly. ’Tis verra peculiar.
DAME DOROTHY
We should leave this room.
RUTH
Time to rant yet, Sarah?
SARAH
Soon,soon.
DAME DOROTHY
Rant? What do you mean, rant?
(Little pause.)
RUTH
Back to da kitchen. Da smella him maket me queasious, he gotta cheesy color inna face ’n’ stinket sumpin wharfle.
MARY
(Softly, looking at Browne) Weep fer da travails a da flesh, fellow creatures. We bin all headet fer dat mordal day bed ’n’ dat earfen hole.
RUTH
Soon . . .
(Mary and Ruth exit.)
DAME DOROTHY
He never meant to harm. You could carve that on his gravestone. He was never kind.
(To Thomas) I’ve seen you feel . . . remorse. That’s something. But . . . You did not live well upon this earth, Thomas.
(Dorothy exits. Sarah lags behind.)
BABBO
Verra. ’Tis not his fault he bin a stingy ’n’ raptious blabbermouth,’r’ dat yer knacky ma got hanget.
SARAH
You watchet him good.
BABBO
You keepet yer hands offa my tarts ’n’ chickens.
SARAH
All food belonget to all fellow creatures.
BABBO
Dat food fer aftah da funeral.
SARAH
Aftah da funeral, dey han’t gonna feel much like eating.
BABBO
SARAH
Wait ’n’ see. Dey han’t gonna wanna eat.
(She goes.)
BABBO
Dose wimmin gonna snitch da nails outa da floorboards. Such a perturbet. Inna holden days, death bin a little do in da village a hanimals. Da moriens bin movet by da hoven fer warmth, ’r by a winda if dey had a fever ’n’ wantet da coolth a da breezet.’N’ a soft moaning ’n’ da tears flow, ’n’ da world go on. Not hacta so perturbet, like da world bin ending, like today.
(The Abbess crawls out from under the bed, across from where Babbo is sitting. Babbo sees her stand.)
BABBO
A hesprit!
(They regard each other.)
BABBO
Ah, hesprit, my old scaley eyes bin disconceiving me; you bin a phantasm in da pocket a my grief, ’r else you be da ghost a poor drownet Alice Browne. Can you speak?
THE ABBESS OF X
Babbo.
BABBO
You speaket . . . my name! Den you be da verra ghost a poor dear Alice. But tell me, hesprit, how come you bin dresset like a nun?
THE ABBESS OF X
Old woman. I was, I . . . am Alice Browne, but no ghost.
BABBO
Ah, nope? Bin you a vampire, ’r sumpin like dat, den?
THE ABBESS OF X
I’m not dead.
BABBO
Den you bin alive.
THE ABBESS OF X
Yes.
BABBO
Den you han’t drownet on dat ship?
THE ABBESS OF X
No.
BABBO
But . . . We all thought you’d drownet.
THE ABBESS OF X
You were wrong.
(Pause.)
BABBO
You gotta hexplanation?
THE ABBESS OF X
The ship sank. The sea was merciless. We had barely cleared Yarmouth harbor. Everyone on board perished, except myself.
BABBO
How bin you savet, Alice?
THE ABBESS OF X
I swam.
BABBO
Back ta Yarmouth?
THE ABBESS OF X
To France.
BABBO
You swam alla way to France!?
THE ABBESS OF X
Yes.
BABBO
But Alice, you han’t know howta swim.
THE ABBESS OF X
I know. I was spared by the benevolent hand of God.
BABBO
(Awestruck) Verra?
THE ABBESS OF X
There were typhoons, Babbo, and great forked bolts of lightning, and fish with teeth! I thought my end had come. But I was rescued . . . by a vision.
BABBO
Sweet tootha da Virgin! A vision?
THE ABBESS OF X
An angel of God preceded me through the brine, dog-paddling. With an iron sword wrapped all in thorns and flaming hair.
BABBO
Red hair?
THE ABBESS OF X
I learned to dog-paddle by emulating him, and when I grew too weary I clung to the hem of his heavenly raiment and he towed me to the beach at Boulogne.
BABBO
Well. Dat be sumpin, Alice.
THE ABBESS OF X
And on the beach the angel said, “Alice Browne, as you have clung to me, cling to the Holy and Apostolic Catholic Church, cleave to it, and in its clefts you will be safe from perils worse than drowning.” I was summoned to turn my back on the great and perfidious Apostasy of my native land and seek, on foreign shores, the sweet succor of the One True Faith.
BABBO
But why han’t you told us dat, Alice? Da doctah grievet long’n’ fulbous fer da lossa his sistah, ’n’ we all did, ’n’ whilst us weepet ’n’ wet you bin a safet ’n’ dry French nun. How come you han’t write a letter, ’r sumpin’?
THE ABB
ESS OF X
Our order observes very strict rules of silence.
BABBO
Fer twenty years? What order be dat?
THE ABBESS OF X
I’m . . . not at liberty to say.
(Browne stirs.)
BABBO
He bin waket! Dr. Browne! Look who swimmet da Channel just ta say good-bye.
THE ABBESS OF X
Babbo, hush! If . . . he saw me, the shock could kill him.
BABBO
He bin almost dead anyway.
THE ABBESS OF X
They mustn’t know I’ve returned.
BABBO
Dey han’t hold yer being a Catholic against you, Alice. Mrs. Browne bin partial ta heretics; she yacket with three ranters inna kitchen at dis verra minute.
THE ABBESS OF X
I want to give my brother the Extreme Unction, Babbo. I want to try to wrench his wayward soul from the fires of Hell, from everlasting torment and utter damnation.
BABBO
Well a course ya do, but how you gonna do dat?
THE ABBESS OF X
I have a special dispensation from the Archbishop of Anjou to perform last rites for Thomas. I must be at his side when the end comes; it’s all a matter of timing.
BABBO
Have a seat, Alice, da wait won’t be long.
(Browne stirs again.)
THE ABBESS OF X
The others will come and foul the plan. I need a disguise.
BABBO
Fer carnival last Shrove Tuesday Mrs. Browne ’n’ me sewet dis piggie suit fer da doctah ta wear. It bin a hoot. You wanna dresset like a pig, Alice? Dey nevah recognize ya. Dey thought Dr. Browne bin a verra pig.
THE ABBESS OF X
But what would a pig be doing in Thomas’s sickroom?
BABBO
Dere bin stranger ’n’ dat in here already today ’n’ it han’t even noon yet.
THE ABBESS OF X
Too conspicuous.
BABBO
I gotta idea.
THE ABBESS OF X
Tell me.
BABBO
Inna village a my youf, whena body bin dying, dere was a old woman sit bya bed, ’n’ she knittet da shroud outta soft wool with long bone needles. She bin a harbinger a death, ’n’ her clacket sound bin heard all ovah da town. Clackety-clack.
DR. BROWNE
(From far off) It is surprisingly deep here, and below the surface terribly cold, and the pull is treacherous. I am treading . . .
BABBO
Bin waket. Come with me, Alice. Don’t die, Doctah, till we get back.
THE ABBESS OF X
Hurry.
(They go.)
DR. BROWNE
(Still far away) Warm me, take me off to warmer lands on your dark timber ship.
(A strange figure, dressed in rags, enters, crosses to the bed. She wears a half-mask of an old, old woman and a black veil. All her clothes are black. It is Doña Estrelita, disguised.)
THE WASHER/DOÑA ESTRELITA
Thomas. Thomas, can you hear me?
DR. BROWNE
(Still far off) Bake me in the sun, dry me in the arrid heat of your . . . (He’s out)
THE WASHER/DOÑA ESTRELITA
Already I bring warmth.
(She peels back the bedclothes and embraces him.)
THE WASHER/DOÑA ESTRELITA
Can you feel the heat of my heart, Thomas, of my blood?
DR. BROWNE
Thank you, blest redeemer.
THE WASHER/DOÑA ESTRELITA
Be patient. You are split in two. You say yes, you say no. I come to purify.
(She slips away.)
DR. BROWNE
The sun . . . (He shudders) . . . clouds over . . .
(The lights change, the music begins, a lesser version of the false alarms in Act One.
Death enters; Browne shudders violently. His Soul sits up, the ladder doesn’t appear.)
HIS SOUL
The ladder . . . (It sees Death)
Good, let’s get this over with.
DEATH
Thomas, we need to touch. You’re very warm, fever . . . you burn for me.
HIS SOUL
He burns for you, I burn to leave—do it do it what are you waiting for?
DEATH
I’m very sad. To kill this moment, it will never come again, and yet I ache to kill. I am so . . . (He sniffs) so hungry . . . (Sniffs again) What’s that smell?
HIS SOUL
Eat him! Crack his bones and suck the marrow!
DEATH
Delicious smell . . .
(He moves toward the door)
Hot, moulten fruit. Crust puffing, browning. I wonder . . . what’s cooking . . . in the kitchen.
A minute.
(He goes.)
HIS SOUL
No! Here! Come back! You fly, you flit, you are too easily distracted! It’s amazingly difficult to end a life.
DR. BROWNE
(Opening his eyes) Is he gone?
HIS SOUL
Fraud.
DR. BROWNE
I used to do that as a child. The night men. Close your eyes, pull up the covers, count to ten and they go away. I cannot see that face again.
(Sits up, looks about) Was there a woman here? A dark Spanish woman? Did you see a . . .
HIS SOUL
I’m not your watchdog!
DR. BROWNE
You’re not my soul, either, just some malcontented noisy thing, a mere side-effect. Of the blockage.
(He strains to shit. Nothing. He’s exhausted)
It’s all mine. What’s in me is mine. My desire—
HIS SOUL
For everything but Paradise is yours.
DR. BROWNE
My intellect—
HIS SOUL
The cesspool through which every pure and crystal thought is dragged, surfacing smeared with offal. Yours.
DR. BROWNE
My writing.
(Pause)
Mine.
HIS SOUL
Ours.
I sang and your little sausage fingers twitched. Each note transcribed, from the grand high harmonics of Heaven, through me to you, through the clumsy and corruptible mechanisms of your hand to a wiggling pen dipped in black smut. Writing. Transcribed, transmogrified, everything you ingest winds up black smut, compost-producer.
DR. BROWNE
If you really are my soul, it’s inappropriate for you to despise me so luxuriously. I am your vessel.
HIS SOUL
My prison. And my one prison-pleasure: loathing you.
DR. BROWNE
Why?