ARTHUR ARCHIVES 7 - HENRY AVERY

ABOARD THE SMALL FANCY, BELOW DECK

(MUSIC)

(ARTHUR WRITING WITH A QUILL. FAINT WIND AND WAVES FROM OUTSIDE. A LAMP BURNING ON THE DESK NEXT TO HIM)

ARTHUR

Dear, anonymous parchment!

I write this to you, upon you, for you to carry my burden away from me.

These visions were unrelenting and insistent. They occupied all of my mind, it was as if nothing else existed. I had no grasp of another reality, this reality did not exist. I had no grasp of myself, nor of any safety. My whole world was this night terror.

Then a minute ago, I woke up drenched in sweat.

(CHUCKLES) I will tell you, anonymous parchment, of my terrifying dream. And then I'll stuff you in a bottle and throw you out to sea. A ritual, to be rid of this nightmare.

Oh yea! Queen Mebd has been with me! Or as my good friend William Shakespeare changed it to… Queen Mab. The midwife of fairies, that evil spirit, the night-mare, the succubus, yes, this was she!

Others might have blamed the storm, or said I have bad sea-legs. But I know better. This was her doing.

(LAUGHS AT HIMSELF)

I mean, she must be dead of course. But her curse... her curse! It still haunts me.

This was my dream:

I was walking along an icy surface. I say "walking", but it was more a sort of a... waddle, I would say. My feet were rubbery and they stuck to the surface, and I had no shoes on.

(GETTING MORE AGITATED)

Then I noticed I was covered in feathers. Sticky, greasy feathers. I thought: Are they glued on to me? Or is this a garment I can rid myself of? But as I was moving to undress from this hideous coat, I see that I don't have hands. I have wings! Small, lumpy, wings. And no fingers. So I cannot remove my coat, but then I realize, this slimy plume is no winter coat. The feathers grow out of me!

I scream in terror! But the sound that comes out of my mouth is a caw! A shrill honk of a birds caw!

Then I catch sight of myself in the ice. I am a plump black bird with a white belly and an orange beak.

I have never before seen such a bird. But I know immediately what kind of bird it is... I am a Medb-bird!

I- I flap my wings in despair, but my body doesn't lift off the ground. No. You see- This bird doesn't fly. I am stuck to the ground. Though I crave the water... I feel drawn to the icy cold water, to duck into the darkness, to eat raw fish. Yuck! Yuck! I feel like it is something I simply must do, but at the same time it disgusts me so!

Oh, Mebd. How could you think up such an abomination? A creature no god could ever have imagined! Your mind is the Devil's. You have planted in me this image, and now I have to dream it.

(COMPOSES HIMSELF) I’m sorry. (CLEARS THROAT) You see… The dream comes and goes. Oh yes, this is not the first time I dream of this hellish creature. No, I have dreamt of it before, many a time. Sometimes, the dream comes often. Other times, there may be years and years between each dream, and I may think I have finally left it behind me! But oh no, I have no such luck. Inevitably, eventually, it comes back. It may be prompted by the sight of a magpie or a chessboard... or by nothing at all. Like now. There was no reason why I should dream of this bird right this instant. But here I am.

Writing this down has been good. I did not used to be one for committing stories to parchment, but I have come a long way since then. The act of writing, followed by an act of destruction... Yes, there may be healing powers in that ritual.

But, dear parchment, I have changed my mind. I will not put you in a bottle or throw you out to sea. Because if I did, someone might find you and read my tale! And I do not wish to pass these cursed, unnatural thoughts on to anyone else. No… The hell-vision of the sickening Mebd-bird shall remain with me.

But there are other ways of ridding myself of my nightmare. I am sorry, dear parchment. You have been a good listener. But what comes next has to be done.

Oh, what I would give to never think about the Mebd-bird again! Therefore, this is my prayer: That as this parchment vanishes, so does my curse. In accepting my story, maybe, just maybe, you have helped me to rid myself of this curse for good.

(The INTERVIEWER takes a moment to look at what he's written. Then he opens the lamp. He puts the parchment to the flame. It cathes fire. We hear it burn until there is nothing left)

(HE MUTTERS)

Please work… Please work…

Ou! Ou!

Hm… Should have let go.

(GETTING MORE AND MORE EXCITED) Phew... Yes... Yes, I can feel the curse lift.

(THEN WE HEAR MUFFLED SOUNDS FROM ABOVE DECK)

(THE LITTLE FANCY IS DRIFTING THROUGH THE FOG AND CRASHES INTO AN ICEBERG. ICE FALLS ONTO THE DECK. KOZLOWSKI IS ON THE POOP DECK STEERING)

KOZLOWSKI

FROM ABOVE DECK

Hngh!

ARTHUR

What the...? What is going on?

(ARTHUR GETS UP FROM HIS DESK. WE FOLLOW HIM AS HE RUNS ONTO DECK. SLAMMING THE DOOR BEHIND HIM)

INTERVIEWER

Did we run ashore?

KOZLOWSKI

I am sorry, but I cannot see anything in this fog! It is thick as pea soup.

INTERVIEWER

Yes, and not the good kind that Boyd makes, with plenty of crispy bacon. Where are we?

(AVERY COMES ON DECK)

AVERY

Did I hear ice? Sweet as a nut!

SHOUTS

Ey! Lads! Scoop up some of that and make us some iced bumbo! Chop, chop, we're all thirsty!

(HE STRIDES OFF AGAIN)

KOZLOWSKI

We are either very far south or very far north.

INTERVIEWER

That storm really blew us off course... What is that?

KOZLOWSKI

What?

INTERVIEWER

That - on top of the iceberg? It's moving -

(A PENGUIN JUMPS ONTO DECK)

(TERRIFIED) Ahh!

(THE PENGUIN CAWS AND WADDLES TOWARDS THEM)

KOZLOWSKI

Well, hello there...

INTERVIEWER

(BACKING AWAY FROM THE BIRD)

Get away! Get away from me!

KOZLOWSKI

What is wrong?

INTERVIEWER

Can you not see what it is?!

KOZLOWSKI

It is a strange looking bird...

INTERVIEWER

Captain Dead Eye...!

KOZLOWSKI

Ay?

INTERVIEWER

Do you not recognize it?

(HE KEEPS MUTTERING FOR IT TO GET AWAY)

KOZLOWSKI

I do not think so. It is black and white, but it is nothing like a magpie or a swan...

INTERVIEWER

It's a Mebd-bird, Captain! It - is - a - Mebd - bird!

(AGONIZED YELL)

(MUSIC)