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THE OSTRAKA PLAYS, VOLUME SIX
THE WRACKED
By
FRANCIS HAGAN
Published by Francis Hagan at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Francis Hagan
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THE WRACKED
BY
FRANCIS HAGAN
(An Invocation to Desire the Similarity of Being)
Characters
Tomas de Torquemada
Gabriella Sanchez
Old Woman
Sphincter
Donna Miranda de Cazalla, Hidalgo Commander of the Order of Santiago
Cardinal Ximinez de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo
Flail
Pedro, a soldier
Mateo, a soldier
Captain Escobedo
Salomon Halevi, the Grand Architect
First Youth
Second Youth
Leonora Enriquez
A Child of Leonora’s many Children
The Dark Man, of Italian fashion
King Ferdinand of Aragon
Queen Isabella of Castille
Rabbi Moses Arragel de Guadalfajara
Cid Hamet Benengeli
Donna Luisa de Santangel, Hidalgo Commander of the Order of Calatrava
Sancho de Paternoy
Don Alonz de Virues
Francis Hagan
Calum Beaton
Florian
Diego
Don Bernal Diaz
Don Juan Velazquez
Donna Julia
Axayactl, an Indian Cacique
Various Soldiers, Guards, Notaries, Warriors, etc. of Hispanic, Sephardim, Moorish and Amerindian ethnicity.
Note: characters underlined above are Effigies and must be presented as such. Many others may be Effigies at the director’s discretion though the weighting of Effigy to Human at any given point onstage should never exceed fifty percent.
SCENE 1 1430 (Sol)
(Darkness; the murmuring of a word through many throats; a faint clacking noise rises above the sounds.)
CourtMama . . ? Mama . . ? There, are you, Mama . . ?
(A tight, warm, light grows up around possibily the oldest woman in the world. She is squatting on a low, wooden, stool and picking through a bone box on a rope strap. Needles and pins - all bone - are lifted, examined and dropped back into the box. Across her aged-ravaged knee rests the end of a large scarf or tapestry, clumsily sewn together from many disparate pieces of textile. It is ugly and irregular yet somehow preserves a battered charm all its own. This tapestry trails over her knee and behind her, into the darkness, like a gigantic lizard skin.
By the feet of this ancient woman sits a girl-child and a naked, androgynous, baby. This latter is an Effigy with dark, empty, pits for eyes. The two are playing together, with the girl laughing and the Effigy mewling.
All around them lies sand - thick and coarse with a colour half-way between ochre and sienna. This sand is at least ankle-deep. The old woman ignores the two at her feet, being overly absorbed on finding the right needle for the section of the tapestry she is currently working on.)
Court. . . Help me, Mama . . . This darkness - it lulls . . . Mama . . ?
(The Old Woman sighs as yet another needle is dropped back into the bone box. A frown settles upon her.)
Old Woman. . . Over here . . . Am over here, little Tomás . . . Not see me, eh? Look hard, eh? Squeeze the eyes into tiny, brittle, points -
(A figure appears by her side from the darkness. The suddeness of it is uncanny yet it does not affect the Old Woman nor the girl and the androgyne at her feet. The Old Woman smiles to herself. The figure is very young and innocent. His face is raw in the same way an open flower is raw to its first sighting of the rising sun. In the background, the murmured word drifts apart and slowly dies away.)
Tomás(Puzzled) . . . Couldn’t see you. Before . . . Yet now . . .
Old WomanMy voice. It called to you, little Tomás . . . Here - sit down, eh? By me? Play next to me . . . Would like that. No pressure, though, eh?
(He sits down close to her knees by the bone box and begins to doodle in the sand. The Old Woman watches him for awhile and affection begins to show upon her face. Then she catches herself and sighs in mock exasperation. The boy glances up at this, questioning, but the Old Woman only shrugs and begins to rummage once more in her box. Needles and pins clack about her fingers.)
TomásThat noise, in the darkness . . . Heard it and thought -
Girl(Looking up from her play with the androgyne) Only the flower knows true oblivion.
Tomás. . . Yes. And of you, too. (This last to the Old Woman).
Old WomanAnd why shouldn’t you, eh? You sat here, by us, playing in the sand. I threading away, crinkled sand in my toes . . . Cosy, eh? This picture? Something warm to hook out of the darkness . . .
TomásYes. Realise that - its habitual composition . . . Do remember it - but with others, too -
Old WomanAll gone now, Tomás . . . All gone.
Tomás(Smiling uncertainly) Good . . . Have you all, then. Alone.
Old Woman(Smiling back) And we you. (She begins once more to explore her box).
Tomás(After doodling in the sand for a few moments) Help you, can I?
Old WomanIf you want - eyes good, are they? Mine are rheumy with age - no, no, appreciate the sentiment but fact is, isn’t it? Can’t seem to find the right needle . . . Fit the needle to the material - with the right thread, naturally - and sow with strength, eh? Only can’t seem to find . . . (She rummages in her box slowly).
Girl(Looking intently at Tomás) Worked a tapestry, have you? Obvious you haven’t - but ask out of politeness. For her sake, not yours. Well, have you?
Tomás- Saw a tapestry once -
GirlAh. An expert.
TomásIn the Cathedral of Saragossa, yes . . .
GirlSounds fascinating.
TomásMany Hidalgos riding over the woods and hills of Hispania.
GirlHow pastoral for you.
TomásFlecked, it was, with gold thread. From Constantinople.
GirlConfuse your eyes, did it?
Old WomanSee where they were riding, did you, little Tomás?
Tomás. . . No.
Old WomanYou will, you will - but my tapestry’s not like that, is it, eh? Not like it at all.
TomásSee - see no picture -
Old WomanNo knights, no hills, no woods.
GirlHave to look with different eyes. Black eyes, but not dead. Not dead at all.
TomásNo, not dead, just -
GirlBlack. The sort of shifting dark all life grows from, yes?
TomásYes. Black.
Old WomanNot like it, then? Please feel free - not to, of course, eh? Well? Immanent verdict, I think . . .
GirlYes.
Tomás. . . It - needs work, I think.
Old WomanAh.
GirlA little over-technical, your pronouncement, perhaps.
Old Woman(Examining it solemnly) . . . He’s right. More work. (She appears a little sadder with this admission).
TomásBut the colours - lovely, I mean.
Old WomanThink so?
TomásThat piece - reminds me of the sunset . . .over the bruised Catalonian hills.
GirlA poet . . .
Old WomanIs a beautiful piece, yes . . .
Tomás(To the Girl) I like it -
GirlEstablished that, I think. No point repeating, eh? Very - meaningless.
TomásJust saying, that’s all.
Old WomanGlad you like it. Old Moorish woman, she gave it to me - oh, years ago now . . . Was from San Sebastian in the north . . . (She smiles, wrapped up in the folds of the memory.) - Had stopped to swop gossip, admired her shawl, and - well! - found it in these hands. A gift. From a mudéjar. What do you think of that, eh? Was so surprised and pleased - yes, very pleased - gave her my head-scarf back in return . . . Yes, ‘Sun’ (She gestures on the word as though it has some proverbial status.) shone well that day, little Tomás . . .
Tomás(Glancing up at the sun and shielding his eyes.) . . . Hot here.
Old WomanDifferent sun, eh, different sun . . . (She returns to the box and begins to rummage again, slowly. Each needle is brought up to her gaze and then discarded.)
Tomás(He plays in the sand awhile, creating little walls and moats, one eye always upon the girl and her odd companion. Suddenly, he addresses her.) - Others all gone?
Girl(She watches him with a mocking light.) Long time ago, yes . . .
TomásWhere? What - what happened . . . To them. Sort of curious here. Indulge me, eh?
GirlNo denial, is that it, Tomás?
TomásCan work both ways, ‘no denial’.
GirlNot unaware of that - would have to be an oath.
TomásGoes without saying.
Girl Later. The formality of it. In the cool wine of the shadows.
TomásYes.
GirlSensual, I think. Our oath. Formal, yes, goes without saying, but sensual also. As all oaths must be: the carnality of uttered bondage . . . Wouldn’t you say?
TomásYes. Complete agreement.
Girl- Erotic. The shiver of words conjoined.
TomásLater?
GirlMuch later, yes . . . Perhaps even years. Who can say? But for now . . .
TomásThe others -
GirlYes. Let me see - a moment to recollect . . . The year, Tomás, what is the year? Now. Right now. This very, as it were . . .?
Tomás(He looks a little confused and then begins to draw some numbers in the sand. This inspires him and he scrawls out ‘1’, then ‘4’, after which he pauses and then quickly marks out ‘30’. He grins at the Girl. The date of ‘1430’ is facing the audience, not the characters onstage.)
GirlYes, yes, anno domini Fourteen Hundred and Thirty. Let me see, then . . .In this year, so to speak, the eldest - Paulo - fell from a tree. In the courtyard, yes . . . Sprained his ankle - yet, as soon as it was healed - Paulo climbed back into that tree, cut down the branch which had offended him - and fashioned a staff from it . . . What a child!
TomáThe rest?
GirlHmm, Mariana found a wounded mongrel, tended it back to health - and so impressed were the neighbours any time a pet or livestock fell ill, she would cure it for them . . . The twins, Frederico and Carlos, were attacked. A mob of Jewish children, it was, and clubbed almost to death . . .But they recovered and forgave their attackers - such is the ‘Shadow’, eh? (She, too, makes a proverbial gesture.) The others - well, long time ago . . . Doubt even you remember them in this year? (She underlines the date in the sand.)
Tomás. . . No.
GirlBetter that way.
Old Woman(Holding up a new piece of cloth.) Tell me, like this piece, eh, do you? Brutal honesty required, I think . . . No point in politeness. Rotten thread, politeness. Gives the illusion of tying things together only to have them tear apart. Later on, eh? So, a blunt opinion, here . . .
Tomás(Serious.) . . . Yes. I do.
Old WomanHmm . . . I wasn’t sure. But if you like it? (He nods.) Keep it in, yes . . . An odd piece - given me by a Jewish doctor . . . Old bed-covering, it was. Very beautiful, too . . . But her patient, well, had died badly, see? Gouting up blood and vomit. So it was no use - no use to anyone anymore - (She laughs.) Except me, of course! . . . Found the needle yet, have you, little Tomás?
Tomás(He starts guiltily.) - Still looking . . . (He peers deep into the box.) - A bone needle?
GirlA large one - with a clear eye.
Old WomanThere, is it, eh?
Tomás. . . No - wait . . . Is this the one? (He holds up a needle.)
Old Woman(Shaking her head.) No -not that one . . . Sure it’s in there somewhere. Yes. Certain. Here, let me look, eh?
Tomás(Glancing up again.) Too hot here. Feel the sweat like sticky flies on my skin. No shade to drink up.
GirlReminds me of another sun. Not so - emphatic.
TomásYes?
GirlGentle, it is. So soft on the rim it seems to knit itself into the sky - not cut itself out from it. A sun with shadows that drift across the realm like vaporous dolphins.
TomásA dream, that is.
GirlNot so.
TomásA tattered weave of your mind.
Girl‘Fraid not. A little less . . . denial, eh, Tomás? Show you, one day, I will.
Tomás. . . Wonder what will happen. To the others . . . Miss them, I think.
Old WomanNot difficult to know . . . Paulo will journey with Colomb, venture into deeper, darker trees . . . He will fall one time too many at La Navidad . . . Mariana, she will heal too often, too quickly and so suffer a witch’s fate . . . The twins, well, they will preach the Gospel in the Jewish aljamas and the farms of the mudéjares, winning many Conversos - only to find their preachings heretical and so end up in the fires . . . As for the others - forget now. Too long, eh?
Tomás(Suddenly tense.) But - that is in the future . . . How can you - I mean - you are guessing, yes?
Old WomanThe future - what is that, little Tomás? Heh, only a ripple moving backwards through us - and the past a ripple moving forwards through us. And in the clash, its wash and eddy, the subject . . . Of this Realm, eh? A little crest of foam . . .
GirlOnly the crest, Tomás, its eternity of suspension.
Tomás . . . Then - you know . . . already - (He stares hard at the Old Woman, unable to mouth his thoughts.)
Old Woman(Smiling, yet with a certain chilling edge.) The single, fragile, flower of your moment? Yes.
Tomás(He wets his lips.) And?
Old Woman(She rises suddenly and picks up her bone box to sling it over her shoulder. The tapestry falls to the ground.) - Must be off now, I think, eh? Too long in the sun . . .
Tomás(Thrown.) - But, wait! Must tell me - please . . .
(The Old Woman steps back and is suddenly consumed by the darkness. Her voice can be heard fading into the distance.)
Old WomanDidn’t you know? . . . Thought you knew, see? . . . Thank you - for finding my needle for me . . .
Tomás(Now frightened.) No - don’t know. How can I? Wait! . . . I don’t know . . . (His voice trails into silence and slowly he looks into the smiling face of the Girl. The Effigy at her feet mews softly.) . . . I cannot - see . . .
Girl(She holds out her hand.) Gabriella Sánchez.
TomásWhat?
GirlMy name. Gabriella Sánchez, of Aragon, yes? (She pats the Effigy.) . . . And this is Sphincter.
Tomás(Dazed.) . . . Tomás . . . de Torquemada . . . (He reaches out to take her hand but a sudden thought strikes him and he turns back to where the Old Woman dissappeared.) - But I didn’t find it -
(Blackout.)
SCENE 2 1498 (Sombra), sixty eight years later.
(A faint Latin chant rises up in the darkness. After a moment of this, a wash of cold, blue, light reveals for the first time the entire stage.
Dominating it is a huge Back Cloth, which hangs and sags above the thick sand. This Back Cloth is a continuation of the tapestry being worked upon by the Old Woman and is a composite of a hundred mismatched pieces - all sewn together in a crude, awkward, fashion. It is ripped in places and in others merely circumscribes holes and odd-shaped gaps. The end of the Back Cloth falls heavily into the off-red sand so that thick creases and trailing segments render the back third of the stage a confusion of hangings, rents and piles of textile. The result is that the stage does not so much end as drift uneasily away. It is out of one such pile that the length the Old Woman was working on emerges to twist down-stage to the low stool.
It can be seen that sown into the huge Back Cloth are a dozen or so grotesque human Effigies - as though caught up in some gigantic, carnivorous, vine and sucked dry of their vital juices. These Effigies are devoid of eyes, presenting instead only gaping sockets filled with the blackness of a cosmic pit.
Upon the stool now, under the blue light, is seated a broken, old, man. He is bearded and wearing the stark black and white robes of a Dominican priest. He shivers in the cold light and shrinks deeper into the folds of his Christian garb. It is apparent he is earnestly waiting for someone - or something. It is also apparent he is near to death.
Behind him, upstage centre, is a huge, ornate, bed, covered in a glorious, golden, quilt. The bed has grown out of the Back Cloth and its sheets are tussled, in dissarray. This bed cannot be too large, really.
Two figures emerge from a slit in the Back Cloth: Donna Miranda de Cazalla, Hidalgo-Commander of the Order of Santiago, a scarred female of Old Christian lineage, and Cardinal Ximinez de Cisneros, Archbishop of Toledo, head of the Catholic church. Both characters are clad in pristine white robes to reflect their Christian limpieza de sangre - that is: purity of blood; its freedom from any heretical, ancestral, contamination. They are also wearing curious black spectacles. These cup-like hemispheres have the appearence of small, opaque, swimming goggles and are obviously not of Hispanic origin. Cisneros is deep in conversation with the Hidalgo-Commander over a large, heavy, document he holds in his hands as they enter - when the latter starts suddenly at the sight of the old Dominican priest on the stool.)
Cazalla (Alarmed) Jesu - he’s up. From his bed!
Cisneros (Looking up, surprised.) Wha - Fray Tomás? Mad, are you, eh?
(Both characters rush over to the priest yet the latter is apparently oblivious to them.)
Cisneros Kill yourself, you will. For sure, eh? Confined to bed, yes. By the Mendicant. No argument allowed. Oh, but Fray Tomás must fix his own confinement. Very obtuse of you! Fray Tomás? Donna Cazalla, the flesh, cold like scales . . . Here, help me to move him . . .
Tomás(Faintly.) No . . . Leave me . . .
Cazalla Fray Tomás? What’s wrong, eh? Look - it’s me, Donna Miranda de Cazalla . . . He - doesn’t see. Blind, is he?
Cisneros His wits. Fleeing him, I think. It’s all in the official records. Help me - get him up, to his feet. This chill will only make his health worse . . .
(They gently pick up the old Dominican priest and lead him upstage to the huge, quilted, bed.)
Cazalla . . . Here, lean on me, Fray Tomás - sturdy hip of the Court, eh? Trust these old bones -which have carried more soldiers through to victory than Santiago himself . . . A few more steps, good - Now, off with the robes, yes?
(She and Cisneros slowly remove the heavy robes to reveal a thin, pale, figure clad only in a white loincloth. Cazalla helps him into the bed as the Cardinal folds up the robes and walks downstage to place them on the stool. In doing so, he notices the ‘1430’ date scrawled in the sand, by the edge of the stage, and frowns uneasily. Slowly, he almost absent-mindedly rubs out the ‘30’ and replaces it with ‘98’. As he does so, he gazes around him in thought.)
Cisneros . . . Entirely lacking - in servants, this place. I offer such a statement without accusation, obviously. Merely wondering aloud, that is.
Cazalla - I assure you, Cardinal - all of them were here when I left to fetch you -
Cisneros (He frowns again at the date in the sand.) Please, Donna Miranda. No, shall we say, censure intended. . . Yet, curious lack of servants now. Another would find that -disconcerting, eh?
Cazalla No fault in that - not my problem. Conversos, perhaps? Would suit them if he were to die before - (She gestures to the large document.)
Cisneros Hush, I pray, hush . . .Conversos, eh? Examined, were they?
Cazalla Ask Flail. His province, not mine.
Cisneros An examination, then. Call it a formality. Only those with clean, Christian, blood can attend him now. Their limpieza reflecting his in the eye of God.
Tomás(Rising partially.) . . . Let me -
Cisneros Fray Tomás -it is me, Cardinal Ximinez . . .
Tomás- Alone . . .
Cazalla What’s that - mad, is he?
Cisneros Delirious - have this on authority. From the Mendicant . . . Listen to me - Tomás? Tomás de Torquemada - hear me . . . Look at me -
Tomás- Let me alone . . .
Cisneros (To Cazalla.) Could tire of this. Very quickly. . . Tomás, out of your bed, eh? Why? Must know it was foolish, yes? The cold, here, will easily eat you up -
TomásAlone . . . Ximinez?
Cisneros It is, Fray Tomás.
Tomás. . . Stagnant in the bed, sheets like shrouds, eh? Not good. Too much insistence - end up falling into death . . .
Cisneros Sitting on a cold stool is better, Tomás? Frightened us, you see . . . All alone there - what were you doing, eh?
Tomás. . . Waiting . . . Was waiting - sowing the last of the thread . . . Don’t expect you to understand, of course. How could you? Simply not in your compass . . .
Cazalla He’s going, Cardinal - must get him to sign. Now. Must work in the moment - not pass through it to another.
Cisneros Donna Miranda, this is not the place - for your quaint Hidalgo aphorisms, yes? Your troops, I’m sure, receive enough of them -
Cazalla To live by, yes.
TomásYour eyes . . . Ximinez? Can’t see them -
Cisneros Ah, these . . . (He gestures to the curious black goggles but does not remove them.) Quite the fashion now. In the Court. Don Cristobal Colón can’t bring enough back, really . . . Good, well, against the sun, see? Its awful insistency.
TomásNo eyes to see with, eh?
Cazalla (Awkwardly.) . . . Hispania - now - is a bright land. A desert levelled. Our sun illuminates every crack of it. These - these protect our eyes from the . . . worst of the glare, yes? When the ‘Sun’ shines without ‘Shadows’ - well, best to make your own, I think.
Cisneros She is right, Fray Tomás . . . The eyes - our eyes - can hurt sometimes, dried like figs on the stone . . . Colón’s discovery eases them . . . Now, Fray Tomás -
TomásMy signature . . .
Cisneros The last, yes.
TomásHeavy thing, Ximinez.
Cisneros (Readying ink and pen.) Fray Tomás?
TomásTo sign . . . For the last time. Rather write myself out, eh? Of the realm . . .
Cazalla All of us, well, Fray Tomás, more than names written upon parchment.
TomásYou believe that? Merely echoing an inscription long since penned - in my opinion. For what it’s worth, hey?
Cisneros Donna Miranda de Cazalla, she writes her deeds in the sword - not with the pen. As Hidalgo-Commander of the Order of Santiago, she could hardly do otherwise. The pen in battle lacks a certain - how shall we say? - definitiveness.
TomásInk, blood - you really must grasp their essential affinity, Cardinal . . . Words spilled on the page only write over the bodies racked in war. Very simple when you think about it . . .
Cisneros Fray Tomás, must insist now. This, the final document, yes . . . The Supreme Council has prepared the path for Anna de Deza - your choice for your position once you are dead, I remind you, eh? Her route to your position is assured - but you must sign.
TomásAn awesome thing . . .To write a name and cast it away. The realm - it moves on. But not with my name. Stuck there on that map like Christ to the Cross, transfixed.
Cisneros (To Cazalla.) This chill - it has worked into him. Just when we need him lucid.
Cazalla Fray Tomás - you must sign this. For the Court.
Tomás- It’s edge, its utter ideogram?
Cazalla Yes! We- we need your signature here . . .With Anna de Deza - her eyes - in your place, the Inquisition - Hispania - will remain a Christian Court. A Realm united. Can’t leave that unfinished, eh? Not now.
TomásTo shape a Realm and leave it wet, blurred and smudged, eh? A temptation . . .
Cisneros What is this?! enough of this nonsense, yes? Sign or abandon us to the ‘Shadow’ . . . Is that what you want, eh? The Court overrun with Jews, Moors and Conversos - heresies flooding the Realm? Tell me, Tomás - am confused in this!
VoiceAnd I am ashamed.
(They turn in surprise to find Flail pausing by a crease in the Back Cloth. He is dressed in the vivid yellow and red penitential garb: the sanbenitos. Underneath this, however, he is dressed in dark Hidalgo clothes.)
Cazalla Fray Tomás has worsened, Flail.
Cisneros Seems your servants have abandoned him. A trifle curious, eh?
Flail(Entering the stage.) Before he has signed -
Cisneros Rather fortuitous, that. Some would say.
FlailThose wearing the garb of heresy, no doubt?
Cisneros A heavy weight to some.
FlailHispania is a warm Court to so dress it subjects - as for the servants, Tomás sent them away -
Cisneros He did -
FlailSurprised? Why, Cardinal, it almost becomes you . . . (He bends over Tomás.) Tomás, can you hear me, eh? . . .Tomás?
TomásNo goggles, Flail?
FlailWe’ve looked too deep, you and I . . . You must sign now. You know that. . . Even a last signature must contain a flourish, hey?
TomásA painful one.
FlailNo other way, Tomás.
TomásStill . . .
FlailToo late. You are not in the realm, our realm, unless you sign.
TomásAnd to refuse is to create a blank, a gap . . . Fought all my life to fill that gap.
FlailThen place your life in it, Tomás. Now.
TomásHave to know the document I am signing, yes?
FlailTomás?
TomásThis realm - (He gestures to the Back Cloth vaguely.) Out there . . . You will look, yes? Now?
Flail(He becomes suddenly wary.) . . . Are you sure, Tomás?
TomásOnly eyes left. Use them.
(Flail moves to the back of the stage and lifts aside a rent in the Back Cloth. His knuckles are white. Cisneros and Cazalla are tense.)
TomásTell me . . . Flail?
FlailWill you sign now? (Flail is edgy with his words.)
TomásI need your eyes to see, hear, the realm -
Flail(He stumbles back from the rent and rounds on Tomás.) It is nothing - you need nothing! Nothing! Tomás, if only you could hang in the signature and never unclasp the pen - what a Realm you would forge! . . . But you can’t. Just as you can’t see with my eyes.
TomásYou could tell me!
FlailWhat? You place too hard a weight upon words, Tomás! Words cannot describe what I see - they are not mirrors to reflect in - oh, that they were! What a realm we could place ourselves in - no. Words freight only themselves, Tomás, not this realm. Words are wracks when it comes to that - cracked and splintered, vessels of seepage . . . Split asunder from the burdens you would place on them - and what spillage! No, Tomás, leave my words alone . . . Or you will drown in them . . .
Tomás(He picks up the document and slowly begins to sign. Sadness is heavy on him.) . . . Have you noticed how like a stab it is to make the full-stop? . . . A final puncture with the point and one, last, gleaming, drop of ink . . . (He makes a final flourish and then a full stop. There is a pause and Tomás remains still as if in death but his eyes are bright and alert.)
Cisneros (Retrieving the document carefully, as though Tomás is dead.) Must say - never thought he would sign - at the last. Not Fray Tomás. His death came with a drag, like the limp of a cripple through the sands of time, hey?
Cazalla Done now. Hispania will not lack - insight, yes? Flail, you surprised me today - always assumed you, of all people, well, you know . . .
Cisneros What - I mean, out there . . . Our eyes see only the Christian ‘Sun’ now . . . You . . .
FlailMine are no better then yours, Cardinal.
Cisneros We, ah, we need these (Again, he gestures to the goggles.) . . . You, well, have eyes strong enough to . . . Your words would be appreciated. Accept that they are literally what you see - not conveyors of it. Accept that. But still . . . Out of, shall we say, literary interest, yes?
Flail. . . A shadow ‘Sun’, sucking up all the light and the colours of the land. A void, a hole into a deeper darkness, breeding around the edges with the wash and eddies of a fluid blackness . . . A ‘Sun’ so dark as to be an absence - a womb of night . . . Or the pupil of God . . . Out there. Outside this ‘Sun’, this Christian Realm . . . The brighter our Court, the darker it becomes. Afterall, Cardinal, where do you think all the banished ‘Shadows’ went, eh? (He exits quickly, in disgust.)
(Cisneros and Cazalla check the document once over and then, too, depart.)
(The lights dim imperceptibly and a gloom settles over the sand. Then the Old Woman is on the stage, walking towards the abandoned stool and the trailing tapestry of cloth. The contents of her box clack with each step and her face is heavy with weariness. She picks up the tapestry and begins to haul it up so that she travels backwards into the depth of the Back Cloth. Once at the edge, she pauses to glance at Tomás, who is watching her in the gloom.)
Old WomanWell, back to where all weavers go, eh, boy? To repair the seams, poke back in the loose ends . . . Always be in the moment of a thing - that’s the secret, you see. Never having to worry about the end; the absolute, terminological, exhaustion . . . Never really wove, did you? Not truly. Only built instead . . . Gave you a needle and you gave me back a pen. How banal of you!
(She exits quickly and Tomás drowns in the darkness, his eyes gleaming brightly like those of a trapped animal’s.)
SCENE 3 1450 (Sol), fourty eight years earlier.
(Darkness; a faint wind echoes in the distance.
The Back Cloth is heard to rustle followed by a muffled ‘Shhh!’, high up, at the back. More discreet rustling can be heard - which is brought to an abrupt halt as two Soldiers appear through a gap in the Back Cloth. One holds up a taper in the darkness as they both peer anxiously into the gloom onstage.)
First SoldierWell?
Second SoldierPoxy darkness. Hates, the darkness - foul, poxy, thing. Chokes me.
First SoldierThe noise, please - yes? Heard a noise - investigate as per . . . something . . .
Second SoldierOrders.
First SoldierOrders, yes. Well?
Second SoldierTold you. Poxy darkness -
First SoldierEstablished that. You said. Now - the noise . . .
Second SoldierNothing - still as poxy tomb. Hates, this place - wants to eat everything. Torch it - best thing. Shouldn’t breath, this room . . .
First SoldierNo noise - no enter. Move on. Orders, yes? No need to . . . ponder.
Second SoldierPox on pondering. Move on?
First SoldierOrders.
(The Soldiers snuff out the candle and vanish from the room. The rustling begins again, followed quickly by the sound of a body landing hard upon the sand. A breath of air is expelled heavily.)
Voice(High up, urgent, but suppressed.) - Tomás! You alright? Tomás?
Tomás(Low.) . . . Could play an aside here - mouthing succulent thoughts like a blind scribe. Secret, private, words - not given sound often. Too dangerous. Reserved only for the solitude of the true genius: the one who fouls just his own Realm with revolution and pain . . . No point. Words sucked dry; little, black, figs of words in this place. Feel it. A giant sucking . . . A tug as though a desert fist is grabbing on the words. Deep in the throat . . . Words excoriated and blown away. Tumble weed words. . . . No aside here. Too - dry . . . (A loud whisper.) - It’s a long drop, Gabriella. Never said anything about a drop -
GabriellaShhh! Lower your voice, Tomás . . .It’s a window - of course there’s a drop. Think you’d fall up some stairs -
TomásNever said -
GabriellaHush now - dropping Sphincter down. Catch it.
Tomás(Alarmed.) - No, don’t! Too dark down here - cold like the King’s eyes. Want out - give me your hand, Gabriella!
GabriellaNow, Tomás, the oath. ‘No denial’, remember? Followed you, didn’t I?
Tomás. . . Yes. But that was into the sun -
GabriellaBoring me, Tomás.
TomásNo - but -
GabriellaMy turn - now. Get ready to catch Sphincter.
TomásIt’s too heavy -
GabriellaHere it comes!
TomásWait -
(There is the sound of another body falling onto the sand, followed by a curious half-gasp, half-mewling noise. It is obvious these sounds do not coincide with where Tomás is standing in the darkness. There is a slight pause.)
Gabriella. . . Well? Did you catch it?
Tomás(With false aplomb.) - Oh, yes . . .
GabriellaGood - now me! Watch out, Tomás - get Sphincter out the way!
TomásAh. Right. . . . (In a low voice.) Umm, Sphincter? Where are you?
(Yet another body falls onto the sand heavily. Tomás collides into Sphincter to one side and he, too, tumbles into the sand. A pained mewling pierces the darkness.)
GabriellaShhh - shut it, Tomás! The guards musn’t hear us. In here.
Tomás(Muffling the noise.) - Got it, got it. No need to snap . . . You alright?
GabriellaYes, yes. Think so. Need some light in here -
TomásThis place is outside, Gabriella - shouldn’t be here. In the Court. Not settled enough . . .
GabriellaThe old maps place it here, Tomás. Cracked, torn, sheets full of ancient lines, angles. Scratched out a Realm with the relentless nib of the architect and the soveriegn Rulers. Huge maps like sailcloth - some as big as the rooms which hold them. All old now, dry and thin. Could see my hand underneath one - see the blue of the corridors and passageways like veins . . . This room was here before all else around it . . . On a map almost the size of the Court . . .
TomásProbably a tear, a rip in the fabric. Confused you.
GabriellaDon’t think so. Not likely. Very implausable . . . Yes, marked on the map. Get some light in here . . .
TomásTry the curtains -
(A sudden noise abruptly drowns out his words and a huge, sharp, rectangle of light impales over half of the stage. The grotesque Back Cloth is thrown into shadow, though, with the suggestion that the light is streaming in through its gaps and rents like sunlight through ragged drapes. The light which falls upon the stage is sharp and hot.
Revealed by this light are three figures: the ‘Sol’ Tomás now older, that of Gabriella, who has equally aged some years, and their naked, androgynous, Effigy. This latter is caught now by Tomás, who has his hand clapped about its mouth. It struggles like a kitten.)
Tomás- behind. . . .Oh.
GabriellaThere - see? Nothing to worry about. Pointless thing, worry. Another loop in the chain around the subject . . .The Court writes us in worry as others write us our names and birthdates. Hate it. Now . . .Where’s the clothes?
(Gabriella begins to rummage about the curled-up folds of the Back Cloth, at the back of the stage. She drifts slowly downstage and notices the ‘1498’ inscription in the sand. Casually, with a slight frown, she rubs out the ‘9’ and ‘8’ and then quickly marks ‘50’ in its place. She smiles at this and then moves on in her search.)
Tomás(Following her and still struggling to hush up Sphincter.) - Look, Gabriella. Not supposed to be in here - if the Court found us, well - (To Sphincter.) calm down, will you? - just not sure - us here, I mean!
Gabriella(She stops her search reluctantly and faces Tomás.) . . . Put it down, Tomás . . . (Sphincter is released to curl up on the sand.) - Rather be studying. Under Donna Teresa - is that it?
TomásNo . . . Bores me.
GabriellaWell, then?
Tomás- Warned not to come to this part of the Court. ‘No children’, said Donna Teresa. On pain of a beating -
GabriellaLook, Tomás - you get a beating almost every other day from her, anyway. Her learning falls from you quicker than leaves in autumn . . .Least this is exciting, hey? Get caught - so what? If nothing else - remember this place longer than any algebraic figure!
Tomás(Smiling impishly.) That’s true.
GabriellaAnd besides - swore: ‘No denial’, yes? Came down with you to the ruins of the Roman fort. No complaint - not one. No - and why: ‘No denial’, Tomás. Our oath.
Tomás‘No denial’.
GabriellaOur oath, yes?
TomásAlright, alright . . . but, Jesu, for the sake of some clothes, Gabriella! Least the old fort was good to play in - clothes?
GabriellaForeign clothes, Tomás! (She begins rummaging around again in the voluminous folds of the Back Cloth. Effigies roll gently above her head.) Clothes from everywhere, yes! Think about it: cloaks and scarves from the Moors in Grenada, jeweled shoes and belts from the Greek emperors of Constantinople, Persian tunics, German and Frankish corsets - soft leather cured into the dragon-hides of war! Gloves of silk - think of the colours we have never seen! The plaid wraps of the Britons and the Irish!
TomásNot wearing any girl’s things.
Gabriella- How will we know? Ancient things, Tomás, these clothes . . . Thrown in here like chaff. Lost to all human shape and style now. Caught here like the Roman fort - tumbled and shaped again. Only no people to play in the ruins, clamber and tease in the riddled warrens. Except us . . . Us, Tomás. Alone to drift back through a history of clothes!
TomásGet lost . . . Loose our own clothes.
GabriellaSeen the maps; traced their fragile veins on my own . . . Stood on parchment halls and stepped my fingers down echoing corridors and stairs. Never got lost. Only get lost if you cling, Tomás . . . ‘No denial’.
(She pulls back a fold of the cloth - which suddenly splits up the Back Cloth to reveal a huge mound of clothes as though behind a tapestry. The suddeness of the opening precipitates the clothes down onto Gabriella - who lets out a joyous yelp as she is engulfed in tumbling jackets, breeches and cloaks. Within moments, she is lost from view. Clothes of every description lie in a jumbled heap up to the toes of Tomás.)
(There is a long pause.)
Tomás(Stunned.) . . . Oh . . . (He starts forward - and then pauses uncertainly.) Gabriella?
(The mound of the clothes is ominously still.)
Tomás- Jesu. Not going in there . . . Gabriella! Just crawl out! . . . Easy for you, not for me . . . Gabriella? Had to happen. Obvious really. Typical . . . Her in there, me out here . . . Hear me, can you? (Tomás edges carefully into the pile.) . . . Could walk off . . . With Sphincter. No one will know . . . Guards come by, find a mess, clear it up . . . Just more clothes to add . . . to the pile. No fuss, really. Only difference will be no one to visit the maps - curled up like giant babies . . . Hate this! This is not fun!
(Tomás has moved deeper into the pile - and turns quickly to leave when Gabriella suddenly lunges up from the pile and trips him into it. He falls into it and becomes tangled up very quickly as Gabriella skips clear of the pile, laughing.)
Gabriella- Poor Tomás! The clothes have you now! Drag you in, drown in it, you will . . . Slowly . . .
Tomás(Struggling in the clothes.) - Not fair! Thought you were hurt . . . Abused me -
Gabriella(She steps closer to him and a change overtakes her.) . . . Don’t struggle so. Only end up in a tighter knot . . . Not good . . . Tomás de Torquemada - always entangling himself. Whereas I, Gabriella Sánchez, one day to be Treasurer to the King, must always watch and wonder on it . . . Let go, enjoy the suspension . . .
(She moves deeper in to him, slowly and deliberately.)
Tomás. . . Gabriella?
Gabriella- Hush. Should look at yourself some times, Tomás. What are you? Feign too much life, you know. Too much, here and now. . . Selfish of you. Did you know that? Could despise you for it - if I didn’t wonder on it so. Peculiar that - where it - you - all comes from . . . Look on you and a black fear gets me. In my chest, clogging . . . fear for - me. Always dragging on the moment - like a limpet. Stuck, afraid to disposses, really. Rather stupid when you think about it. If you do - which I doubt . . . Do you? Go on, surprise me . . . I’d like that . . . Drift from my perception of you . . . Can you? I doubt it - but I offer nonetheless. Misguided pity, I know, but one must live for - what? Surprises? No, no . . . drifts. Yes, drifts. One must look to be drifted from one’s self and Realm . . . So. Drift. For me. . . . Look on it as a challenge . . . No? Oh, well . . . Musn’t drag on the moment - let it go . . . Why don’t you ever try to kiss me?
TomásLose my eyes in your beauty . . .
GabriellaAh, if I’d know you were a cynic . . . Dare you. Now. Drift across my lips. Might tease you - but only enough . . . (She reaches down and raises his head to kiss him. It takes only a moment and then she lowers it back down.) Hmm. Let me think on it. Got to - evaluate. Court protocol . . . But know I’m not writing you off. Important to realise, that. Crucial, I would say. Yes, not writing you off . . . (She stands up in the clothes.)
Tomás- Stuck - in the pile . . . Could do with a - hand -
Gabriella(Her eyes on the bulk of the clothes.) . . . Yes. Rumour in the Court says this room is haunted . . . Said each item here cast away. From a butchered soul. . . The King, even, will not enter . . . Here . . . A room reserved for the weave of those cut down for the name of the Court and its King . . . A room so large as to be another Realm itself - stuffed. A rag-doll Realm . . . Through there, actually . . . Stand on the shore, ankle-deep - no flag to plant, eh? Except our own clothes - our mix of Christian, Jewish and Moorish weeds. Fancy entering, Tomás? In there. Think of the heaps, the tattered mounds of costumed ages. Where even the Angels have tossed a cloak. Or two. . . Yes, quite fancy that . . . Desire it, in fact. More of a need, really. Well?
TomásThought you said these were just clothes. Gifts, from abroad.
GabriellaSo they are, Tomás! Bloody birth rags of our Court! Every item here - a flag raised against our own - cut down to keep ours high . . . No wonder this room shunned - see the depths upon which our Court floats . . . Step into the caverns of the past and feel, touch, the cost. Who would not be appalled?
Tomás- Going to free me or not, Gabriella?
Gabriella- Oh, Tomás. No wonder Donna Teresa despairs! Well?
TomásWell, what?
GabriellaGoing in there? Us, together, I mean. How about it? You and me. Why not?
TomásToo cold. In there. Stay with the sun, Gabriella. Help me out, yes?
Gabriella- Velvet cold - to be plumbed and swum in. Oceans of textures against our own . . . Come back, dry off - on the sand . . . How can we not, eh?
TomásNot old enough. Got to wait, grow up a little. ‘No children’, remember? Too many clothes, Gabriella - drown in them. Float away and never get back.
Gabriella(She begins to pick her way into the pile.) Seen the maps, Tomás! This Court has rooms, halls, double that trod now. In there is another Realm! sealed up and dusted over in the memories now - found it, I did. In the dried-up maps. Can see the ancient names and the Greek measurements . . . cast like runes in silver ink . . . Never get lost - not me. Folded in maps like petals . . . (Gabriella is now waist deep in the clothes and pauses to look back at Tomás - a strange smile is upon her lips.) No point in an oath, really. Unless it is to join Realms, eh, Tomás? (She turns and burrows her way in to disappear from view.)
(There is a pause. The mound of clothes heaves for a moment and then is still. Tomás strains to watch the place Gabriella had burrowed into and then he wrenches hard against the rags which have ensnared him. He tumbles free suddenly and rolls into the sand in surprise.)
Tomás(Rising up.) - Gabriella! . . . No. Would go in there, wouldn’t you . . . Left out here with it - how you going to get back, eh? Never thought of that . . . Little girl, eyes full of maps, lost in there - too much in there! Got to push it down deep. In there - not let it spill out. Here. Drown in it, otherwise. Hate to state the obvious. Terribly crude and all that - do realise it, ectetera - don’t journey in maps! Use them, like a staff to walk with, yes . . . But you - eyes layered over with floating Realms, swimming together like architectural jellyfish. Too many maps over your eyes - can’t see the Court anymore. Just another wave among many. Need to onion-peel your eyes raw, strip them to here. Fix it, yes . . . Only in there now. You. With no map out here, eh, Sphintcer? Left on the shore alone . . . What she going to do? Drown, no doubt . . . Her mouth stuffed, eyes laminated over with useless maps - she has no Court to spread them out from! No good, if one cannot distinguish the Court from the Realms of its maps. Get confused, float away into seas of yawing diagrams and hieroglyphs . . . Yes, yes - got to pull her back - land her, gasping and flopping on the sand. Know that. No choice, is there? Eh? Absolutly not . . . Still, raises the proverbial, on the back of the neck . . . Alright for you - haven’t got any . . . Come on, then . . . Up you get . . . (Tomás bends down and hauls Sphincter up onto his back. The latter curls up around his neck and waist, mewling softly, as Tomás edges up to the wash of clothes.) Hush now . . . Got to listen hard . . . Gabriella - lost in the clothes - the foreignness of the world . . . Hook her back, see? Not drown ourselves, though. Would rather complicate the issue. . . . Got to tread carefully - not sink too quickly . . . Only then can we sift back. Find the here and now. The Court. (Tomás pulls off his boots and places them on top of a vivid blue cloak.) There - a marker. A beacon home . . . A pointer to search from and find back, yes? Will not drift. Emphatic on that point - not open to debate. So very sorry and all that. But absolutly will not drift! Roll up a map and underneath is the Court - anchored. No point in spending life finding map under map under map . . . Prefer stone at centre of fruit . . . Hard and real . . . Oops, careful does it . . . Stupid joining Realms if one half of that join is nothing but the many maps of caprice.