Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

Tony and Sebert are right behind him, and Lonnie and Freddie are right behind them. Right behind Lonnie and Freddie are three of the sailors, tossing — what’s this? — handfuls of blue, glittering confetti. “It’s water drops,” says the Boatswain. “There’s a storm, right?”

“Oh, right,” says Sal. What are shenanigans like this doing inside a prison? These men are having way too much fun.

To the rear of the party a door slides shut, locking with a clunk. Only to be expected, thinks Sal. Of course. It’s the security. He feels safer.

In the distance there’s a rumble of thunder.

“Right in here,” says the Boatswain. “Gentlemen.” He ushers them through the door into the main screening room.

“Well done, PPod,” Felix whispers into his mic. He checks his watch again.

There’s a large flatscreen at the front of the room. More black-clad sailors escort the visitors to their places, indicating with bows and flourishes where they are to sit. Four of the sailors hand around soft drinks, in blue and green plastic cups, and little bags of popcorn, a homey touch. The three Ministers and Lonnie are in the front row; there’s a row of sailors behind them.

Felix, looking at the screen, sees that TimEEz is in the middle of the second row, his round moon face smiling vacantly, his nimble fingers hidden in his sleeves, poised to lift the security pagers as soon as the lights go out.

Where’s the rest of the party? Sal wonders. Oh, right. Upstairs with the Warden and what-not. That nice-looking woman, Estelle: a bit flashy but obviously well connected. He should take her to lunch sometime. He sits back in his desk chair. He’s feeling the drink from that bunfest they went to.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he says to Tony. He checks the time. “At least they didn’t take my watch,” he grins. He digs into his popcorn bag: lots of salt, he likes that. He takes another hefty swig of ginger ale, from the green plastic cup. He’s thirsty. Nice idea, this ginger ale. Too bad there’s no booze in it.

Freddie’s beside Anne-Marie, in the third row. “Hi,” he says to her. “I’m Fred O’Nally. I guess you’re the Miranda? In the play?”

“Yes. Anne-Marie Greenland,” she says.

“Really?” says Freddie. “Are you that Anne-Marie — Aren’t you — weren’t you dancing with Kidd Pivot?”

“You got it,” says Anne-Marie.

“That’s awesome! I must’ve watched your video, like, a hundred times! As a director, I want to integrate, like, more movement, and some crossover—”

“You’re directing?” says Anne-Marie. “Cool!”

“Well, not exactly,” says Freddie, “I mean, not my whole own productions yet. I’m more like an apprentice. But I’m getting there.”

“Here’s to getting there,” says Anne-Marie, raising her clear plastic cup. Freddie raises his. He’s gazing deeply into her wide blue eyes.

“Fabulous dress,” he says. “It’s got the right…” Now he’s looking at her one bare shoulder.

“Thanks,” she says, pulling her sleeve up a little but not enough to hide the shoulder. “I made it myself.”

There are three sharp raps from behind the folding screen at the front of the room: Felix, with his fox-head cane, on the floor. 8Handz’ index finger hovers over the Play button. In the light from the computer his thin face is impish.

Felix glances anxiously around the dark space: where is his own Miranda? There she is, a glimmer behind 8Handz’ left shoulder.

The hour’s now come, she whispers to him.

The house lights dim. The audience quiets.

ON THE BIG FLATSCREEN: Jagged yellow lettering on black:

THE TEMPEST

By William Shakespeare

With

The Fletcher Correctional Players

ONSCREEN: A hand-printed sign, held up to the camera by Announcer, wearing a short purple velvet cloak. In his other hand, a quill.

SIGN: A SUDDEN TEMPEST

ANNOUNCER: What you’re gonna see, is a storm at sea:

Winds are howlin’, sailors yowlin’,

Passengers cursin’ ’em, ’cause it gettin’ worse:

Gonna hear screams, just like a ba-a-d dream,

But not all here is what it seem,

Just sayin’.

Grins.

Now we gonna start the playin’.

He gestures with the quill. Cut to: Thunder and lightning, in funnel cloud, screengrab from the Tornado Channel. Stock shot of ocean waves. Stock shot of rain. Sound of howling wind.

Camera zooms in on a bathtub-toy sailboat, tossing up and down on a blue plastic shower curtain with fish on it, the waves made by hands underneath.

Closeup of Boatswain in a black knitted tuque. Water is thrown on him from offscreen. He is drenched.

BOATSWAIN: Fall to’t yarely, or we run ourselves aground! Bestir, bestir!

Yare! Yare! Beware! Beware!

Let’s just do it,

Better get to it,

Trim the sails,

Fight the gales,

Unless you wantin’ to swim with the whales!

VOICES OFF: We’re all gonna drown!

BOATSWAIN: Get outta tha’ way! No time for play!

A bucketful of water hits him in the face.

VOICES OFF: Listen to me! Listen to me!

Don’t you know we’re royalty?

BOATSWAIN: Yare! Yare! The waves don’t care!

The wind is roarin’, the rain is pourin’,

All you do is stand and stare!

VOICES OFF: You’re drunk!

BOATSWAIN: You’re a idiot!

VOICES OFF: We’re doomed!

VOICES OFF: We’re sunk!

Closeup of Ariel, in a blue bathing cap and iridescent ski goggles, blue makeup on the lower half of his face. He’s wearing a translucent plastic raincoat with ladybugs, bees, and butterflies on it. Behind his left shoulder there’s an odd shadow. He laughs soundlessly, points upward with his right hand, which is encased in a blue rubber glove. Lightning flash, thunderclap.

VOICES OFF: Let’s pray!

BOATSWAIN: What’s that you say?

VOICES OFF: We’re goin’ down! We’re gonna drown!

Ain’t gonna see the King no more!

Jump offa the ship, swim for the shore!

Ariel throws his head back and laughs with delight. In each of his blue rubber hands he’s holding a high-powered flashlight, in flicker mode.

The screen goes black.

A VOICE FROM THE AUDIENCE: What?

ANOTHER VOICE: Power’s off.

ANOTHER VOICE: Must be the blizzard. A line down somewhere.

Total darkness. Confused noise from outside the room. Yelling. Shots are fired.

A VOICE FROM THE AUDIENCE: What’s going on?

VOICES, FROM OUTSIDE THE ROOM: Lockdown! Lockdown!

A VOICE FROM THE AUDIENCE: Who’s in charge here?

Three more shots.

A VOICE, FROM INSIDE THE ROOM: Don’t move! Quiet! Keep your heads down! Stay right where you are.

A black wool hand claps over Freddie’s eyes, then a hood slips over his head and he’s lifted out of his seat. “What the fuck?” he yells. “Let go!”

“You’re goin’ overboard,” says a voice. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here!”

“It’s a prison riot.” The voice of Tony. “Keep calm. Don’t provoke them. Hit the button on your pager. Wait—”

“What pager?” The voice of Sebert. “It’s gone!”