The Dead Playwright Society (Closed)

[Duffy]

The Dead Playwright Society

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4k29rpQGG4&feature=related)2602


Closed to Kerrigan Muldoon.

Prologue
Before war, the playwrights held the world in their arms.



“Duffy? I am so sorry to be a burden on you at this critical moment in time, but I have a little…doubt I would like for you to satisfy.” Ruby approached the bard from behind, clad in nothing more than a white sheet swaddled about her midriff. Her grey hair was tied back into a ponytail that stopped at the top of her shoulders, and her face was painted with striking diagonal lines of black ink.

“It had better be im-” Duffy swivelled. He set his cane down on the hardwood floor of the makeshift stage and leant on it, quite taken aback by the spell singer’s appearance. “-portant…” he tried desperately not to laugh. The sudden shift from deep contemplation about the direction he had written for the play to comic divine intervention took him quite by surprise.

“Oh it is, sort of.” She looked at her chest, and realised she was still only halfway through makeup, “forgive the costume, we were just trying out the timing for the savannah scene.” Her own insecurities had caused her to flee, almost automatously from the make-up room to seek out the bard.

Her beleaguered, artistic sister Lillith was apparently not as good at turning women in their mid-thirties into youthful and vibrant gallivanting zebra as she had boasted.

The spell singer took a deep breath before she continued, “I could not help but notice that we have…” she wrinkled her lips, an expression Duffy had long acuminated with jealousy in her female counter part, “a new ‘actress’ in the troupe.”

Oh dear…he sighed mentally. This could only end badly. His experience with performing alongside Ruby over their many long years in the theatre was screaming at him to cut her down before her ideas got any loftier. He wished he had the heart to be so cruel.

The awkward silence that formed between them was kept a crowd’s chatter away from being outright deafening. On the far side of the long red velvet curtain that covered the front of the stage the people of Scara Brae were amassing for the matinee performance. The bard raised his eyebrow, an inquisitive, regal expression of his disappointment with Ruby Winchester’s eternal need to be the starlet of the show.

“That ‘actress’ is one Kerrigan Muldoon. A Miss, I believe, and quite talented at impromptu delivery and really getting to know the people she is working with.” He had witnessed her audition himself only three days ago. Her transition from shy and meek canary into bristling, chest beaten bird of paradise had been quite remarkable. If there was anyone for Ruby to be jealous of on the island of Scara Brae, Duffy was certain it was she.

“You could have said…” she whimpered, her conviction and charisma fading into nothingness. She turned her feet inwards and started to play with the folds of her costume. Duffy had, for some reason, become able to undo all of Ruby Winchester’s usual dominating presence with his calm, bitter façade. He was not sure if was his injury and the accompanying cane, or if he had recently acquired powers beyond his limited understanding. He quite liked the feeling it gave him, he felt in control, something he had sorely missed in the long years of tyranny under the once read headed Ruby La Roux.

“Given Lissa was taken ill with Whooping Cough at the turn of the month, there was little time to find a replacement as is, without me having to run everything past the rest of the cast,” he emphasised cast to reinforce the fact that this was his play, and Ruby was one of his players. Whilst she had many manuscripts under her own bodice, the performance of Passion of the Phoenix was his. Ever since he had written it a century ago, Lissa had always played the leading female role.

“As long as she did not get the part of Clarissa I will for-” her jaw dropped at Duffy’s grimace. “Oh Duffy that is…” she stomped her heel. It had not occurred to Ruby that Zebra did not wear three inches of steel reinforced footwear. “That is just,” she turned and streamed from the stage before she could say something she might regret.

The bard remained utterly still and woefully silent for several minutes whilst he tried to work out what exactly had just happened. The rising pain in his right leg brought him back to life, and he jostled on the spot as he fondled the silver tip of his black lacquered walking cane. The chatter of the crowd, just feet away grew louder and louder as the time for the curtain to rise drew nearer and nearer.

“The show must go on…” he said begrudgingly.

He turned to exit stage left, the long flaps of his military jacket swirled in his wake. Obscured from the heat of the afternoon sun, he was quite cool as he descended the small, rickety stairs into the cavernous backstage area. As soon as he crossed the threshold into the maze of crates, clothing rails and hive like activity however he became quite hot and flustered. Surrounded by painted ladies, noblemen and orphans dressed as flowers, he felt sick, anxious, spiralling. It was the feeling he got when a performance felt like it was going to be resplendent.

Duffy felt alive now more than he ever had acting himself. People respected him for his role as the director, a universal acclaim for his authority that he had never felt before, no matter how wonderful he had been out in the prying eye of the public.

“Curtains up in thirty minutes, ladies and gentlemen!” he roared. He ducked with a lump under a pane of glass as it moved haphazardly through the sand bag room and out into the foyer of the hotel the stage was built on the front of. He could only assume it was a part of Lillith’s grandiose disaster sequence.

When Lillith was concerned, it was best to just let her do her own thing, and use the surprise and urination of one’s knickers on the stage mid performance as a valuable tool to give a more natural performance. The Tantalum troupe had become famous for their realism. Many believed this was down to a finely crafted aesthetic, excellent rehearsal time tables and blood, sweat and tear dedication. In fact, all it was, in truth, was a slightly deranged woman from Akashima who had too much gold and too much time on her hands.

“I want the flowers and the trees,” Duffy stopped mid stride. He struck Pete; the eldest orphan of the troupe on the back of the head as he was mid stealing a biscuit from Ruby’s private supply, then continued through to a dressing room, “I want them on the stage in fifteen!”

He stepped through the curtain divide and instantly felt secure. His eyes instantly widened as the dark innards of the below stage area gave way to a small courtyard at the rear of the grand structure. Here, in what was the decked area around the side entrance to the bar of the hotel, Duffy’s new project was housed in more comfortable quarters. It was a space a hundred feet long and twenty feet wide, a gallery of luxury, sunshine and shelter beneath the swaying branches of the old oak tree that was the symbol of the Old Harbour Inn.

With shaking fingers he pulled the curtain closed behind him, and lolled his head back with an irate grunt. Shuffling his cane so that it was off the ground, he shook it mid-air and willed it to disappear. It vanished with a faint crack and a slither of white, magnesium light. As he limped over to the tree, and to the circular bench that was built up against its haggard trunk, he cast his glance over the elegant poufs, wardrobes laden with fine gowns and various dressing tables that littered the space. Everywhere he looked, shelves and nooks were laden with all the equipment his leading lady would need to triumph in her debut.

Everything was here, except the leading lady herself.

He slumped back against the tree trunk and took a deep breath. The coarse bark, though rough on his spine made him feel quite humble. He pressed back against it, clicked his neck to life and stared up through the jade and olive leaves of the tree’s spring boughs for a moment, to collect his thoughts. With little time left, he gave up after a few seconds, and looked around once more. He rested his hands on the edge of the bench, and felt the coarse wood in his calloused hands shout a hundred memories of their past endeavours on this exact same spot.

“Kerrigan, are you here?” he said, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to startle. “Could I speak with you a moment?” he let the tension drain from his body, to catch a few last precious moments of respite before a few gruelling hours of chaos. Before that, though, he had to truly welcome Miss Muldoon into the Dead Playwright Society, into the Tantalum troupe proper.

[Kerrigan Muldoon]

“You look ridiculous! Are you mad?!” said the voice, sounding like a screamed whisper.

“Shut up...” was the weak, desperate reply.

“Look at yourself, you are ugly. What are you doing here? Get out!”

“Shut up... just SHUT UP!”

Kerrigan was pacing in circles, whispering and screaming at herself, alternating between the secure and dominant woman she thought she was and the shy and insecure girl she tried not to be. A tear crawled its way over her yellow painted cheek towards her blue lips. With a fierce movement she removed it with the back of her hand, making a mess of her face paint.

For three bizarre days she had been practicing for the lead role in a play. She had tried to rehears day and night but she was not used to saying someone else his words, it went against her instincts. Though she was more used to lying then speaking that which people like to call 'truth', this was different. Not only did she have to dress up in this incredibly stupid canary suit and have silly paint all over her body, the director wanted her to act naturally and – even worse – “just be herself”.

'What's his deal with all that stupid sensitive crap?' she thought.

When it had all become too much she had ran out her dressing room, past the large oak in the courtyard and through a tiny service door. So here she was, pacing in frustration because she did not have the guts to run away in panic nor to return to the preparations.

The play was horrible, she hated it. She kept telling herself that, trying to convince the part of her which wanted to do this so much. Yet no matter how much she tried to hate it, she was enthralled by the opportunity to not just play in a performance, but to give life to the lead role! At the same time, Kerrigan had long decided that nice stuff like this was not in the cards for her. If life was a play then it was bitter tragedy. Perhaps the divine crowd would call it a comedy, as they would laugh their asses off seeing the world go to shit. No, Kerrigan had long decided that life is a mess and she was not about to change her philosophy just because some fancy writer slash director couldn't get anyone better then her.

But then again, she got to become this beautiful bird at the end of the play!

Just when she was about to return to the dressing rooms she heard a voice calling her, coming from the courtyard. Kerrigan tightened her all muscles, assured herself it would probably go alright and relaxed. As she stepped back through the little wooden service door, she recognized Buckland “Duffy” Defoe sitting on the circular bench.

Though he had his odd manners and even despite he was an 'he', she had some respect for Duffy. As a performer he was incredibly skilled, not only in acting but also in dancing, the flute, singing and of course writing and directing plays, and probably in a lot more. Duffy had been kind to her and instructed her about the basics of acting in a play. While Kerrigan was certainly not new to the show business, she was used to perform as a trickster and illusionist and acting is a whole different thing altogether.
At first she had felt very insecure around him, as she couldn't grasp why a skilled bard like him would have chosen a woman like her for the lead role. Conditioned by the harsh life on the streets, she had automatically assumed he would demand some form sexual favor or some other crap men thought of. Surprisingly enough, he appeared to actually belief she was fit for the role. Simple logic dictated he must be turning either crazy or blind.

“I am here, Defoe.” she said, while rapidly approaching her employer. She quickly grabbed a make-up mirror from one of the scattered dressing tables to check her appearance. A scary looking canary looked back; her left cheek had turned into a whirlpool of yellow and blue paint, mixed with black globs of mascara. Attempting to hide her face, and more important her shame, she quickly turned around and fruitlessly tried to restore the damage.

[Duffy]

The stark and surprising contrast between Ruby’s drab costume and Kerrigan’s resplendent attire took Duffy quite by surprise. He had to go through the seven expressions of shock before he rectified his doubts. The woman in front of him was, in fact, his new leading lady. Though he had come to give her one final test, the brightly coloured duckling vestment and her serene pleasantness did much of the work for him.

“I say, Miss Muldoon, you look quite the part,” he smiled warmly. “Though I do wish you would call me Duffy, Defoe is for more formal affairs and for those who think titles are meaningful,” which to Duffy, was everyone outside the troupe, not friends and family. “Still,” he cocked his head, “I appreciate your manners.” He watched her make amends to her painted face with a perturbed frown. He never had quite gotten to grips with the vanity of women.

“I just came to see if you were set for the opening scenes; the curtain is up in,” he lolled his head, “oh, about twenty minutes I would say.” He shifted his weight from one buttock to the other and leant forwards, taking an upright, authoritative seat on the circular bench.

“Twenty five minutes?” Kerrigan’s face drooped. Apparently, half the afternoon was not enough to rehearse, Duffy chuckled. “Twenty five minutes?” she practically choked, her pained expression reflected back at her striking eyes in the small compact.

“Calm, down,” Duffy practically screamed the word, pressing down with flat palms do indicate his need for peace. “You are more than ready to do this, you have learnt something that took the troupe’s greatest female actress six months to perfect in three days straight.” An achievement that Ruby would always hate and Duffy would be forever grateful for.

Kerrigan came to her senses, but increased the frenzy with which she adjusted her make-up. The sound of the branches rustling over head as a soft breeze kicked over the stalls from the north broke the tension. The sun would soon crest the northern steeple of the tavern, and illuminate the ever burgeoning crowd in the grand square below. Then, on the corner of the Harbour Junction, where the road from Market Square met Juniper Avenue and Cornish Lane, the performance could begin.

“Stop stressing,” he added.

“I am not stressing,” she snapped, her stern expression only compounded by the blue and yellow paint. It was a piercing gaze Duffy would have been threatened by in another life. He had no time now to let a diva get her way.

“Show me,” he said, a friendly challenge in his words. He pushed himself upright and leant forward on the silver tip of his cane. The distant memory of Visla Eraclaire swelled in the back of his mind. “Show me that you are ready, and that you are right to be here, now, about to make your debut in the theatrical circle of Scara Brae.”

Kerrigan blinked. She shuffled from toe to toe, her hatred for the play and the enigmatic playwright that had penned so many clichés was thawing with every second.

“Okay, but how?”

Duffy clicked his fingers with a snap, and held out his palm, flat, as if he were feeding a horse. In a sparkle of blue ribbon, white light and rhythmic fanfare of tom drums, a single sheet of parchment appeared from nowhere. He took it into his confidence and stared at it down the ridge of his nose, as if he were looking through thick rimmed librarian spectacles.

“From the beginning of Act Three, scene two, let us go through the scene where the ugly duckling laments his misfortunes to the crows.” It was a poignant scene in the middle of the play, before a confrontation with the idolised swan made the ugly duckling realise just how beautiful she really was. It was a transformative sequence that had encapsulated so many generations of common and nobleman alike. Scara Brae lived to see this performance on St Scythian’s Day. It was not what Duffy or Ruby or Kerrigan might have wished to be performing, but it was what the people wanted to see, and what the people wanted, mattered more than anything.

They had the gold, the Tantalum had the debt. It was supply and demand.

“I will read the crows,” he cleared his throat, and without looking at his lead, he remained focussed on the script, dedicated to giving her one last push before she stole hearts and minds. The soft sunlight began to creep over the curtain rail, warming the stuffy quarters of the backstage to feverish and hellish levels. The smell of varnish, jasmine incense and lavender filled the air.

[Kerrigan Muldoon]

While Kerrigan felt incredible nervous and uncertain, it wasn't a bad sense of uncertainty. It wasn't like standing naked in a room full with people, instead it felt more like the hopeful but uncertain feeling you had right before you gave someone close to you a precious gift.

Closing her eyes for a moment she tried to let go of her fears and trade her tension for energy. She opened her eyes, cleared her throat and became the ugly duckling...

She looked down at her feet, trying to imitate shame, and took a shy step forward. Tilting her head slight she first scanned the horizon, and the looked up, pretending to recognize the crows.

“Oh cunning creatures of the clouds, heed my hail in this horrifying hour, listen to my laments, see me suffering in silent sadness, mourn my misery and misfortune. Which way am I to wander? Speak to me ships of the sky, show me a shelter to shroud my spiteful sight! Cursed am I, curse the day I came to be. “

When Kerrigan had suggested to Duffy that he might have been a bit too enthusiastic with the use of alliterations he had scornfully reprimanded her. Apparently, his alliterations weren't artificial but was authentic art; at least, that is what he said.

Continuing with the drama she sunk to her knees, wildly flinging her trembling arms and hands about.

Now it was Duffy's turn to play the old and mean crow. Skilled with his voice he made it sounds just like one.

“Raa! Raa! Ugly duck!
What is this, I now see? You are as ugly, as one could be.
Skewed you look, your beak is crook',
A nose too big, much like a pig.

Raa! Raa! Ugly duck!
You do no good, so cry you should.
I have no ruth, this is the truth,
don't be here, just disappear!”

It was a difficult scene, but an important one. After Kerrigan's reply, a second crow would interrupt her and speak wise words.

[Duffy]

Duffy opened his mouth to speak, then realised it probably was not worth continuing. He had seen enough of Kerrigan Muldoon’s talent to sedate his curiosity, appease his doubts, and most important of all, prove to himself that he made the right decision. Seeing her emote, recount, and eloquent the verse from one of the more difficult scenes of the play off the cuff and without much in the way of warning, the playwright reached the conclusion that, yes, Ruby would make him pay, but this was by far the most spectacular casting the troupe had in years.

“Just, wow, Kerrigan, wow,” he said excitedly, removing the script from her still shaking hands. He dropped it non-chalant onto the circular bench at the foot of the tree and rested forwards on his cane. It took his featherweight with ease, a black rod of office in a kingdom of theatre. “I think I can safely say that I have heard quite enough to put my doubts to rest.” He smiled, “you my dear are more than ready to get up onto that stage and not only bedazzle, but sparkle, shine, and encapsulate.” He paused to gather his wits about himself, as he was rapidly running out of flattery.

There was a distant round of applause over the curtains, and Duffy craned his neck to listen. There was a crash on the wind, then applause, and then a sudden silence.

“What is it, Duffy?” Kerrigan frowned, a multi-coloured look of worry tarnishing her beauty.

“That,” Duffy began, “is the warm-up act. We have twenty minutes or so, and since the first placement begins in five, you should tend to your last minute preparations, and then get to the side of the stage to prepare for your big entrance.” He retreated several cankerous steps, and looked his leading lady over one final time. In twenty minutes or so, after he gave the opening narrative, she would spring out into the debut of her career, and two hours later, be showered with red petals, adoration, and if his predications were worth their weight, a lot of gold to boot.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god!” she sputtered, arms flapping like mocking wings, face stricken with a sudden, all too familiar, and perfectly natural look of despair.

“Hey,” he stared, “let it out, it is the way of the stage.” He tried, and failed, to incite confidence in his young charge with a smile that could have melted butter, if it was not already a puddle on the saucer in the intense heat of the Scara Braen summer sun. He took a deep breath, as if trying to instruct Kerrigan how to do so, then made his way on a quick turn of his heel towards the divide in the curtain.

“Where…where are you going?” the duckling pleaded, knees knocking; eye glaring, and heart racing. Duffy stopped, hand pressed desperately against the crimson divide.

“I my dear have to, as we say in the business, knock heads together,” he specifically meant one grey haired head in particular; Ruby’s. “I shall see you stage right shortly, and then we make a spectacle of your talent,” he smiled coyly over his shoulder, his dusty jacket and gold threaded colour half masking his features. With that, he slipped through the veil and ventured into the sweltering, red-stained under world of the Tantalum troupe.