Act the Second

Difficulties show men what they are.
- Epictetus



~ 2.1 ~

High in the boughs of a great oak

	[Enter Jeremy and Brisby]
Jeremy:	Hast thou so much to say? We near the tree now.
Brisby:	It is, by troth, a great oak.
Jeremy:	It is more, and thou dost well to gape oakenly at't. 'Twere a right Teutonic tree, and held 'fore the reign Titanic, and rose a sprout from a fall of the world oak, and makes its roots in the deeps of the earth, and suckles nourishment from the secret springs. As a sapling, it housed the first of the Owls, [he curtsies] and their dynasty's lofty nest, and held the genesis of all we flighty souls, and birthed the first of the great eagles, tho' I'd venture he were then but an eaglet, and quite small. Ah! but I could sing for hours of its yore! What roots it has!
Brisby:	It has a fine lineage then, also A airy eyrie to its higher boughs, And in possession of its storied berth, It shows more promise than its roots in earth. The latter was what I did come to search, Its higher praise doth lie in our owl's perch.
Jeremy:	But thou hast it not in half! Here, let me set it to thee in song: it is well known to we in the community: 'We wing our way from our noble oak, We humble birds and common folk. The prestige of our arbor renown, Is not too heighty to house lowly down...'
Brisby:	Have I not heard this song already?
Jeremy:	No, never. 'And so we sing of ancient oaks that stand, And grew of dryad's songs in nymphic land; And prospered 'fore the long-lost days of auld And whose great histories we now unfold...'
Owl:	Who doth dare grime my step with foolish foot, How not the hallowed oak itself uproot On such audacious trespass as does now Gird itself up, and rightful cause endow? Only because the fruiting season grows Ere its appointed time, and ripe it shows Such problems to the divers birds and beasts, That no one is excluded - not the least. He that my lofty dwelling would access, E'en must a hero's measured couth possess, Right now the grave mistake you have made, or Enter my house, and see what owls are for!
Brisby:	Was that the thunder, or was that a voice? I could not make the first words out at all, I was not listening for an order to 't.
Jeremy:	'Twere the thunder, and 'twere a voice. That, lady, is the owl. [He curtsies]
Brisby:	O, mercy!
Jeremy:	That is, methinks, what brought thee here.
Brisby:	An' owls eat mice!
Jeremy:	Pray, what?
Brisby:	Owls eat mice - it is all I can remember.
Jeremy:	Is it? I should think thy friend the shrew should ha' minded thee of it!
Brisby:	Owls eat mice!
Jeremy:	Repeat that to thyself as thou goest; if it is indeed all thou canst conceit.
Brisby:	I take thy leave. Owls eat mice, owls eat mice, Owls eat mice, owls eat mice...
Owl:	Stand thou there dumb, waiting for me to act? Prate to thyself anon, to state a fact? Even is not yet here, I'm not at prey, And so I shall not snap at thee today. Keep'st thou thy life, I have no interest there, Unkempt thou art, to sneak into my lair, Proffering thyself shall not help thee at all.
Brisby:	It would be a fine day, Sir Owl, when your food delivered itself to you, and a fine day for me.
Owl:	I should grow glutton then, so I shall not Take any mousy motion toward that lot.
Brisby:	Ah, but I am the one taking the motions.
Owl:	Yea, I know precisely.
Brisby:	Having deliberated not to eat me, shall you then let me prosper?
Owl:	What does it mean to prosper, first I ask? Is it to be free from the things that tax, Or must it also contain what is good, Plenteous wealth, no want, and healthy brood? Can any one of us play Fate for gull? Is anyone so wise to be a fool To blindly venture off the bounds of known, And bravely reap the grain of what he's sown? Is anybody sage to throw off want? Is there a soul who does not know to care? Or is it mortal that we blessings flaunt, And turn on bread, for want of better fare? If thou art troubled, all thy concerns wind, And let me listen to thy heart's complaint; Then let me tell thee how thy heart hast sinned, And how ingratitude thy soul did taint. 'Tis truly wise, to resign to thy lot, And be resolved, although thy lot is mean, And try to forget objects thou hast sought, And long searched for, but which have never seen. For us is discord, and contention meant, To quarrel 'bout, and not to be content.
Brisby:	Thou hast lived in thy gloom too long, yet thou know'st me well, and see that I have indeed brought a concern to thy door. Yea, I have been told thou wert wont to help those in need... and yet... and yet..., O! O! - owls eat mice!
Owl:	I have heard no concerns yet, nor have I seen opportunity to help. From me, thou hast solicited nothing, and so I shall give nothing, and a few wise words to ponder, moreover. If thou hast a request, speak it. If thou hast a boon, let it boom. If thou hast come to repeat a standard of self-destruction, and wouldst elicit, not pity, but a rumbling in stomach, it were best to scurry away to thy motto, an' in a quick tempo, too. For I ha' given thee no cause to verdict on my benevolence - not yet.
Brisby:	May I, then, speak?
Owl:	I would not stay thee, on a matter of concern, for the life of this oak. I would not stay thee, on a quiddity, for remiss of a good laugh. If it is of import, let it be export; if it is of no weight, let it float from thee, and be heard.
Brisby:	Good owl - I trust thou art good - I am here, Bound on a grave concern of my young son, Who lies sick in bed of the cold; I fear His lengthening, warming days may soon be done. For tho' I have the poultice of his ill, And quick recovery he may well make, I must need move him soon, and in the chill His mall may worsen, and his dear life take. We cannot remain set, the plow arrives; If we are here with it, why, we are not; To brave change for one's child's good and wise, I've seen before, and'd see what I have sought, And I know not the thing I ought to do, I thought I might find good counsel in you.
Owl:	Move your family; make mobile your charge. 'Tis simple matter, count it how you may, In there, the loss at most is not too large, But you shall lose all in the other way.
Brisby:	I cannot hear!
Owl:	O, an' owls eat mice, I've heard.
Brisby:	Have you heard? You mumble cold Sophist, and reverb echoes of the depths. There is no warmth in this accursèd oak! Your reply all the demons chant with nods, Your pragmate waxing advocates my wane, Thou art no owl, thou art a slavering tod, For tat, delivering Tod, and gloating, fain Commending my tot ill, and me insane.
Owl:	Permutations I prescript as you asked, I do not blow a balmy breeze when tasked.
Brisby:	What good is insight thus, when it's applied, In such a churlish fashion as you say? When it lacks comfort, is it such a boon? When any fool would function well without, And do so cheerfully, is it a prize? When it consigns your soul to placating, When you might somehow right a wrong you face, When you forth sally, shouting songs of air, When you promote your friends to do the same, And enjoined in your mutual quest, go off, And quester all along the way their cares, When you prescribe them all to do the same, And forget all their want, and not care for Poor wretches who are not beyond their help, When you enlist these in, and they do come Willingly, and their ordered course do throw, And all their ordained goodness do disdain, When all futurity seems but a book, And all the rules of Providence are moot, And your not caring party ventures on, Meets Pandora; pauses awhiles to flirt, And shakes its fists at all the turning stars, And laughs at songs of epic battles then, And says, "'Tis charms, and mythic stories by Those who see meaning, where there only is A kind of caprice in unseeing Fate", When they do blunt their swords upon the stones, For absence of the enemies they had, And have still, but upon turn new-blind eyes, When they see beggars with no better lamps, Who probe their way about an arrant earth, Nay, who by nature arrant not themselves, Who were not marked for heinous crime commit, When they see mothers reft, and widows made, Who did not suffer so for clearing cause, Nor less their loss with penitential tears, But cried for knowing not the reason why, And lived distraught and lonely out their run, When they see these, their only comforts are, "List to me, wise am I - evil thou art! Be wise, and let the demons play their wills! Give them fair leave to plague this troubled world, And mischief make which ne'er can be relieved! Let them run rampant and live unopposed. Lift not thy hand to stop a vile deed!" When wisdom such can comfort none afford, The gold of knowledge doth buy no reward, The fools do lord the sages in their sleep And all the fat of folly do they keep, When Cygnus sings a song of drinking beer, And Punch doth make pretense of Solomon, When songs of Prester John make him seem near, And lawyers make physicians stuff of fun, That day thy party gallants off to naught, To senseless death, and high reckless neglect And rides to fatal Doom without a care: Is there a hint of wisdom in your acts? Are you not fools despite of any name? Ignoring all the problems you are lent, Is it a benefit to stay content? Thou art Bildad! Eliphaz! Zophar! Tempests, whirlwinds, spouts, spring forth! Send thy elemental fury upon this head! Make him see! Make him hear! Make him truly wise! For I am not yet wise; I cannot instruct him.
Owl:	Thou art not wise, say ye no more! I would not hear another peep.
Brisby:	Thou wouldst not hear another speech from me? But what of this wooden, hollow oak's life?
Owl:	Aye, I forgot, I promised something like. But I know something I forgot to say, A fact which saves my honesty intact. This oak, whose edifice does scrape the sky, Whose size intimidate does shame the crags, A tree whose glimpse has inspir'd ballads fair, And nurtured life for many long-past years, Deceives those folk who do not know it well, 'Tis hollow and most cunning in its looks; The core has been afflicted with a rot, A plague which is a function of its age, A pox which calls effects on ancient roots, And eats them whole, and burrows its way deep, Its gravity shall non bring its downfall, The day is coming soon when it shall die, And wizened birds therein shall go with it, And in my swearing I did not say much. Think'st thou that I care only for myself? Nay, I can do thee good, eat thee, and give thee share in my wisdom - but I fear that may be too good for thee.
Brisby:	O, Jonathan! Jonathan!
Owl:	What now, what are you whispering? Were it a name?
Brisby:	Yea, although you care not.
Owl:	It is easy to say "yea"; I am sure it was a name. If 'tweren't a name, then it must have been some invocation against me. Tell me the name, lest I assume it were otherwise.
Brisby:	Excuse me; I was calling Jonathan. For if I read thee right, I may him join.
Owl:	Jonathan - is he thy husband?
Brisby:	What does it matter? He is one month dead, And I am sorely, from his losing, lost. Corrosion as does hollow agèd oaks, Perturbance as does shake them from their roots, The gnawing disease that does eat live flesh, The fire that can burn a man to death, The age that stops a beating, weary heart, The drowning ocean that away steals breath, They pallid grow with fear, and rev'rence to Their master, Loss, a despot fiercely blinked, Who, breathing, invokes fear in all around, And in his smile beats them to the ground. I must petition strongly for my life; What is a death, but loss? I know four souls, My children, who have been visited once By Loss, the victims of his feared decree, And who, in losing me, would die again. Who cares of rot that makes an owl swear air? 'Tis insignificant, I'm impressed not By size, maturity, or storied past, This oak doth finish in my concerns last.
Owl:	Look 'bout, and ope thine eyes, thou art not dead! I have but asked thee who thy husband was, I have revolved this ancient wisdom's head, And have retracted ev'ry word, because I only had thy highest good in mind, To speak the truth, although the truth hold pains, 'Twere true, no better answer could I find, Nor could I hear less discordant refrains. But now thy son glows golden through the vague, And has a future still, though warrant not In the hard times before his present ague, His heat shall grow intense; his spark has caught. An optimal employment I would give, I'd despise all the world that he might live.
Brisby:	Thou art a changer for an ancient bird. Twice have I asked, but you have not yet heard.
Owl:	I knew not the situation, and did not bother to ask the questions. Art thou of the name Brisby?
Brisby:	I did not know I were known in these parts. Of what importance was my husband you, That you might know his name to say it now? I know not what to tell you, I know not What might pass after thou know'st who I am, For if thou know'st my name, thou mightst work grief Far worse than if thou stifled my voice ere I told thee, halting, meekly, who I was. But thou hast not yet acted, nor hast thou A motion taken to my poor life end, And I suppose thou art no worse a fiend If thou know'st now that I'm that name indeed, For if I told thee not, and thou wouldst know, Thou hast, I'm sure, far viler ways to see. Thou art, I tell myself, in league with Dark, And I do know the shadows doth conceal No secrets from their master. Hear ye now, I am the very soul of which you speak, The widowed Brisby, wife of Jonathan.
Owl:	Seest thou that I am not thy enemy? If I spoke hard words afore, it 's best to forget them, and toss them away! I knew not thy name before, and I believe it makes a difference here.
Brisby:	My name shall save my son?
Owl:	No, not thy name, Tho' mayhap things thy legal name entails. There is a story subtext thou seest not, And all thy motions take without the know, But I see both sides still, honest thou art, And innocent of motives otherwise. Thou shalt not leave yet, but shalt leave me safe And a new-flamed hope in thee shall consume Thy loss and sadness, and the tyrant's fist Shall tremble in thy regained confidence. 'Tis not a thing said fore, pin not thy hopes On the outcome, but do only because 'Tis never wise to say what's ahead done. But if I know this true, I say aside This new deliverance should effective prove, And it shall find a way thy family move, With thy too-sickly son along as well, And thy relief and theirs it should betide. Set thyself down, sit, we shall talk an hour, And I shall tell thee these things thou needst know, In knowledge should thy fearsome despot cower, In tutoring thee, thus I best thy foe. Let thine eyes widen at this new egress, This happy escape from thy fearful liege, And wring thy hands in nervous eagerness, To implement scape from thy prolonged siege. And then thou shalt proctor a lesson me, And thy path to thy wisdom me divest, For I have acted like a boiling fool, And in my hotness my own way transgressed. Soft mysteries, where luster lacks, may hide, Grey norms and silvered wonders oft collide. [Exeunt.]

~ 2.2 ~

At Mrs. Brisby's house

	[Enter Martin and Teresa]
Martin:	Thou hast been performing needlepoint, say'st thou?
Teresa:	Aye, though a hot spring's day's a'coming. In darkening hours last winter, I found it a good pass-time; quick days grew quicker, and the cold went speedier.
Martin:	A pleasurable diversion. I did that for a season.
Teresa:	What, Martin? I would not expect to discover such an interest in thee.
Martin:	Yea, though it weren't in the winter, 'twere the summer last. I found it made long days last longer, and the heat linger awhile more. My interest in the craft had a life story much like the interest in an usurer's loan: every time one asks of it, it is smaller.
Teresa:	Come now.
Martin:	I kid thee. It were a noble profession; that is why I do not taint the needle. [Enter Cynthia]
Teresa:	Good morrow, Cynthia - thou rise an hour late.
Cynthia:	Not late, Teresa, not late. Good morrow, Martin.
Martin:	Good noontide, Cynthia - thou rise an hour too late. Befriend thee a rooster.
Cynthia:	I did not hear thy morning bustle, nor Martin's complaint of the day. How could I rise on time?
Teresa:	We were out walking in the calm. 'Twere most unusual.
Cynthia:	'Twere a sleepy morn, any how. I do not like it better that I am awake.
Martin:	'Tis the sound of death, good Cynthia, that is how our good patron the shrew would make it. All is quiet in preparation of the reaving.
Cynthia:	Where is the shrew?
Teresa:	I know not. Though Martin would guess.
Martin:	She's out with our mother, no doubt. Perhaps inciting us to light a bonfire of Timothy, or make him offer burnt incense, that Nero Caesar might be appeased.
Teresa:	Martin!
Martin:	I love the shrew dearly. I am not bound to love the shrew dishonestly.
Cynthia:	Thou art the shrew, Martin, the very... [Enter the shrew]
Shrew:	O, death, doom, and woe!
Teresa:	Here comes Martin's prophecy.
Martin:	The very word!
Shrew:	O, calamity, resignation, and foul loss!
Teresa:	I do not know if I want to be with this person.
Martin:	Hark, hail, shrew stoic! What means this low mourn?
Shrew:	It is a day but devoted to death.
Martin:	No, your words, why are they smeared so with soot?
Shrew:	Thy mother slew herself, and then, knowing I could not bear living without her friendship, she had the good grace to slay me, too.
Martin:	If she is twice so dead as you are, I suppose she could manage it quite well.
Cynthia:	What does this mean, shrew? Tell us.
Shrew:	She told me she bleeds inside.
Martin:	Aye, I'm quick to believe it - she's quick too, is she not?
Shrew:	It is to be fervently hoped.
Martin:	Let Timmy fervently hope 't, he's as hot as Vulcan's hammer. My, but you're ponderous! All this talk of speed and quick and hotness has brought it out an' enhanced what - heaven knows, they can certainly see you! - needed no elaboration. Methinks it is lamping the sun, or fanning a hurricane, or fueling Etna.
Shrew:	Or perhaps it is more to giving Martin a browbeating. I am not in the mood I was formerly in; thy clever jests of my wide carriage are not in place today. Please, I bid thee, let us speak of thy mother.
Martin:	What is this insistence? I've never known you to be more serious, nay, no, but twice before I have seen you something like this. First, when you speak of my father, and second, once when I used your kerchief for a washcloth. Is this more akin to the first instance, or the second? How did my mother kill herself? How am I orphaned? I would know; it should go in my book.
Shrew:	On a crow.
Martin:	On a crow... I know no blade by such name sharp enough.
Shrew:	Thou knowest it not, only because thou canst not see thy tongue.
Martin:	Thy jibing speech of my too-willing wit is also not welcome. Please let us speak of my mother.
Cynthia:	If you would make jokes in this black hour, with the plow at our tails and heavy stones on our heads, can you not make jokes of each other, and not of my mother?
Teresa:	I knew her not as a joke.
Shrew:	And I love her far too much to jest about her. I am deadly serious, deadly serious, I am afraid. Tho' I did not see her cold, this is not a premature report. Last I saw her, she was merrily gallanting off, whistling as she skipped to Doom. Dead she is of a crow; I know no more, But I at least am sure of what I know.
Martin:	Likewise, I love her far too much to joke about her death. It is, however, equally true, I love my mother far more than does the shrew, for these two causes: one, I love her enough to joke of her life, if the occasion arose, although I am agreed this is not the time. The second proof is that I love her enough, and wisely enough, to hope.
Shrew:	Hope? Liar, you are jesting even now! Canst not thou mourn, for any cause or cost? Canst thou not take an account of the loss?
Martin:	I hope. Thou sayest she is cold? Betwixt the cold and Timothy's heat, I believe we shall find the medium.
Shrew:	You hope in her death?
Martin:	No, no more than I would joke in her death. But, just as I would joke, I would hope in her life.
Teresa:	[to the shrew] I understand him. Thou hast not seen her dead.
Shrew:	Aye, but I cannot see how it can be otherwise. She has gone to speak to an owl.
Cynthia:	Why would my mother do such a thing?
Shrew:	I am afraid to say what I have thought. I cannot tell.
Martin:	I have a third reason discovered. If I believed for a passing instant, if I assumed for a fraction of a thought, that my mother was lost, I should let a pitiful mourning and wailing so bereft that all the world should hear and be deflated, and all the stars should shake upon their globe, and every living thing would breathe by force, and terror would uproot the deepest truths. I hear no such horrifying thing, nay, I can hear the grass growing. It is peaceful; she must not be dead. For our sakes she would play trepidore to the edge of the earth; she has many times so said. Let her live, shrew, she's breathing still. I have not done her drum to death. [Enter Timothy]
Shrew:	Good heavens, child, get thee back to bed!
Timothy:	O, shrew, I must needs first know who is dead!
Martin:	[to the shrew] Now see what fruit a gossiped harvest brings? Thou hast roused Timmy for but rumoured things.
Shrew:	[to Timothy] O, blessèd infant, to my vast regret, I must parlay some sorry news to thee, For with a carnal owl she's bravely met - Thy mother's ventured where none living see.
Martin:	List not to her, she winds mistaken tones! I have two; stay not our false prophet's stones.
Timothy:	Is the answer, then, my mother?
Shrew:	Thou art the victim of a doubled mall, A complement to thy twice-warmèd bed, Thou hast in stormy loss partaken bitter gall, And now by basest stony pods are fed.
Timothy:	Death! Doom! Dear halting passion, I feel not! Where have I left my rising, sleeping, sick'ning, cot?
Shrew:	Despair not, gentle kind, I shall thee take, And foster thee for thy dead mother's sake.
Martin:	O, that should do it!
Timothy:	Take 'way! Take 'way! Give way, thou lasting legs! Where has my vision gone? I'm dizzy, light Of head, I gasp! I speak! I... I feel sick, Giddy, giddy! Warm, but, O, so giddy! [He swoons]
Martin:	He is taken by a spirit! Come, I shall exorcise it. [Martin goes to Timothy and stoops over him] Art thou there, foul devil, conduit of filth, precursor of evil? Aha! I ha' discovered thee! Now, Frotherfool, perhaps thou canst tell me, know'st thou my mother? Thou say'st 'nay'? But is she dead? 'Nay', again? So much I thought.
Teresa:	O, thou fool.
Shrew:	I know no demons as would know thy mother; if there were one there, 'twould do thee no good to interrogate him.
Martin:	But thou admit'st thou knowest demons? I should have thought.
Timothy:	What means this sorry buzzing in my head? Good Martin, help thy brother to his bed.
Martin:	I am thy constant stayguard when I'm right, To thou, fair child, I bid a good-night. [Exit Martin, carrying Timothy]
Cynthia:	I wonder what kind of devil crow it was.
Shrew:	O, the foulest type, a brutal, senseless rogue Who kills sweet innocents as he can snare And make them think him their true bosom friend. Some demon conjured from the pits of Hell, Who traces sulfur ev'rywhere he goes, And halos all about with nauseous stench, And curses those who do but bid him well. A foulest, evil lord cacophonous, That excels cursèd hierarchy's ladder, Doom's portent, and Death's cup I know he brings, And serves unwitting ache to trusting things.
Teresa:	He must truly be a horrendous villain. How did he look? For if I should ever see him, I should hope to escape his burning curses.
Shrew:	A fire burned unholy in his eyes, And in his glowing embers Brisby saw A hope of rescue for her dying son, Who issues too much smoke and little flame. Black, black as sin! and feathers sharp as blades! His tongue were forked, and painted venomous shades! His beak a spear! and legs of crushing clay! I fear I have lost all my wits today.
Cynthia:	And what of poor Timothy? I hope Martin is attending to him rightly.
Shrew:	Martin attends at the crow's shirt-tails, and tailors impish pranks to please his master.
Cynthia:	O, don't be silly.
Teresa:	I should think my mother should be scared to sense if she ever saw such a horrible beast. He makes the cat seem hospitable.
Shrew:	I wished then that I were in the cat's belly, for the safety there.
Cynthia:	Surely you're exaggerating. My mother would not entrust herself and her family to a hellbeast.
Shrew:	And such I said, but had I not it seen With these two eyes, I would forswear again That ever Brisby would a friend there see.
Teresa:	But, shrew, my mother sees a friend in thee.
Shrew:	What, child? Speak again, I did not hear. [Re-enter Martin]
Martin:	That was not a task I find becoming, Nor can I see the good in worried loss. Thou art a rogue to tease the poor boy so, And steal away his health as it did grow, To delegate him sorrow in his youth, And lock him to his olding bed for aught.
Shrew:	Thou art a baser rogue to wax his hope, On objects that will never satisfy, Thou art hell-breathed to advise him to cope, Instead of bidding him to let hope die.
Martin:	One of your finer jokes, that. I should remember it. I spent the time trying to clear his head of your poison; I could not well do it. He was pale and nigh on comatose; I carefully listed to his breathing hard, and found I made out many a whispered word. 'Twere verbations that did bring tears to my eyes. A quiet, muted natal call he whined; pitiful despairings, I heard him call our mother, and take me for her, in his heat, and did I play the part? I tried my best. But only she shall take his moans away, And his pneumonia's not the greater ill.
Shrew:	I am but by thy mother's death depressed; Heed not my busy mouth, I can not tell What I should do, or whither I should go From thee and thy calamity's mute day. Thou speak'st of poison, and my actions fell, Look'st thou about, and see I love you all, An inadvertent hap is Timmy's ill, An' if I worsened it, then let me die Instead of him; I'd not for all the world. I fear my life, now that I'm left with him. I cannot raise my hand to strike the child With new disaster, such is laid upside By new-plowed soil, turned up in the rain. As for Martin and his ill antidote Connived by villains and poor mountebanks, Complain thy case, and thy half pence retrieve, For thou hast gentleness inferior, And thou wert given less than thou didst need, And I yet question that a player's there. Perhaps thou canst sue Nick for half thy soul.
Martin:	I tried growing an ivory horn from my head in a minute, but this was a harder endeavour than I took it to be. Thou couldst do no better; and I would rue letting the viper near the slightly mouse. Thy spittle would but spatter him with venom; and speckle him with ichor, and smear base bilious humours excelling disgusted description all about his pillow. I would not make clean such a mess; therefore, I bar you reprieve to better me. Let him sleep, 'tis a day for 't.
Shrew:	There is too little good in thee, Martin, to dispel evil; yea, even the good thou hast revels in the drinking-pubs with thy worser parts, and between the two of them, they find there's little difference one to the other.
Martin:	Ah, but true good is that name enough to discern only when dry. If good cannot see when it is drowning in beer, steal away its mug and nim its harder brew, and let it be good. 'Tis easy for you to say I cannot evil dispel, but if you admit there is indeed evil there, and it is the evil I speak of, it is evil that you have placed, and bred and calculated. Thou meanest well, I am sure. Say no more.
Shrew:	I would not shorten Timmy's sickness by breaking his life. Good day.
Martin:	It still has not come yet, begone! [Exit the shrew]
Teresa:	That was not a pleasant visit.
Martin:	Ah, dear Teresa, thou art more gentle Than Martin e'er could be. 'Twere a disease! - Besmirching, enfouling all in this house. It near killed Timmy, and did sore my soul, And I know not if I a mother have.
Cynthia:	Thou know'st not? Were she not alive?
Martin:	Aye, she were. An' is now, I hope. An owl!
Teresa:	An owl... tho' it is day yet. It seems not so.
Martin:	The sun is sinking 'neath the vapours now. Ah, how they glow and burn a fiery red!
Cynthia:	I've just come up!
Martin:	Thou rise an hour too late. And two suns set upon this quiet day One who is content that it remain thus, One who will not bear it close silently, But brings the calm to cry in hacking cough, And leads the still to shout in sickly moan. Enclosed in fog, and by this obscura Resigned to suffocate, and pleasured so, He takes his bow, and smiles for the day That would quiet us all, but which does not: Observe ye now the shrew! She chatters on, And in her noises violates this age, And all the time before is winding down, And the new morn shall break in a rebirth. The quiet dawn precedes a day of noise, With leads to days of peace, not fraught with death. And for my mother, if she's silenced now, She fell a victim of contagious calm, And not of owls that raccour up the night. But if she lives - and, this, I take, is true - She bested Time and fooled this daft-dumb day, For Timmy, that no martyr he should be But rather should escape this heathen foe Foreign to time, speech, and continuance. Insidiously wronged, undone's this day. [Exeunt.]

~ 2.3 ~

At a rosebush, elsewhere on the field

	[Enter Jenner with Sullivan]
Sullivan:	And how was that?
Jenner:	I tell myself, Sullivan, at times I say that I am indeed the vilest rogue that ever walked this earth.
Sullivan:	Ha! why speak'st thou thusly?
Jenner:	Have I a friend?
Sullivan:	Yea, one here, who'd trust thee to death, who lives in thy life.
Jenner:	Aye, patron, aye, I have a friend under my cloak today for the Council.
Sullivan:	I guess not thy meaning. Who is thy friend, Jenner?
Jenner:	A blade, sir, a sword.
Sullivan:	Strapped under thy cloak?
Jenner:	Here 'tis. [Jenner shows Sullivan his sword]
Sullivan:	How vicious! But what's it for?
Jenner:	'Tis for safety; if I mark nuance well, I am not popular in our old men's club.
Sullivan:	But thou art so a rogue?
Jenner:	A rogue and a runabout. Why should, Sullivan, I ask again, why should a rat bring a sword into peaceful assembly?
Sullivan:	He fears it is not pieceably assembled.
Jenner:	You joke, but you are more correct than you think. But I know that the Rat Council is indeed a peaceful assembly.
Sullivan:	Than thou seek'st to shape it otherwise.
Jenner:	Ah! and I love the threat in it.
Sullivan:	Ha! I see thou art indeed a rogue.
Jenner:	Aye, a most dreadful, terrible rogue.
Sullivan:	And I'm sure thou'rt a villain, too?
Jenner:	Of the worst shade.
Sullivan:	And thou seek'st war and death, loss and calamity?
Jenner:	I proclaim them my knit brethren.
Sullivan:	I have never understood thee, Jenner, but I've enjoyed thy company for longer than I can remember. We have been close friends since childhood, and I worry for thee now. Why search for danger? Why live reveling in risk? I live in thy faithfulness, and what is death but loss, dear friend? And if thou art so unfaithful a friend to die, thou didst die in unfaithfulness, and I die too, and not by shedding blood.
Jenner:	Shedding your blood, stilling your heart, and drawing your last breath is Death, dear Sullivan. Death is death, untrueness is untrueness, fidelity is fidelity: words mean words, and words mean things. If I am an unfaithful friend, I am an unfaithful friend. I am not dead. I'm ruddy yet, and take breath, as well.
Sullivan:	Words mean words, Sir Jenner, and "unfaithful friend" means nothing to my ears. [Bells] List! Vespers!
Jenner:	Go on. I meant to patrol the grounds an hour cackling to myself 'fore I went to Council. I could miss service today.
Sullivan:	Said like a true rogue, but surely thou wantest more produce from thy time than an hour's allowance of gloating.
Jenner:	Why should I go? I need no assistance as going to a church would give me; it wouldn't further my designs at all. No produce would it bear me; I know no deacon as sows tares, nor can I trust a priest to till corruption: though if I found such men, I'd recruit them in a dog's modesty.
Sullivan:	Ha! Thou art evil, good friend, sore evil!
Jenner:	Aye, I am.
Sullivan:	I've always loved thee for thy wit.
Jenner:	'Tis biting sharp, isn't it?
Sullivan:	Sharp as a dagger.
Jenner:	And stabs dangerously, doesn't it?
Sullivan:	Now, com'st thou with me to sanctuary?
Jenner:	Aye, though I still don't see the good it will do me.
Sullivan:	The Church can only be more incorrupt than her saints.
Jenner:	Yea, I know. I still see no good of my stencil. But I shall follow in a moment. Go off.
Sullivan:	Thou wilt be putting away the sword for an hour?
Jenner:	Of course. [aside] Nay, I'll keep't. Justin will be there.
Sullivan:	Good, then. Thou know'st the way. [Exit Sullivan]
Jenner:	Sullivan, thou friend! Thou seest but what thou wilt, And dangerously trust all that thou seest, Thou admit what appears to do thee good And loves thee, and in cozy company, A cozening wretch doth notice nature there: A fool, but true, and useful in thy name, Thou hop'st for friends, and faithful souls who do Tell thee what's fit - thou hop'st they're what they say. Hope on! I only applied for thy heart, And only I am noble in thy mind, Thou stand'st or fall on me, thy dual fate Depends entirely on my sweet whim, I decide what thou dost, and whether thou Go down in memory as true or base, Or whether any shall note thee at all. I am thyself, thou art a faithful friend To give me all thy trust and trust in me Thine assets and goodness I hide behind. Good Sullivan, I know none knows thy name, And thou art hollow of all things but me. I'll use thee, and when I discard thy shell, The world will still continue just as well. [Exeunt.]

~ 2.4 ~

At the owl's oak

	[Enter Brisby and Owl]
Brisby:	'Tis cold here.
Owl:	Winter chilled doth have a place, Though you it leaves, still we're in its embrace. Death doth impend upon me, o'er me doth loom, Its breath doth chill my house, to make a tomb. I have lived long enough to know Death well, I cannot send him 'way, nor as a stranger shall. Thou hast heard all, and all amazement is Dropped at thy feet, unlike its wilding worth; Tak'st thou it on? It brings a fearsome price, The strange discoveries thou mak'st if thou Venturest to pick it up, it lays there still; What mak'st thou of my brave adventurous tale?
Brisby:	I have heard all, but what I hear is not So foreign to my nature as thou say'st; Indeed, if true, this should come no surprise. Pleas redirected! Such transit I make, From Ages, to thee, to these recluse rats. They know my plight? They did know Jonathan? Then they know me, these are my two great points, Defining that which begs before thy foot, That entreats thee to disclose all to me. For I have opened all of me to thee, And to thy moon exposed my inner pleas, Thy glaring eyes to 'certain who I am, Thy glowing face to assay me as true: If I am as I say, then do me this, Let all thou know'st on this be known to me, And let my timid proofs be laid to thee. Have I proved true?
Owl:	Yea, uncommon thou art, And fair in worth and purity, by grains No better than this owl. Thou art assayed, Thou art as said. I must do thee thy boon. When thou meet'st Nicodemus, let him know Thou hast my approve, and certificate Of legitimacy - 'tis true, I can't give A better proof to thee of guarantee, To forward to the rats for approval. And as thou art to me laid out, I say I shall let thee know what thou need'st to know, As I did promise. Thy Loss lost himself. Thou must ask of their head Nicodemus, Or thou wilt not admittance gain at all; In knowing his name, thou mightst yet squeak in. Thou must of Timmy tell the rat of name, And he shall with his council it discuss, And bring thee and thy kin to their escape. They must discuss a way to bring thy house Leeward of the stone in the farmer's field, As halting plows and time is not their craft, But with they can, they'll aid thee as they can.
Brisby:	Good Owl - thou art good! - I'm debted to thee, Thou art my friend, of power such as I Could comprehend only in ecstasies; Thou art far wiser than I e'er could be, Thou hast lived longer than I e'er will breathe, Thou hast seen much more than I e'er shall know, In weave and work thy wisdom's wrapped and wound, For all thy rapting days doth tombure round An inspiring, noble stature of an owl Kept on Athena's jess in ancient tree.
Owl:	Such reverence is not made necessary By doing what I promised thee I'd do, If I'm thy friend, I'm very glad of it, And be assured, when next I eat a mouse I shall think upon thee. Now go along! The night is dawning, and my morning comes. I am not wise, if I suppose I'm all, Thou hast some wisdoms I do not possess; From slightest things I can learn volumes yet. Howe'er thou cam'st, return by that means now.
Brisby:	My thanks are ever with thee, and my son's, For every breath he takes from now has been Ransomed from Loss by thy wise feathered head, Good Owl, I take back every wrong I've said.
Owl:	What now? I'm hearing echoes! I have said Something worthy of repeat, I am glad.
Brisby:	Good-bye, friend Owl. [Enter Jeremy]
Jeremy:	How of it? What'd he say? Art thou alive? Art thou now dead? Is all turned well? Is all turned sour?
Brisby:	All's turned round.
Jeremy:	All is turned round, and e'en the fixèd stars Do turn and fumble 'bout the quiet nights. The planets move, and all beneath us moves, And all comes to the place it was again...
Brisby:	Yes, all is back to...
Jeremy:	The waters move from mount to sea and back; The migrant birds do fly 'way and return; The seeds are planted, grow, are harvested, But leave behind a rain of like-kind seeds, Which call the ancient cycle up again...
Brisby:	What hast thou concocted? Yea, all is mobile, e'en the year, and time runs short - the plow comes!
Jeremy:	The sun doth move from eastmost rise to west, And bounces up to zenith as it goes, But yet returns as morning breaks once more; Our blood doth course through channels to our heart Which pumps it back, and forceful it does flow, But to its haven it must come anon, To be pushed 'bout in circuits through ourselves...
Brisby:	Yes, but dear Timmy...
Jeremy:	All things play prodigal and dance about For show of defiance to Heaven above, For all has fallen, but all that does fall Must one day to its primal source rise up. The eagles move, the slightest mites do move, The stones make motions, and the weary winds Push their way 'bout around this girthy world, The sands do move, the lighty bees do move, The trees are moving too...
Brisby:	Thy mouth doth move.
Jeremy:	Ha, ha, he, ho, ho!
Brisby:	O, thou art Jeremy still. Come, we must go. For we've impinged our owl a day too long; His day's soon coming, so he says, and I Would not bear witness to his fearful shape In flight, in body, in his moon's dawn's light! Owls eat mice still, and I am a mouse still, And Timmy's sick still - heavens, we must go! I've gone too late; I've made a daylong trip For speech a minute long - ah, if I knew! The secrets of this earth are pent up well, And all a sage's ken is quite condensed, 'Tis but a story told. What glorious sight! He told me of a sovereign group of rats, Who possess knowledge far above their state, And profess wisdom rivaling this owl's. In secrecy in hallowed rosebush's gnarls, They live in silence, and achieve dispatch Through mediaries such as Ages and Our owl, but I digress, that's not the point, The effect lies in their intelligence, And if I them petition, they shall help For sake of th'tinted memory of old Of friends and followers who knew them well, For my husband was in these brackets, too, A moderate for them, he Ages knew From there, and counseled with this agèd owl, Ah, all the things I know and never knew!
Jeremy:	Then we must be off then on this uplifting current.
Brisby:	Aye, we must go. A joyous swell's in me, I feel a lack of worry on this eve, As this day dawned on trouble turbulent, Odd in the quiet and the morning's still, Its contrast is reversed, in tired night, My hope is increase, and my problems nil. Good Jeremy, thou portent of ill things, And omen of a darker night ahead, Thou art the product of imaginary weave, Possessing no traits such as sayings said. My vehicle, thou art a faithful friend In carrying me to my vast reprieve, And lessening my troubles' myriad hosts. A potent warrior contends my relieve.
Jeremy:	I'm but thy friend, no demigod as such. I've never bested thousands, nay, not three.
Brisby:	Both two and one are quandaries less than three, Room is afforded in thy modesty. My horrors fly away not as a whole, But foes are vanquished singly, soul by soul. For countless small falls does a company lose, And country's armies fall by ones and twos. Thou art my friend, blush not at this design, A hearted fender, truthful to the line.
Jeremy:	Ne'er was an ill a trifle, did I think, But in thy rosy praises I turn pink. Leave we then thus, on such a pleasing note, There's time to act, but never time to dote. [Exeunt.]

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