ĐĎॹá>ţ˙ ¸şţ˙˙˙śˇ˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙ěĽÁ5@ đż&ŠbjbjĎ2Ď2 ,Ô­X­X ‚˙˙˙˙˙˙ˆŽŽŽŽŽŽŽÂŚiŚiŚi8Ţi, jôÂÜpî k k k k k k k k*l,l,l,l=ilúcnú]p$ĘqRtxpŽ k k k k kpŽŽ k k–pœkœkœk k"Ž kŽ k*lœk k*lœkRœkîkŽŽîk kţj  ~%ĘÂăÁŚiBk"îklŹp0Üpîk”tdk"”tîkÂÂŽŽŽŽ”tŽîk k kœk k k k k kppÂÂägŚi†kÂÂŚiTHE DESIRE OF WOMEN David Calcutt This is a story about men and women Women and men The wrongs between them The rights between them The harm that's done And the hurt that's healed A crime committed A crime atoned A soul condemned A soul redeemed A story from the old times But true for our times And in this time of the tale's telling It begins with A knight ****** Arthur's court at Camelot. The great hall hung with tapestries and banners. Arthur on his throne, Guinevere next to him. Around them, and on either side, assembled knights and their ladies. The cream of chivalry. They gaze in silence at one who stands alone, this knight, weaponless, stripped of his armour, hands and feet bound in chains, head hanging in shame. All wait. Then a door opens, someone enters, and the door closes again behind her. She walks to the centre, pace measured and steady, a slight figure in simple dress, And stops, just a few feet away from the knight. And looks at him. He doesn't look up. She seems to want him to look up, but he doesn't, even though he can feel her gaze upon him. And she knows they're all waiting to hear her speak, they want to hear what she's got to say. So she speaks, and keeps her eyes fixed on him. The Woman: This is him. This is the man. I'll tell you what happened. I was riding through the forest with my lord and husband. We were making out way home to our castle, which lies on the other side of the forest. My lord was a little way in front. It was hot, as I remember, a hot day in midsummer, about the middle of the day. Soon, we came to the river that runs through the forest. It cuts across the path. There's no bridge over it, just a shallow ford, it's the one place you can cross. And as we came down the bank towards it, we saw a horse, and a knight, kneeling by the water, drinking... Fade the court. Cross to the scene by the river, as the woman describes it. The steep bank sloping down out of the trees, sunlight on water, rattle of shallows over the stones. Closeup of the knight's face, the same knight who's now a prisoner and stands on trial. He's bending over the river, cupping the clear cold water in his hands, splashing it over his face, sucking it up greedily out of his palm. Helmet and sword are on the ground beside him, and he shows sign of weariness and long travel. He's aware of nothing until - Thump of hooves, clank of stirrup and harness, ssshhhkkk! of sword drawn out of its sheath. And he turns, still kneeling, and sees this rider above him, this man on a horse, helmeted and visored, deep voice bawling out of the armour. The Lord: Get out of our way! What are you doing here? Move aside! Let us pass. The knight says nothing, too stunned to say anything, he just kneels there looking up, and the voice rants again. The Lord: Did you hear me? Fool! Are you an idiot? This is my river, my land! I want to cross my river! Stand aside, get out of our path! Then, just as the knight's rising, this man on the horse kicks out with his foot, and catches him in the stomach - The Knight: Oooofff! - and sends him staggering, falling, flat on his back in the water. The man on horseback laughs. Digging in his spurs, he urges his horse forward, splashing into the shallows. And his lady - we recognise her from the scene in the court, she's the one who's telling this story - His lady, behind him, further up the bank, begins to follow. But she's hardly started to move, and her husband's horse has hardly entered the river, when the knight's up on his feet and grabbing at him, and dragging him down heavily off his horse, landing him with a crash in the water. And then he's running to the bank and grabbing his sword, and turning just in time to parry the other's first blow. And steel meets steel And their blades clash And the fight's on. They go at it hammer and tongs, little or no skill involved, just thump and crash, heavy and slow, Lugging their weight through the mud of the riverbank, batter and bash, slugging it out with grunt and gasp - hours pass and there's still no sign of outcome. It's no surprise. Men can go on like this all day sometimes, sunrise to sunset, they're built for it, like farmhorses, All they need is stamina and dogged determination - a resolve to win bordering on the psychopathic - So it goes on - and the day lengthens - light starts to fade - shadows gather in the river - the sun is sinking above the treeline - (And don't forget her, the woman, her lord's lady, watching it all from horseback a little way up the bank, just sitting there and steadily watching) Until, quickly, suddenly, the end comes. Medium closeup. Move in for the kill. Caught by a sudden, glancing blow to the side of his helm, her lord and husband, master of the land on which he's about to die, is down, Crumpling backwards awkwardly, sword slipped from his grip, hands grabbing at the air in slow-motion, as if trying to climb back up again, like a cartoon figure almost, And the other's upon him, knee in his chest, tearing the visor up, to snatch a quick look at the face, a stranger's face, the face of a man who knows he's going to die and doesn't even bother to ask for mercy And then the arm's pulled back and up and the blade stabs down into the neck, deep down into the exposed throat, in and through and out again, drawing after it the last rasp-rattle and gasp of bloody breath And the body crashes deadweight into the earth And a woman screams And birds scatter And we follow them, with our eyes, this flock of rooks, rising from the trees, flung up in a panic, cawing and wheeling and swinging away, leaving behind them only the echo of their voices, a few fallen feathers, and an empty sky. Fade on the birds. Cross back to the court. Closeup of the woman's face. She's just finished speaking. Her lips are slightly parted. Her eyes shine. There's a flush on her cheeks. She's looking straight ahead, and we know who she's looking at. A voice speaks, echoing, as if from far off. She turns her head. It's Arthur. Leaning forward, speaking to her. Arthur Is this all? She doesn't answer. Arthur Is there nothing else? Still no answer. He goes on. Arthur What you've just told us, though a regrettable incident, is no crime. Two men fighting, one winning, one losing. This knight and your husband were equally matched. Each took his chance. Your husband lost. And it must be said, so it appears to me, the fault was as much his own quick temper. At this, a faint smile touches her lips. The Woman My lord was ever quick to anger. And upon the way we had exchanged hot words. And now it's Arthur's turn to smile. Arthur If each man here who had spilled blood were to be brought to trial - Ripple of laughter through assembled knighthood, suddenly brought up short by - The Woman It is not for spilling my husband's blood I accuse him! For the first time, vehemence in her voice. And real hatred. The grimness comes back into Arthur's. Arthur There's more, then. The Woman Yes. There's more. As you all well know. Arthur If there's more you must tell us. It is this business of this court - The Woman The business of this court! Words spat, harsh, flat. The business of this court is justice. That is what I came here for. That's what I demand. That's what I will have. I will have justice. Arthur, slowly, calmly, deliberately, speaks. Arthur Then tell us. What crime did this knight commit? What is your accusation against him? And finally, almost tenderly. It must be spoken. She knows it must. And she turns her gaze back to the knight, and speaks it. The Woman He raped me. This knight. This man standing here. After he'd killed my husband he pulled me from my horse, and there on the ground by the river, with my husband's body on just a few feet away, he raped me. Now it's been said, now it's out in the open. And every man's face there flinches Every man feels the presence of his lady at his back like a shadow It's darker now, long shadows fall across the walls and floor, strips of black gashed across the light Only she stands still illuminated in a pool of light And he in shadow with his head still bowed Arthur breaks the awful silence that has followed her words Arthur And is this true? Does she speak the truth? Do you deny it? Cut to closeup of the knight's face. For the first time, he lifts it, out of the stripe of shadow. His lips move. His words, when he speaks them, are barely a whisper, but still they fill the whole room. The Knight No. I do not deny it. She speaks the truth. Cross-cut to Arthur. No reaction to the words, no emotion on his face. He stands, assuming his full royalty, addresses the assembly with the voice of a king. Arthur We have heard the accusation. We have heard the admittance of guilt. There is no need to consider further. A trust has been broken, a most sacred law violated. For this there can be only one judgement. And he turns his gaze full on the knight, who meets it. This court sentences you to - Guinevere Wait! It's Guinevere, Arthur's wife. No one else would dare interrupt the king in mid-sentence. But she would. And she does. And when she does, he listens. Guinevere This crime is a crime against a woman. And a crime against a woman is a crime against all women. Therefore, it's only right and fair, that the culprit should be condemned by women. Hand him over to us. We'll pass sentence, we'll decide on his punishment. And you can be sure - you can be certain of this - he'll get the full punishment he deserves. Arthur considers, but only for a moment. He nods, gives the signal, the men leave the court, and the knight's left alone with the women. And this is what they tell him. This is the judgement they pass. He stands condemned of a dreadful crime. His life is forfeit and in their hands. And they'll see that he dies, and that his death will be terrible. Unless he can answer a simple question. And if he can answer this simple question He'll keep his life, and he'll go free. But there's only one answer And he'll only get one chance to answer it. A year from today. Or, to be more precise, a year and a day, He must stand before them again, and deliver his answer. And the question they want him to answer is this: What is it that women most desire? That's it. That's the question. What is it that women most desire? Now go, they tell him. See if you can find out. Return here with your answer in a year and a day. We'll hear it and decide if you should live or die. Then they're silent. And he leaves. With their eyes watching him. Slow steps, heavy with the weight of that question, The steps of man walking towards his doom. ******** So the knight travels out across England. Montage of his journey, one scene fading into another. Hilltops, forests, moorland, marsh, Intercut with the places he comes to - The towns and the villages, the markets and inns. Everywhere asking the same question: Knight What is it that women most desire? Everywhere receiving a different answer. 1st Woman Fun! 2nd Woman Money! 3rd Woman Pleasure! 4th Woman Love! 5th Woman A new wardrobe. 6th Woman A new hairdo. 7th Woman A new husband. 8th Woman Tell me I'm beautiful and I'll tell you. 9th Woman A man who can keep it up all night. And when I say up...do you know what I mean? 10th Woman A day without washing. 11th Woman Or cooking. 12th Woman Or cleaning. 13th Woman Kids who'll do what they're told. 14th Woman A good night's sleep. And none of these answers are right. He knows that none of them is the one that will save his life. And somehow he feels that this whole thing's just a joke, a cruel game, and they're all in on it, all of them, and if there's one thing that they all desire, it's to make men suffer! Laughter. The laughter of women. ******** Dark night. A campfire burning, The knight's face lit by the flames of this fire. He's on a high, flat hilltop. In a circle around him, Nine stones, ancient, upright, worn with age and shining in the moonlight. At the centre, a tenth, smaller, squat. The moon's full and the black sky's deep with stars. He hunches forward over the flamelight, a look on his face of resigned gloom. The year's passed. Tomorrow's the last day of his reprieve, The day when he'll return to the court, give his answer to Guinevere. But which answer? He's heard so many. He stares into the flames, as if maybe he'll find it there, but all he sees is his coming death, at the hands of the women, which he knows won't be quick or merciful. He shudders. And the fire goes out. A gust of wind, springing up from nowhere, blows it out suddenly And he's plunged into darkness. Straightaway he stiffens, alert, nerves singing, body tensed, senses awake to danger. There's something out there in the dark, beyond the dark, at the edge of his vision, Something there, watching him. He peers into the night. All he can see are those stones. Those nine stones. Suddenly much brighter, standing out clear and sharp, more real somehow - Seeming to tremble and sway a little, seeming to move - He catches his breath, his throat tightens in terror. They are moving. The stones are moving. He can see them, in the moonlight, moving towards him. Stones, slowly taking on human form, Changing there right in front of his eyes, No longer stones, but women. Nine women. All of them looking exactly the same. Same faces, same features, wild and savage and beautiful, Same lithe bodies, shining in the moonlight, And each throat humming the same song. He can hear it now, as they come closer, a low, lilting, sing-song moan, Rising and falling, winding itself like a thread around him, hypnotic, lifting him onto his feet. And suddenly the fire springs up again, bursts into life, But bigger than before, Huge, a great bonfire, a beacon, flames roaring high on the hilltop Licking up to the night sky And he can see the women clearly in the flamelight Closing in around him, pressing him to them As their hands take hold of him, gently grasping, Stroke, caress, touch, grip, And their singing's wilder, an animal wail Rising from mouths filled with teeth sharp as needles And he tries to cry out But he can't He tries to break free But he can't He's trapped, caught, held fast By the animal strength of their animal grip And the animal horror of their animal faces Drugged by the song they're wrapping around him That rises now to its wildest height, a long cry, A howl of exultation As they drag him towards the raging flames And fling him forward onto the fire. ******** Blackout - sudden, utter, complete. Silence. Moments pass. Slow dissolve to dirty grey before dawn light. The knight asleep by the remains of his fire. A waft of breeze stirs the cold ash, blows it across his face. From somewhere nearby, a soft human laugh. He wakes. Blinks. For a moment knows nothing, who or where he is, or what it is that's woken him. Then the laugh, again. He looks up, a little groggily. The stones are back in place, no longer women, just stones. But there, on the smaller, centre stone, just across from the embers of the fire, Is a figure, Squatting like a toad, in filthy rags, a hood pulled down across its face. The laughter again. And the figure raises its arms, and two gnarled, crooked hands grip the edges of its hood, and draw it back To reveal the ugliest face he's ever seen, a face out of some sideshow horror, The sunken, malformed, twisted features Of a hag. Laughing. At him. Showing blackened teeth, withered gums, a fat tongue too big for its mouth. Her one good eye's a watery bowl of rheum. Her nose a bulb of old blisters. His voice cuts through her laughter. The Knight Who are you? And she, her voice a hoarse bubble of mucus, replies: The Hag The one who can save your life. Instantly he's interested. Knight You? How? The Hag I know the answer you're looking for. The answer to the question. What is it that women most desire? I know it. The Knight And you'll tell me? The Hag Yes. For a price. And he's on his guard again. The Knight What price? The Hag A favour. Grant me a favour. Anything I ask, when I choose to ask it. That's my price. Take it or leave it. The Knight Do I have a choice? The Hag Yes. Life or death. This is your only chance. He makes his choice. The Knight Very well. If you tell me the answer, I'll grant your a favour. The Hag You promise? On your honour? He misses the irony of that last word. The Knight Yes. On my honour - and if it lies within my power. The Hag It will. I'll make sure it will. The sun's risen now, low above the skyline. The sky's brightening. A few birds are singing. In the distance, light flashes from the towers of Camelot. The Knight Tell me, then. What is it? What's the answer? And then this creature, this monster out of a fairy tale, raises a single, clawlike finger, and beckons him. And he like, the hero in the fairytale, obeys. And she laughs again, and draws him to her, and places her mouth up against his ear (and he almost recoils from the foul stench of her breath) And whispers the answer. ******** Cut to Camelot, the court again. Assembled women, waiting for judgement. The bright colours of their dresses match perfectly the woven tapestries on the walls And brilliance of the light filtered through the patterned windows. They might be figures from a tapestry, or cut in stained glass. But unlike last time, there's no solemnity about this gathering. More an air of - festivity, A subdued jollity, barely suppressed, As the great door swings open to admit the knight, who walks, full of confidence to the centre of the chamber, and stands erect before the queen. She rises, radiant, and addresses him. Guinevere The year and the day is over. This is your moment of...truth. Have you discovered the answer to my question? His voice, when he replies, is strong and assured. The Knight Your Highness. My ladies. I believe I have. The briefest murmur ripples around the court. Guinevere Tell us, then. But be warned. You only have one chance. If the answer's incorrect, you die. And at our hands. He surveys the faces of the women. All are bright-eyed, hopeful, eager. For his death, or his release, he can't be sure. Probably, he decides, for either. Then he answers. The Knight What is that women desire? I'll tell you. Sovereignty. Mastery. To have your own way. That's the one thing that all women want. Silence. Then - Guinevere smiles. The women smile. He sighs, and closes his eyes with relief. Because he's done it. He's safe, home and dry. His acquittal's assured and his life's his own. He thinks it's over. But it isn't. Guinevere speaks to him again. Guinevere Your words have saved your life. That is the thing that all women want - the thing that all women rarely have. You're free to go. But before you do, there's one more thing I would know. Where did you learn this? Who was it who told you? And before he can answer, a voice speaks up. The Hag I did. All eyes turn in the direction of the voice. And we see her, the hag, shuffling forward, some shadow at the back of the court, As if she's materialised out of nowhere, or has been there all the time, waiting for this one moment. Instantly, the smiles fall off all faces. Because there's something horrible about this small, hunched figure, Something inhuman about the way it moves - Limp - step - hobble - out from the darkness into the light, Something repulsive and obscene about the voice that speaks from behind the hood. But it holds them all. And she's now the complete centre of attention. Hag I told him the answer. Just this morning. I gave it him in the nick of time. But not for nothing. You don't get anything for nothing in this world. I asked him for a favour in return. And he promised to grant it. Anything I asked. And now, here, before all you most...royal and gracious ladies, I ask it. Guinevere speaks to the knight. But her eyes remain fixed on the hag. Guinevere Is this correct? Did you make such a promise? And he has to answer. The Knight Yes. And the Queen, still gazing at this dreadful apparition: Guinevere Then let the...creature ask her favour. And on your life, you must grant it. The hag bows to the queen, then turns to the knight. The Hag Grant me this. Raising two hooked hands to her hood - Make me your wife. Drawing the hood back over her head - Be my husband. To show the ragged horror of her face - Marry me. In sickening closeup. Stunned and utter silence. The Hag's words have driven like nails into the knight's skull. He can't believe what he's heard. His eyes widen. His mouth flaps open, trying to speak, but nothing comes out but a back-of-the-throat gargle. He wants to pretend she said something else, and that he misheard her. He longs for the whole thing to be a terrible dream that he knows he'll wake up from. But it isn't. And he won't. And before he knows it, he's nodded his assent, and the date's set, and everyone's invited And the bride-to-be-claps her hands with delight And the sun bursts through the windows in a blaze of colour. ******** Dissolve to the wedding ceremony. Obviously the knight's had to keep his word. And now the marriage is about to take place. And the whole of Camelot has turned out to witness it. Longshot of the church, from the rear, looking down the centre to the nave. Camera pans the faces of the assembled nobility. They're all here - Lancelot, Bedevere, Gawain, and the rest, The whole pack of them, on holiday from their adventures, The whole tragic web of their combined tales put aside for the moment, As they gather to enjoy this farcical interlude, This satyr-play, this fool's feast. And there, at the altar, the principal clowns, The knight, in his jester's gear, The hag in her rags, The priest, comic-solemn, intoning his lines. The ceremony proceeds along familiar lines. The Priest Dearly beloved, we are gathered together... Etc. To witness this holy and sacred... Etc. Do you take this woman...? And so on. Do you take this man...? And so forth. What God has joined... Approaching the punchline. I now pronounce you man and wife. Then sotto voce, and with complete mastery of timing, the payoff. You may now kiss the bride. She puckers up towards him. Disgusted he recoils. The priest snorts She outstretches her withered arms to embrace him. He staggers back a step. Arthur sniggers. The knight wheels on his heels, and with what dignity he can muster, strides quickly down the aisle. She follows after, hobbling, wheezing. The Hag Husband! My kiss! I want my kiss! He breaks into a run, flies through the door, pursued. And the whole place erupts with laughter and applause. ******** Night sky, a gibbous moon, just on the wane. Its haloed face fills the whole frame of your gaze, Alien, female - no human footprint has yet marked its surface, Its mystery - and virginity - are still intact. Hush of wings. A rabbit screams, the owl's talons clamped in its skull. He turns from the window To where she stands, awaiting him, in the bridal chamber. The bed's made up, the covers drawn back, flowers are strewn across the sheets. By the bedside, a single candle flickers, Its light coagulating to this massed lump of shadow - Her - the Hag - his bride - his - Love? The Hag Love? My love? She croaks from the bed. It's time. Time for you to prove me your husband. Time to make me your true wife. To set the loving seal on our marriage. Time for bed. Time to show me just what kind of man you are. His face, in closeup, can't conceal its revulsion. The very thought of it - a knot of nausea tightens in his stomach. And we could almost feel sorry for, almost pity him - if it wasn't for the thought of what led to all this, of the act he committed, of which this is the outcome. Because now he knows, Now he's absolutely certain That all this is a part of the punishment, That it's been planned from the outset, That somehow, through some supernatural agency, Through some hidden, unfathomable, secret force, All these women have been in league with each other, All in cahoots, ganging up against him, And with just one aim - To make him suffer, pay for his crime And that he'll go on paying to the end of his days. He would, he thinks, have been better off dead. The Hag Husband! Her voice snaps him back to inescapable reality. What's wrong? Why so tardy? What is it? Don't you desire me? Spoken in all innocence - no trace of irony - or so it appears. He looks at her, full in the face. The Knight No, if you want the truth. I don't. She returns his gaze. The Hag My appearance, is it? It puts you off? Yes, he tells her. You could say that. But nevertheless, she tells him, they are man and wife And he has a duty to perform. The thought makes him shudder visibly. A look of horror passes over his face, and she sees it, and pities him. She lays her claw gently on his hand. The Hag Poor man She says, with real sympathy. Looks to you are so important. You see only what seems, not what is. And my looks revolt you. He can't deny it. They do. But, she tells him, if she were beautiful, If, instead of being this revolting, shrunken old-crone, She were a young, shapely, gorgeous beauty, Then, he would desire her, would he not? The answer's too obvious to be given. But what she says next isn't. The Hag Then listen to me, husband. I have it within my power to transform myself. With a single kiss I will become beautiful, like the frog in the old story. Except that, for me, the transformation isn't permanent. I can only become beautiful for half of the time. Either daytime, or nighttime, but not both. And you must choose. To have me ugly by night and beautiful by day, or ugly by day and beautiful by night. So, husband, which will it. Which do you choose? She holds her hand out towards him. Come here she says. Sit by me and tell me your decision. He crosses the room, sits on the bed. Picks up the candle, holds it to her face. Examines every sunken feature, looks for some hidden trace of beauty. He finds none. And he wonders if it's really possible Or if this is just another trick, another game of hers to make a further fool of him, And he asks her this, and she answers: The Hag Husband, none of this is a game. And you should know that all things are possible. Now, I've set you a question, and I'd like an answer. Not in year's time, but now. How would you prefer me? He considers. Decide. Have her beautiful on his arm by day? Choose. And the horror of the nightly return to the marriage-bed? What will you have? Or beautiful in his arms at night? Which will it be? And the world's mockery foulfaced spouse? Choose! Decide! Your judgement! Now! But he can't. He can't choose. And he tells her so. The Knight It's impossible. You decide. Have it your own way. And she leans forward suddenly. The Hag What was that you said? "Have it your own way?" Grasps his wrist with her hand. Did I hear you right? Digging her fingers in deep. You give me the choice? Biting into his flesh.. You give me...sovereignty? Deep down to the bone. He replies, the one word, clearly spoken. The Knight Yes. And the grip on his wrist loosens. A sigh A long sigh of satisfaction escapes her lips And gently, tenderly, she strokes his face, her voice a crooning sing-song of triumph. The Hag Then I'll take it. And you'll know my decision. After I've had my...desire... And she clutches his head And pulls him towards her And he closes his eyes to endure the horror. ******** He's back on the hilltop again. It's night and there's a fire burning. The women are standing in a circle around him, silent, Flamelight licking their skins. And, nearby on the centre stone, the Hag. The nine women start to sing, that same wordless, lilting song. They move in, closing the circle, and for a moment he thinks something terrible is going to happen to him, But they ignore him, walk past him, and gather around the Hag. And start to tear the rags from her body, gently, almost tenderly, Flinging them into the fire, until she stands completely naked - But they don't stop, they carry on, stripping, tearing, Not her rags now but her skin, Ripping the skin from her body, throwing the bloody shreds into the flames That leap higher and higher, blazing around them - And suddenly die. Then he looks in wonder at the figure on the stone. She's no longer a hag, no longer shrivelled and ugly, But tall, beautiful, black-eyed, raven-haired, lips red as fresh blood, And crowned with flowers. She fixes him with her gaze, that strikes through him clean to his very centre, And he falls to his knees, and lifts back his head, And his mouth's torn open by a cry, A long, aching howl of grief rising up from his soul into the morning light. So he weeps, and she's there, comforting, hands stroking his hair, hugging him motherlike to her womb, And his body shakes with the deep sobs, that just keep coming and coming, As if the whole earth is weeping its grief through him, The grief of the mother for her lost son, whose rage at his loss makes the world's wilderness. And it goes on and on, tearing itself up from the roots of his being, As the shot pulls back, and we're looking down from above at this small group on the hilltop, Which suddenly we see is like the eye's pupil, And the centre of the whole vast body of England. At last it's over, the sobbing and the tears. He feels as if he's died of grief, as if there's nothing left inside him now, And that he himself has become nothing, the rags and bones of his armour, picked clean by rain and wind, The scattered weapons of his knighthood, broken and rusting among the grasses, And as he kneels there, feeling himself growing emptier and emptier, A voice speaks, her voice, rising up out of the earth, As if the voice of the earth itself. The Queen Now you are nothing Now you have been stripped of everything you are You are unravelling into the wind, into the air, into the light All that you have ever been you have given up willingly What was taken by force has been returned with humility The offering accepted, the correction made Now with eyes made clear you can begin to see Now with soul made new you can begin to live Moment by moment, now by now The mother's firstborn, the bride's groom. And as her voice fades into the silence of an early morning (The grey light rising, the sky tinged with red) She holds out her hands and he steps towards her, unable to decline, And raises his hands and takes hers in his And it's just like grabbing hold of an electric powerline, just like grasping the whiplash of bare-wire circuitry As shockwave after shockwave of earth's pent-up voltage Pumps without mercy through the whole fabric of his body, Footsole to headcrown, bone-cell to nerve-end, every atom and molecule flashburned to glare And his spine buckles back under the force As everything within him is blasted pure All criminal humanity burned clean away And in that moment before his body finally disintegrates And he disappears completely He sees the world illuminated brilliantly A before-Eden momentary revelation Of things as they once were or could be again Flash-glimpsed and perfect And then it's gone And the marriage is consummated And only his shadow remains, splash-scorched onto the heat-wrinkled grass ****** Longshot of the hilltop, seen from above, closing in, slowly. The time is now. Camelot, if it ever existed, has vanished. That dream, like others, has long passed away. The dreamers have gone back under the hill. On the skyline beyond, pylons sling their thrumming wires. Higher up, a plane passes, its shadow the briefest flicker of motion. But here, on the summit, we see the circle of stones, nine of them, more or less intact, Though weather has worn them to half their size, and some are fallen And one or two have been almost eroded flat. And here, at the centre, ground down by frost and heat and rain, Like the stubs of pitted and broken teeth, Two stones, as if fused, leaning together, With a tenderness that surprises the eye. A sign nearby, planted in the earth and marked, "Ancient Monument", attempts to explain this mystery, Naming them in half-legible words: The Sign The outer ring is known locally as "The Nine Virgins". The two stones at the centre are called "The King and the Queen." The stones again. Wind blows. The grass quivers. 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