Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

All dark within, no light at the window. Almost he knocks, but who would answer? He has a sudden cold sensation, as if from news of a boundless loss. He opens the door.

Empty. Devoid. No presence. Inside the shack it’s chilly; he banked the woodstove before going off to Fletcher that morning, but he doesn’t like to leave the electrical heater on when he’s not there. Too risky, though surely Miranda would keep a watch on it. Wouldn’t she?

Fool, he tells himself. She’s not here. She was never here. It was imagination and wishful thinking, nothing but that. Resign yourself.

He can’t resign himself.

He builds up the fire, switches on the heater. It won’t take the place long to warm up. He’ll have an egg for supper and a couple of soda crackers. A cup of tea. He’s not very hungry. After the adrenalin hit of this first week he’s having a letdown; surely that’s all it is. But he feels a weakness within himself, a dejection, a fissure in his will, a faltering.

Lately his vengeance has seemed so close. All he had to do was wait until Tony and Sal came to Fletcher Correctional for their VIP visit, then make sure they did not view the video of the play upstairs with the Warden but in the sealed wing — where he would be expecting them, although unseen by them at first. Once the video began to run, it would split in two. One version would be the video running onscreen in the rest of the prison. The other version would suddenly have real people in it, directed and controlled by himself. Creating an illusion through doubles — it’s one of the oldest theatrical gimmicks in the box.

But now his vision is blurring. Why is he so sure he can pull this off? Not the play itself; that will already exist as a finished video. But the other play, the improvised drama he has in mind for his distinguished enemies — how to arrange it? He’ll need a degree of technical expertise he doesn’t possess. And even if he can solve that problem, how foolhardy of him to attempt such a gambit! How risky! So much could go wrong. His actors might get carried away, especially in the presence of a tough-on-crime Minister of Justice. That situation could prove tempting for them. Someone might be hurt.

“No harm, no harm,” he tells himself. But there could very well be harm. He doesn’t have any obedient elementals backing him up, he has no real alchemy. He has no weapons.

Better to abdicate. Give up his plans for retribution, for restoration. Kiss his former self goodbye. Go quietly into the dark. What has he ever accomplished in his life, anyway, beyond a few gaudy hours, a few short-lived triumphs of no importance in the world where most people live? Why did he ever feel he was entitled to special consideration from the universe at large?

Miranda doesn’t like it when he’s depressed. It makes her anxious. Maybe that’s why she’s rendered herself invisible, though she’s usually almost invisible anyway. Is that her, in the other room? Does he hear a humming? Or is it only the bar fridge?

The bedroom has a medicinal smell, as if someone’s been ill in it. An invalid, for a long time. No, she’s not in here. Only the photo in its silver frame: the small girl on the swing, frozen in Time’s jelly. Visible but not alive.

He switches on the bedside lamp, opens the door of the large armoire. There’s his wizard’s garment; it’s been waiting for him now for a dozen years. Must it go to waste, after all? Its many eyes glint, alive, aware.

“Not yet,” he tells his magic animals. “Not quite yet. It is not the hour.”

Their hour will be his hour. His vengeful hour. There must be a way he can make it work. Surely he still has a few tricks left.

He moves back into the front room. “Dear one,” he says out loud; and there she is, over in the corner. Luckily she’s wearing white: she glimmers. What is this fretful energy he’s feeling? She’s picked up on his worries, and now she’s worrying herself.

“There’s no harm done,” he says. “And there won’t be, I promise. I will do nothing but in care of thee.”

But what has his care amounted to? He’s protected her, true, but hasn’t he overdone it? There are so many things he should be able to offer her. She should have what other girls her age take for granted, not that he knows what those things are. Clothes, certainly. Pretty clothes, more clothes than she has at her disposal now. She seems to go around in makeshifts, fabricated out of cheesecloth and old bed sheets. She ought to have silks and velvets, or mini-skirts and those tall boots girls these days seem so fond of. She ought to have an iPhone, in a pastel shade. She ought to be painting her nails blue or silver or green, chattering with her friends, listening to music through her pink ear buds. Going to parties.

He’s been such a failure as a parent. How can he make it up to her? It’s a wonder she isn’t sulkier, cooped up here with nobody but her shabby old father; but then, she doesn’t know what she’s missing. Still, he’s been able to teach her a lot of things that most girls her age would never have a chance of learning.

“What have you been up to all day?” he says to her. “Would you like a game of chess?”

Reluctantly — is that reluctance? — she moves to the chess board, set up as usual on the red Formica table.

Black or white? she asks him.

Monday, January 14, 2013.

By Monday morning Felix has recovered his confidence. He must proceed as if everything is unfolding as it usually does with a Fletcher Correctional Players production. This week he’ll help the class explore the main characters, as a prelude to casting them. Now that the troublesome matter of Ariel and Miranda has been dealt with, there shouldn’t be much difficulty over the others, except for Caliban. Caliban is bound to raise uncomfortable issues.

As for his other enterprise, the secret one, he must keep the thread tight in his grasp. He must follow it forward into darkness. Whatever the form the thing assumes, it will depend on exact timing. This is his last chance. It’s his only chance. To vindicate himself, to restore his name, to rub their noses in it — the noses of his foes. If he misses it, his fortunes will ever after droop. They’ve been droopy enough as it is.

He can’t back off, he can’t hesitate. He needs to sustain the momentum. Everything depends on his will.

“How’s it going, Mr. Duke?” Dylan asks as Felix passes through the security check.

“All’s well so far,” says Felix cheerfully.

“Who’s playing the fairy?” says Madison.

“It’s not a fairy,” says Felix.

“Really?”

“Trust me on that,” says Felix. “By the way, next week I’m bringing in a guest actor — a very distinguished actress, actually. Her name is Anne-Marie Greenland. She’ll be playing the female part in the play. Miranda.”

“Yeah, we heard,” says Madison. The grapevine is highly active inside Fletcher Correctional, at least on some matters; or perhaps it’s the surveillance system. Gossip spreads like the flu. “We’re looking forward, eh?” He grins.

“She got clearance?” says Dylan.

“Of course,” says Felix with more authority than he feels. Estelle has arranged that for him. It was a tight squeeze — there were some objections — but Estelle knows which strings to pull and which egos to massage. “I hope that everyone here — the staff — I hope you’ll be welcoming to her.”