Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“Wait! Wait!” shouts Freddie. “Let go! Why are you pinching me? Ow!” His voice recedes toward the back of the room.

“Freddie!” The voice of Sal, shouting. “What’re you doing? He’s my son! I’ll kill you! Bring him back!”

“Shut up.” A voice in the darkness. “A plague upon this howling! Heads on the desk, hands clasped behind your neck! Now!”

Door opening, closing.

“They’re taking him hostage!” Sal yells. “Freddie!”

A shot. “They’ve killed him!” wails Sal.

“You’re coming with us,” says a voice. “On your feet. Now. You too.”

Scuffling sounds. “I can’t see!” Sal, panicking.

“You’ll pay for this!” Tony, his voice cold and level.

Sound of roaring waves and wind, rising to a crescendo. The voices are drowned out. Enormous thunderclap. Confused shouts:

“We split!” “Mercy on us!” “We split, we split, we split!”

Freddie lurches along in the dark, his arms held forcibly behind his back; there’s someone on either side, propelling him. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “Can’t we talk about this? My dad’s the Minister of—” A hand clamps across his mouth, outside the hood.

“Yeah, we know who your dad is. Justice Minister. A pox on him! May the red plague rid him! He’s a dead duck by now.”

“Dead as shit.”

“Right. He’s done and dusted.”

Freddie tries to speak, but his mouth is blocked by cloth.

Sound of a door opening. Freddie is pushed inside. A hand on each shoulder forces him into a sitting position.

Sound of the door closing. Can he remove the hood? He can: his hands are free. Off comes the headgear.

He’s in a prison cell, lit by a single bulb. He’s sitting on one of the bunks, on a scratchy gray woollen blanket. The walls are decorated with amateurish cardboard palm trees, seashells, a squid. There’s a box of plastic Lego blocks in the corner. An awful painting of the seashore, with some kind of horrible mermaid on it. Pinup pose, enormous tits, green seaweed hair. NYMPH O’THE SEA is printed underneath it.

What is this? It’s a riot, they’ve killed his dad, they’re holding him as a bargaining chip? In a room full of paper palm trees and Lego? What?

More importantly, has he pissed himself? Barely not, for which he’s grateful. Good thing there’s a toilet. He’s just finished emptying his bladder into it when a musical selection begins playing through a tiny speaker: there it is, up near the sprinkler on the ceiling. Two singers, or are there three?

Drums, flute sounds. Cripes, thinks Freddie. The song from The Tempest . Is this some kind of weird joke? Are they going to play this thing on an endless tape loop 24/7 to drive him crazy? He’s heard of that, it wrecks the mind. Are they trying to break down his morale? But why?

The music fades, the door opens, and Anne-Marie Greenland slips into the room, still in her luscious off-one-shoulder Miranda dress. She beckons him over into a corner, motions him to stoop so she can whisper into his ear.

“Sorry about this,” she says. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, but—”

“Shh! This place is bugged,” she whispers. “Mic’s up by the lightbulb. Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”

“What is this?” says Freddie. “Is it a riot? Where’s my dad? Did they kill him?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “There’s someone in here who’s crazy. Crazy as a full-moon dog. Thinks he’s Prospero. No, I mean really. He’s re-enacting The Tempest, and you’re Ferdinand.”

“No shit,” says Freddie. “That is fucking—”

“Shhh! What you need to do is stick to the script. I’ve brought your lines, they’re highlighted in the playbook. Here, just do the speeches, over by the light fixture so he can hear you. Otherwise he might lose it. He’s prone to tantrums.”

“Are you in on this? Why would you—”

“I’m just trying to help you,” says Anne-Marie.

“Like, who is this guy?” says Freddie. “Oh, thanks, by the way. I hope you won’t get in trouble.”

“No more than usual,” says Anne-Marie. “He’s a lunatic, that’s the important thing right now. You need to humor him. Start here.”

Freddie reads:

“That’s not bad,” says Anne-Marie. “Maybe with more feeling. Pretend you’re falling in love with me.”

“But,” says Freddie. “Maybe I am falling in love with you. O you wonder!”

“Well done,” says Anne-Marie. “Keep it up.”

“No, seriously,” says Freddie. “Have you got, like, a boyfriend?”

Anne-Marie gives a small giggle. “Is that your idea of asking me whether I’m a virgin? Which is what he does in the play, right?”

“This isn’t the play. So, boyfriend or not?”

“Not,” she says. Level gaze. “Really not.”

“So would you mind if I did fall in love with you?”

“I don’t think so,” says Anne-Marie.

“Because I think I really am!” He takes hold of her two arms.

“Careful,” she whispers. She detaches his hands. “Now we need to get back to the lines.” She moves them over to the lightbulb, clasps her hands, gazes at him with adoration, projects her voice. “Nothing natural I ever saw so noble!”

“Foolish wench!” booms a voice from the speaker. “To the most of men this is a Caliban!”

“What did I tell you?” Anne-Marie whispers. “Crazy as a coot! By the way, can you play chess?”

Justice Minister O’Nally, Heritage Minister Price, Veterans Affairs Minister Stanley, and Lonnie Gordon of Gordon Strategy find themselves being frog-marched in an undignified manner down what seems to be a corridor. They can’t see where they’re going: it’s pitch-dark, except for some glimmering white marks on the floor.

Who’s frog-marching them? They can’t tell: the figures are all in black. Around them winds whistle, waves roar, and thunder crashes, so they can’t hear themselves speak. What would they be saying if they could hear? Would they be cursing, pleading, bemoaning their fate? All of the above, thinks Felix, listening to the din through his headphones.

The procession turns a corner. It turns another corner. Then a third corner. Are they going back the way they came?

The storm sounds increase. Then, suddenly, silence.

There’s the sound of a door opening; they are shoved through it. Dark in here too, wherever here is. Then the overhead light goes on: they’re in a four-bunk jail cell, two up, two down. The walls are decorated with silhouettes of cactuses, cut from brown wrapping paper.

They look at one another. Ashen-faced, shaken. “At least we’re alive,” says Lonnie. “We should be grateful for that!”

“Right,” says Tony, rolling his eyes. Sebert Stanley tries the door: it’s locked. He smooths down his small head, then looks out through the barred window that gives onto the corridor.