Act the Third

Freely we serve,
Because we freely love, as in our will
To love or not; in this we stand or fall.
                                         - John Milton, Paradise Lost



~ 3.1 ~

At Mrs. Brisby's house

 

              [Enter Martin]

 

             [Martin yawns]

Martin:

A beauteous morn! What shall I do today,
The shrew in her regalia's not yet here,
But in her woven finery's fantasy
Such as should us enthrall anew this day.
What new invention shall she carry to our door,
To excite us or make us mystified
By her industrious, ever-busy mind?
What new fable in dunkel silk shall she
To our specifics friendly fabricate,
And natures undemanding, easily
Hurt, as her stories have ability?
I live in quiet solitude today,
My siblings are asleep, my mother too,
And when she wakes I have no inform of.
I'll sit a while, and mull upon this time
Such as I have before the babbler comes.
                  [Enter Teresa]

Teresa:

Good morning, Martin.

Martin:

A good morning to thee. How didst thou sleep?

Teresa:

I slept a'lying down, for but a couple hours, or so I suppose. I may as well have watched me pass the time.

Martin:

Aye, but I slept well, until I an omen heard: an owl's hoot, a loud and piercing call, as he had found some prey to feed upon. It gave a rise me, and my sleep after was plagued by hunted dreams, most disquieting, but at the same, the morning's come.

Teresa:

Can the shrew possibly know half of what she says?

Martin:

I know not; such brave report deserves a lawyer's hand. Had she it seen?

Teresa:

No, she said so much.

Martin:

Had she heard it of reliable witnesses?

Teresa:

No, it is formed entirely in her inimitable mind.

Martin:

And where's our demon bird?

Teresa:

No beast nor bird of any such description I have seen, or I should know it.

Martin:

Has she a proof of it at all?

Teresa:

'Tis all conjecture, far as I can tell.

Martin:

Aye, she does need a lawyer's rewrite; as it is, it could never stand.
               [Enter Cynthia]

Cynthia:

Good morrow, day's a'here.

Teresa:

Good Cynthia! We need thy scrutiny. What think'st thou of our shrew's horrible revelation yesterday?

Cynthia:

Remind me not, I thought 'pon it all night.

Martin:

And thy conclusion?

Cynthia:

It is but ranting, best as I can tell,
But Timmy did not take the ill news well.
                  [Enter Brisby]

Martin:

Dear mother! We need thy scrutiny, as well. What think'st thou of our shrew's storytelling last eve?

Teresa:

Mother!

Cynthia:

Mother!

Brisby:

And no 'good morning'?

Martin:

Thou wilt excuse us, a good morning to thee, as well. They are astounded at thy presence here. They half expected thee not to return; I made about a farthing to the crown on 't.

Brisby:

Is that why Timothy is mourning me?
I heard it passing the arcade, a soft
But sorrowed sigh as made me fear, perhaps
He'd issued out his fidgeting soul, perhaps
His fledgling dawn were dimmed. I sidled to
Him lightly, gently, and his forehead felt,
I in my concern checked his sluggish pulse;
He spoke a bit on berries in a dream;
He woke and saw me through encrusted eyes,
So aqueous and watery as made them weak,
He muttered something 'bout his dying ill,
And seeing me again in eternity,
And asking me if I did feel my death,
And whether I died happier than he.

Teresa:

He did take the shrew very hardly last night.

Brisby:

I told him he were sick and feverish still,
And that he professed life in the dead world,
Of impure curses, filled with sinful things,
And black-cold currents, sweeping heat away.
He whimpered then, and told me of my death;
I assured him, 'twere but a fever dream.
He asked why he had still to struggle on,
Why he, my fondling, had not floundered yet.
I said, I had not, too, and I did have
New hope for him and his unpeaceful life,
A babying calm to satiate his ill,
And quell his fitful struggle victoriously.

Cynthia:

O, my poor brother! An' what has happened, to give thee shining hope?

Teresa:

What glorious pacifier has been provided thee? An' hast thou indeed seen the owl?

Martin:

I've a ravenous hunger. An' hast thou something in mind to feed us?

Brisby:

All's provided for. Though I'll be off again soon.

Martin:

Ah, 'tis just like a haunt to appear in fleeting apparition, give us hope, and disappear in air 'gain.

Brisby:

I must meet the substance and actuation of our moving.

Martin:

Art thou not acquainted of our feet?

Teresa:

[to Martin] O, stay a minute.

Brisby:

I've seen the Owl, the bird of famed repute.
Directions he's provided of such worth
As may procure us all a joyous year.

Martin:

Of what nature is this wonderful advice? Of what specifics?

Brisby:

To that, I cannot tell, I'm bound to keep
The secrets he's disclosed to but myself,
Thou mayst find out when all is fair resolved,
And when we and they both away have moved.

Cynthia:

Who are they? I am confused.

Brisby:

I cannot utter more than they are they,
Exacting anymore's of no import,
If thou know'st not, 'tis of no consequence,
For we'll be moved e'en in thine ignorance.

Martin:

More shades, more mysterious creepings and soundings in night, more trifles! Teresa, hold out in braveness, we'll be moved by shadows! We're entrusted to rumours and unknown certainties! But let us not doubt our brave mother. Let us have faith, but also strong chins.

Brisby:

The Owl has said it, and I need no more,
For in deceit he has nothing to gain,
But what's more, I have sure and certain proof;
He knew my name, and he knew Jonathan.
Such piercing knowledge, void of fabricate!
His instances were beyond frame of doubt,
And, Martin, could withstand thy scrutiny,
For grounded in the roots of ancient oaks
He spoke his words, and revealed truths to me
As were unknown, and did uncover facts
As did revoke his credit, for his tree
Were vastly lying in its standing tall,
For it by rights should now a nurser be,
A mother to a million ferns today.
But laying all out so, he did display
His honesty, and in his weak externs,
Did prove a stronger wisdom for himself,
And did prove nothing's said in appearance.
In wisdom, he his reputation used.
                [Enter the shrew]

Martin:

A new diversion!

Shrew:

O, a miserable morn has dawned again!
I would the break of day would crush my head,
And all the lights of heaven me would scorn.
Good children of my friend, how does the morn?

Brisby:

It's a beautiful morn.

Martin:

'Tis grand.

Cynthia:

Glorious.

Teresa:

Marvelous.

Shrew:

Replies in number four befall my ear.
Is Timmy out of bed? Pray, is he here?

Martin:

Nay, 'tis simply Cynthia, Teresa, I, and my mother. Timothy has not lighted out of bed; nay, he's feverish and under the strange delusion that his mother is dead.

Shrew:

Ay, the poor child. Reft and rancored's he.

Martin:

'Tis good my mother's here to comfort him.

Shrew:

So stands she always, in our memory
Our hearted reminiscence comforts Tim.

Martin:

[aside] 'Tis cold comfort, just as you would say.

Teresa:

[aside, to Martin] What's this about?

Martin:

[aside, to Teresa] I've heard of this afore. The poor devils as contract this disease are just as the shrew: they believe as they will, and play infidel affronted by the firmest proofs. They're one pole as destroys this unhappy world, a stifled and stifling party. She thinks our mother is dead still, and I'd put good money down she'll continue thinking it past all hilarity.

Teresa:

[aside, to Martin] If I know the shrew, a good teasing is the clearest medicine for this disease, and it would be worth the try, if all it yields is a giggle.

Martin:

Then we shall as said. Good shrew, pray, who is speaking to you?

Shrew:

I'd know thy speaking disposition if
I'd passed my reckoning's capacitate,
Thou art young Martin, Brisby's second child,
Her oldest son, and, yea, her rudest fool.

Teresa:

Good guess, gentle shrew. Who am I, pray tell?

Shrew:

Thou art Teresa, first yield of the fruits
Of Brisby's happy marriage obviate
Which since thy birth, has vanished from both sides.
Thou art let unattached, I'll gather thee
For thou, good sweeting, call pity in me.

Cynthia:

This is not such a difficult game, good shrew. But can you identify me? This is harder, good parent. Try me.

Shrew:

Thy voice I'd recognize the first of all.
Thou art Cynthia, youngest of the troupe,
Thou art beset as to exceed thine age,
I love thee in thy strength, thou'lt grow to good.

Brisby:

Now comes the test, Martin, and we shall see if thy sources are as good and accurate as mine. Good shrew, who speaks to thee now?

Shrew:

I'd think thee Martin, thou art next in turn
And yet thy voice betrays no Martin there,
I'd think thee Cynthia, but for the size,
Maybe Teresa, were it for thine ears.
Begone, thou vagrant! Thou art none I know,
Thou art no friend as I should see alive.
Good children, hurry to me for keeping,
A stranger's crept into our secure hall!

Cynthia:

Good heavens.

Martin:

She's no stranger to me, good shrew. She's my mother.

Shrew:

Ah, she is known to thee? A friend as knows thy ken?

Martin:

She's my mother, and Teresa's, Cynthia's, and Timothy's also.

Shrew:

I know no relations to all four of you as are alive. Jonathan and his wife are all I can honestly associate with all of... may mercy be granted upon us, our kindred and our souls!

Brisby:

Does she see?

Martin:

I don't know.

Teresa:

She frightens me.

Shrew:

The shades walk! The spectres speak! 'Tis an ill portent! Hurry, children, come to me for security!

Martin:

'Tis terrific. Shadows shall move us and whimpering shall shield us. I hope we shall ever see summer, or even mid-spring.

Brisby:

My heart beats still, good shrew, I am alive!
Art thou not overjoyed, thy friend to see?

Shrew:

Aye, of course; how hast thou come here? Didst thou find thy better mind, and not go to the owl, as thou spoke yesterday morning?

Brisby:

I've come to the owl and returned again!
Good heavens, I have waxed like to the crow.
I should take more care in my speaking thoughts.

Shrew:

To the owl!

Brisby:

And away again, I must be off.

Teresa:

She goes to 'they.'

Martin:

She goes to them.

Shrew:

I'm not sure who you mean by 'them' and 'they',
The owl again, perhaps, or Ages now?
But Ages is but one... I must him see
And tell him of thy newfound misery,
Thou hast escaped a harrowing demise,
But to intrepid off to shadowy Doom.

Brisby:

That thou canst him tell, though it were not true.

Martin:

The owl has told her how to move us all.

Shrew:

Indeed? This news falls light upon my ears,
It gently lifts the burden from my back,
And lessens my responsibilities.
It calmly removes all my worried strife.

Cynthia:

Thou wilt be staying, while mother is away?

Teresa:

We shall a watching need.

Martin:

                                         O, figs and swill!

Brisby:

The children need a willing eye to watch.

Shrew:

Dear Martin, worry not, I'll fill thy trough.

Brisby:

Good, then, I'll be off, and I'll see thee soon.
Dear shrew, calm thy tongue, spread no rumours of
My demise, or my tragic cutting off,
And while I'm warning, I'll add to thy list,
Refrain from spending words on stories of
My meeting good King John upon the road;
Do not spin yarns on how I met a good
Magician, giving me philosopher's stone
And Midas' secret, or elixirs
Effecting instant health, and giving youth;
Do not tell how I met the poet great
Who then took leisure to whisk me away
On a daytour of Paradise and Hell,
And how we lunched in Purgatory between;
Do not publish report of my affairs
In Arthur's court - how I did advise Kay
And Gallahad upon their noble quest,
And how I hid the chalice of their search
Behind my back, as I gave coy direct.
Hold only to thyself the venture of
How I obtained a cape of virtues such
Could make a mouse a swan, when rightly used,
But caused all manner of familial discontent
When seized upon by ninnies ignorant,
Who please themselves to use it as they may,
And patch its tatters with their own invent.
As way of fact, speak not of me at all,
If thou canst only wax elaborate,
Don't opulate me, or make up events
As should destroy my children's well and warm,
Cold winds kill Timmy, such did Ages say,
Ope not thy mouth, if only cold it blows,
If thou car'st for me, or for good at all,
Or for but life, as any rogue does well.

Shrew:

Well, I shan't be bothered. Such rebukes! I only told thy children what I thought was true.

Brisby:

And thou hast displayed no matter of tact or reason at all.

Martin:

As she believes tact and reason are qualities of no matter.

Brisby:

Hush, Martin.

Shrew:

He has a barbed tongue; I should think he is forked at the wrong end.

Teresa:

He loves thee. How else should he make such a display of his character?

Martin:

Thistles!

Teresa:

Yea, Martin, we know thou art beautiful.

Brisby:

I love thee all. Think not, but that I should
Make swift return, as I would not find thee
In pieces, rent and shaven by thy speech.
Good Timothy makes such amazing pains
As should urge thee to truce thy quarreled bouts
And bound him 'bout with love, and blanket him
In warming charity, and calm his fears
With loving medicine, a lozenge factoried
With herbs so rare and spices so refined
That no lone merchant, nor a sole packer
Has ever seen, not in long history.
For only in collaboration it
Is made, and in its manufacture is
Such tender feelings, as does calm an ill.
Love is not found in singularity,
But in itself it eases malady.

Shrew:

Good-bye, I'll see thee soon.

Cynthia:

Good-bye, good luck, and good cheer, mother, thou shalt help Timmy up yet.

Martin:

Farewell, have thee a good time, see many things, and bid King Arthur a 'good morrow' for me.

Teresa:

See them, whoever they are, and as this earth moves, move them about, and move us about. Keep us in safety, and faith, mother, good faith.

Brisby:

Faith, indeed. Good-bye, mind the shrew, and worry not a minim!
               [Exit]

Shrew:

So, off she goes.

Martin:

May I the dais have?

Shrew:

                                 Pray, speak thy mind.

Martin:

Last night my mother suffered cold at the
Hand of a conspired crow and owl, but she
Has made escape, and heard their knowing words,
She made step of her fell and enjoined birds.
This morn she woke and took at Timmy's bed
His pulse, and felt upon his fevered head,
She heard her death, and nullified report,
For Timmy's beating heart in brave contort.
And now she leaves to meet those we don't know,
For hopes that maybe they a way can show,
In search of leave she never met nor knew,
And hopes 'gainst malling they a way might shew.
My mother, who resolved to bear the calm,
Has gone, I pray that she may do no wrong.
                   [Exeunt.]



~ 3.2 ~

At the rosebush

 

                 [Enter Brisby]

Brisby:

How, halloo? I've come, and I hope to speak to somebody. I've seen the owl! There's someone here, I know!
                [Enter Ages, with a marked limp]

Ages:

Is't you again, Brisby?

Brisby:

O, a friendly voice! Good Ages, thou art there?

Ages:

I am here! Art thou here? Or, I mean, why art thou here?

Brisby:

I've come to seek Nicodemus' help.

Ages:

Where did you pick up his name? It cannot be, dear Brisby.

Brisby:

I've come on the owl's directions.

Ages:

Is that the case? Unless thou hast something of great importance I can't do anything for it, even with the owl's approval. This bush is no joke; it is to be jealous of.

Brisby:

Good Ages, trust thou not our friendly bonds?
Am I a one to trifle with thy most
High secrets kept and sacred, as thou hast?
Thou art my trust, and I would not throw thee
Through ringers of uncourteous contempt
And heckler's games, such as might taunt a fool.
I don't go in for curiosity,
Good friend, know I would ne'er make light of thee.

Ages:

Aye, but shall I let thee for petty cause
Make entrance to our guarded, silent lair
As does protect itself from bothersome
Worries undomestic, if it is a cause
That has thee to this dreadful action brought,
Explain to me, quite calmly and concise,
What is the issue now at thy command:
I must be assured of its worthiness.

Brisby:

I have not come here on capricious act,
Nor was I led here by a lark or whim,
I've risked my self and being for my child,
I come on recommendation of the owl,
And all I stand to lose is but myself.
For all I've done and heard to brave this bush
I must demand, I deserve audience
With Nicodemus, leader of thy rats.
Thou know'st my cause is worthy, it's my son
Again who prods me to thy stoop to beg,
And all I've wrought these days has been for him.
Good Ages, pity for thy cornered friend
Who has no recourse but to go to them.

Ages:

I am leary yet. What car'st thou for this bush? Why think'st thou there is any help within?

Brisby:

Dear Ages, this is the time of the plow! We must move my son, and should he be moved... should we move... O, Ages, my hope depends on entering this bush!

Ages:

Then I prognose thy disheartenment.

Brisby:

Good Ages, think what you are saying! Does a doorman take jus gladii upon himself? If it is an offense for me to enter, show me in and let me be thrown out! Is the cost of admittance into this bush a life? Ages, show me in, else I've nowhere to seek, and Timothy is in mortal danger! Would you doom my son?

Ages:

Well then, I shall you to the head rat see,
But hear me now, my fast and bounded friend,
Search thee thy soul, and mind thee who thou art,
For once thou'st seen the wonders of our nest,
Thou wilt forget with startling quickness
Thy position, thy fate, and all thy care,
And in what we've been granted, thou shalt be
Engulfed amazingly, and in the wonder lost
In seas of mystery, and be absorbed
For what thou'lt know will be greater than thee.
Who art thou? Shalt thou remain dissolute,
And not dissolve in mares of foamy sea
Composed of knowledge and intelligence
As should exceed a lowly, common mouse,
Wilt thou be lost? Is there such character
In that light frame as should buckle in stress
Once found? Art thou of material made
As can withstand the shock within these thorns?
Lose not thyself! I lay my cankers down,
And show myself: I love thee as thou art.
Be not destroyed, if thou art as thou seem;
But if demeanor's show, be thee now gone,
Thy daemons can not hide from our insight.
I ask to be now answered: who art thou?

Brisby:

What does this mean? Thou know'st me, good friend, as much as thou lik'st, anyway.

Ages:

Before thou goest further in, I demand... no, I supplicate thee, as a friend, as a kinsman, as the watcher of thy children, as the doctor of thine and their ills, tell me now, I beg, lay to me who thou art! For once thou seest what thou wilt see, and once thou'st heard what thou wilt hear in this place, thou wilt never speak to me the same, and I would know thee as thou wilt know me, and thou might'st indeed come out completely changed, and in that case I would preserve who thou wert. I prithee, first, but hear me!

Brisby:

I hear, and I must answer thee thy plea.
Who am I? At first, by my name, the wife
Of Jonathan defined, but he's now dead;
The mother of four children, who may soon
Be three, if wrong and wild the story turns;
The one who stands before thee is now she,
Although she seeks admittance to a place
Which shifts and alters all, as she might hope,
Would change the year, or cure her heavy wrongs,
But which could mean the end of all her hopes,
For if they cannot help, I'll seek new turns
And turn about in fear, not knowing where
To look, and I'll be fervently undone.
I'm still composed, and all the music plays
So sweetly to my ear, I have accord;
I'm but my worry, step aside and let
Me seek the resolve of my gruesome plight,
Then answer questions of identity.

Ages:

Good friend, and taker in my each design,
The answer thou giv'st's not as punctuate
As thou wouldst make it seem; list well to me.
Thou claim'st to be described but in thy cares,
By worry's strict define: then I am thou.
For ev'ry worry that thou tell'st to me
Is mine and shared alike, so then, I fit
The prescript as thou dost, or perhaps more,
For I am made of other things besides.
Who art thou, Brisby? Evade not my cries,
Speak in thy tears, and make me realize.

Brisby:

I've... I'm...

Ages:

Speak easily, good breath; wind lightly, sweet pipe; breeze calmly, warm current. What I ask is what thou art, the most natural thing as should come without effort. If thou art truly but thy cares, thou shalt indeed be lost for good in our care. Thou wilt them quickly forget in their solution, and in thy problem's solution, thou wilt be lost in the solution. What, a glisten? God bless you for brine! Thou hast scoured thy cheeks with it; I'd not have thee drown decomposed in sevenfold pools of it now!

Brisby:

What have I done, to come to thee? I'm beset upon with accosting; thou seek'st only what I am; how do I know myself to thee? 'Tis hard to describe something one's never seen; 'tis hard to bring to light things which one know'st himself only in shadows; 'tis hard to open a heart filled with worry, for protected designs. I cannot make my mind's intricacies known to thee, for I myself do not them know; I cannot unroll the map of my imagination to thee, for in every day's mulling I come upon thoughts which expand its frontiers, extend its parchment, and push the unknown lands at the edge into full familiarity; every night's flying dreams broaden my sight, and extend my vision to orange horizons beyond the bounds of my former speculation. Every day brings another bristle to my brush and a new grain of pigment to my paint, so every day I make my strokes broader and brighter than the day before. Every day's rising sun, as it reddens my visage with its shine and gilds the world in golden light, reveals things about myself to me I never knew. I am a book with new leaves being pasted in at both ends, especially in this tumultuous time, with new uncoverings at every corner, new annotations and footnotes to scrawl into the margins of chapters I believed were long since completed in my history, but all is not yet said. I am, then, the study of a lifetime; I have not yet mastered me. When one is so deep a well of care and want and lack as I am, it can only be so. There are depths in me only God can fathom.

Ages:

Aye, aye, in us all. Thou art a well of want, and thou wantest well. Live, dear Brisby, be brave, take heart, carry thyself through, and survive this fire. It burns with an unnatural fierceness, as thou shalt hear.

Brisby:

I am full of encouragement and well-wishers today. All that is left is for the cat to send warm regards.

Ages:

He sends them thee in giving thee thy problems to begin with. Death to his kin and litter! An end to his health and worth!

Brisby:

Thou sound'st like a braggart who wouldst slander the dragon to his face.

Ages:

Aye, I've fought the dragon before, though of that thou wilt hear also, and that story shall bring thee unknown pains. Come, I shall lead thee to Nicodemus, although we must first go to the Chamber; I fear I shall be late for the rat's council meeting; there's no helping it; I shall introduce thee to those who shall be there. Come along, tarry not behind! Stay by my side, steady me if I should fall. I'll tell thee of the limp later, or thou shalt hear of it, though that, too, is tinged with hurt, and makes its paint of blood red, as beats by a loving, caring, and compassionate heart. Thou shar'st that heart, and its scarlet token as is coloured by its lack is Didymus' prize. Be then thou of a good heart as thou hast and did have.
               [Enter Justin]

Justin:

A salute to age!

Ages:

A salute to youth!
               [They shake hands]

Both:

And a salute to all that passes in between!

Ages:

[to Brisby] Ah, this is noble Justin, who brings the silly, adventurous lad out of everyone, even the cadger from the old codger.

Justin:

Thou art but Youth exponentiated.

Ages:

And he is a charmer, with a mouth of sugared words and a throat full of carefully-packaged confections.

Justin:

I only hope my words do not mislead my actions.

Ages:

You're one to trust, Justin. You haven't met my companion, acquaintance and twained friend through and through; I am pleased to introduce her to you: this is Mrs. Jonathan Brisby, and she has come through many inconveniences for her sick child. As she is an old friend of the Rats in name, if not in confidentiality, she is to be helped in any manner possible.

Justin:

So it shall be.

Ages:

                      So it shall be, indeed.

Brisby:

I'm glad of meeting you in such familiar circumstance, even though what I know is suddenly ensconced in such bewildering wonder. It's all very homey, as Ages is here, and to meet you, friend of my husband, is a pleasure.

Justin:

And a recovered jigsaw piece; I've heard much of you, an' never seen you. Things have been very active adays, I believe, for both of us.

Brisby:

What's a day for doing, if it isn't for friends and family?

Justin:

And for the needy: and when the two of them interlope, as they do now, it is indeed a day for most solemn and urgent action, even though it may be cloaked in the warm and well-worn custom and attainments of home.

Jenner:

                [away, in song]
To the spindle take and the darning yarn,
To the screaming kettle and the wailing bairn,
To the washing care, and to tend the flue,
I'd fly before I missed a single taste of brew.

Brisby:

Such wholesomeness referenced to in ignoble meaning!

Justin:

Aye, that is our Jenner, to the word.
                 [Enter Jenner]

Ages:

Jenner, hail! What is the meaning of these pottle-songs?

Jenner:

                 [in song]
To disgust old men, and to tie in knots
All the gentle craft and woven lace of pretty fops,
To penetrate a show, cut wraps with natural sight,
For behind all noble parliaments are knavish knights.

Ages:

Bloodied savagery!

Jenner:

Who in all history has ever attained something of worth without blood?

Ages:

Who has ever kept something of worth without civilised deliberation?

Jenner:

Stop your words: they are only wise in the world of men. I do not know if either of you have noticed yet, but it is plainly so that we are indeed rats, and not men; we steal what we need. We live by Nature's law.

Justin:

Natural law is the prompting of our morality.

Jenner:

Too many philosophies, dear young Justin, eager and too-educated! You've the means, but not the sense. How you've taken the rank of Captain of the Guard defies my comprehension.

Justin:

I'd know not, and guess Nicodemus' happy generosity. He seems to think the qualities of a captain are in me; perhaps he has a distorted looking-glass.

Jenner:

That is exactly what I would suppose.

Justin:

I am sorry; I have not introduced you to this strange guest. This is the wife of our belated Jonathan Brisby.

Jenner:

It is a pleasure.

Justin:

This is Jenner, an addition to our ranks. He's not the Captain of the Guard, and a little sour there; I'd not talk about it longer. He is the reason last night's council was postponed, of that's a story you'd not want ear of. He is, however, an imposing edifice to genteelness. He's a stalwart fellow, although I suppose at times a little hard to reach. I'm never too sure how he thinks.

Brisby:

That is to be easily understood. The difference 'tween stolid and solid is but a common letter.

Jenner:

Aye, the letter before you.

Brisby:

Nay, the letter in front of thee.

Jenner:

Retorts! Nobody answers Jenner; Jenner speaks the truth as it is, plain, but often unseen, with no elaboration. Those as would answer him, would add to the unembellished truth, and are therefore full of falsehood.

Ages:

Quiet, Jenner! If you meant to impress the good lady with a show of your formidable wit, you've done it. If she returns a like volley displaying a spark of intelligence her own, it is not yours to glee impertinent on.

Jenner:

True, I apologize. 'Twere, indeed, the indication of some learning. Intelligence I know not.

Brisby:

Pray, could you tell, why Fate wears a thickly-gilded crown?

Jenner:

I would imagine it is because Fate has a thick head.

Brisby:

Nay, I meant the regal crown, a laurel, gilded of gold.

Jenner:

Ah! I see. 'Tis true that Fate wears such a gilded crown, mayhap to enfortress a gleaming tonsure. 'Tis also true that the gilded crown, however brightly it shines of wealth, is tin to the heart.

Brisby:

Tin lacks a heart.

Jenner:

Alack! and so does Fate. Canst thou read?

Brisby:

Yea, my husband taught me, although I never took to it well.

Jenner:

Thou hast displayed a body of knowledge unusual in thy kind, although thou clearly lack the means to substantiate it. Gentlemen, what we have here is a crockery shrine, or a posterboard strongbox. If we scratch her wax wrapper, there's a gleam of gold beneath. This, dear companions, is but an educated trick, worth no further play; I'd spend no more time on her.

Ages:

Jenner! Take some quieting measures, for I cannot stand thy elocutions; they reveal vile exudings at thy side seams. Thou art coming apart.

Jenner:

In pieces, in partitions, I should hope.

Ages:

If there were any other way to come apart, Jenner, I'm sure thou wouldst be the one to invent it, thou dissenter! Thou crooked, vile sporter, parader!

Jenner:

I see I am not well liked.

Ages:

Thou art not...

Justin:

Nay, stay! 'Twould be a poor fighting match, and I'd not watch. How stands the plan to your mind, Jenner?

Jenner:

Still sickly, I'm afraid. I cannot see a benefit, there's a hard labour to perform, and we cannot even receive Hercules' reward. When we're finished, we'll have all we have now. Cannot you see the deficiency in your account?

Justin:

All's in balance.

Jenner:

Nay, all's imbalance.

Justin:

Same and sure enough.

Jenner:

Nay, some and sour enough. Thou hast not an ear for unheard wisdoms.

Ages:

Aye, games! Thou hast a twisting mind, Jenner, a gift for distortion!

Jenner:

I've a contemplative, content, and conservative mind, dear Ages. I am quite happy to live as we have, as we have to live.

Justin:

Not fairly.

Jenner:

O, quite fairly, in a grand and manifest diversity, any food or product of the ground as we desire. We've a vast cornucopia of goods, quite a fair assortment, to say the least.

Ages:

Jenner, relax thy tongue! Thou hast said nothing yet in the least, but everything with a hidden dissension, or cunning manoeuver of a tactician's plot. Thou conniver! Thou hidden agenda!

Jenner:

I see I am not only disliked, but rather contemptible.

Ages:

Flattering with 'rather' is a common ploy.

Jenner:

I see I am not only disliked, but of little favour, then.

Ages:

Favour is a darling employance of politcians.

Jenner:

Then I am a base swine, a conniving, wretched, perverse, slime-willing, bloodthirsty, degenerate blackguard.

Ages:

You even have a talent with muck. I see, Jenner, that your mother raised you well.

Justin:

Jeers and common cat-calls are a cowardly means to duel. Carousing fists drunkenly mumbling threats and invocations out of a stupor are neither meaningful nor noble. I'd challenge you both to stow the admirable regaling and save your disgust for council, when you may delineate it in a slow, deliberating, calculated fashion so as to cause the most pain to the other. Such odd organs, mouths! They play fugues out of meaning, and lay the strongest sforzandos in a pastorale. Cripple not my ears, but make me content in this, at least.

Ages:

Well then, thy rebuke is good enough for me, dear Justin.

Jenner:

In council hall shall I see thee again,
On fighting grounds, we'll joust our argued cause
We'll lift our coloured standards for the day,
And sound urgent alarums for the call,
We'll see who has the forces on whose side,
We'll know whose favour is majority,
Though civilised proceeds cannot decide
With finality, for there shall always be
Some cunning wretch, who was unsatisfied
By grindings politic. Where shall he turn?
To opposition? They have the support
Of most, of all. Perhaps recourse to law?
The law of politics will stand decise;
To new election? It is not allowed
By those numbered demotic forces who
Muster against this unfortunate man.
Where shall he turn? To war! To Nature's realm
Where strength is found in sword and not in mind,
Where bite and claw must struggle to the top
To win the basic prize: to stay alive.
I love that carnal world, fourscore of years
Then dust; thou let'st thy tired breaths in wafts
Sing to th'eternal stars, oblivion.

Justin:

Thy stars' swan song is unheard, Jenner.

Brisby:

No star stands eternally, Jenner.

Ages:

Soulless wretch! Thou think'st but of thyself.

Jenner:

So I have my insults from the giddy boy with glory on his head and the sightless old fool who leans on the pillar of a wise mutterer. I shall win an easy victory in council today. Good day.

Ages:

It is, indeed, a good day when foul night takes his leave.

Jenner:

Then address me as Foul Sir Jenner, and let the moon admire my squirehood, and the dawn attend to my goings out. Such a compliment after such abhorrence! May the day be good, indeed.
                  [Exit Jenner]

Ages:

His words are flowery, but baseless and hollow. Nothing is certain in the way one appears; that is the object lesson.

Justin:

I'm afraid Jenner believes as he does as strongly as we believe as we do.

Ages:

But Nicodemus believes he can be saved yet. We shall see.

Brisby:

When starts the council; when can we discuss
The problem that does rend my heart in two,
I leave a part at home, to Timmy vouched
And kept amongst my generate in love.
O, how I miss them! I must rear them all
So they might grow to firm adulthood, then
They may see mixed the sorrow and the joy,
In life's fresh casting, in stressed alloy found,
Such shock as sometimes breaks one into tears,
Which wash away its gats which cause the pain,
That they might live and be multiplicate,
Find for themselves a stronger bond than that
Which ties them close to me; well might one ask,
Why life begins at all; why first we breathe;
Is it to die, as Jenner makes it so?
Who are the cackling fates or vengeful gods
As who would form a life on icy soil,
Would blow a seed on infertile receipt,
On turning orbs barren to life in cause,
Which long to vomit the intruder out,
And throw it 'way, expelled in fearful Death;
He's wrong! for all the life that crawls upon
The surface, and does swim below, or flies
Above the toolèd sun-warmed, knobby hills
Is kinned in Nature, seen in open books
As all creation opens forth that we,
Those souls as literate, with eyes to see,
May look upon the words and then rejoice;
For all the day's a small imperfect model
Of greater things extant, a Will enforced,
As all does breathe does breathe in harmony.
My children live, my children live in me,
My son is ill, but all's the weary world.
If all the ancient plague as ails each one
Of us has been kindly adjusted for
In warm benevolence, I'll worry not,
For Timmy's sickness is but minor to
The problems shared by all alive alike.
When shall I Nicodemus' chamber see?

Ages:

Good child, council first, but we'll allow
Thy story to the officers be told,
Before we tell the leader, then may he
With all in mind the factors tabulate,
And figure out a way to effects take
To live thee all, and all thy troubles make
Immobile, then in blithe fashion thou mayst
Dance in thy joy, and leave gaped wrongs behind,
As thou and thy might step in pace thy move
And flirt thine eyes and thumb thy nose at Doom.

Justin:

Such speech contemptible doth fly from open lips
Perfumed with sage reform and wizardry
As does affect we rats, most wrong Jenner!
How canst thou spurn with an unblushing face,
Thy gifted wisdom which came free to thee?
How canst thou waste thy mind and seek to live
Low as thou wert, before thou wert raised up?
Thou art accursèd by thine unabashed
Ill-speaking tongue, which wags banners unfurled
Of cowardice, empty of manliness
And unable to, in thy calling, charge.
Such paintings filled with order come from the
Speech of a one who drinks of not the same
Enlightening fount, which oddly darkens minds;
I'd guess it not, I'd guess it not, nor fill
A story with such character as can
Such turning efficate! With a wide brush
She astounds me in their stark opposites:
How she doth contrast our high officer;
Look to her, Ages, could there not one be
So fashioned to be Jenner's polar end?
How she reminds me of her Jonathan!

Brisby:

I'll till a smile there, and yet, we'll see
Who Jenner is, and who was Jonathan,
And where betwixt the two of them stands me,
When all my telling trauma's sealed and done.
For only in compress a spring is sprung,
And only taut can test a worker's spin,
The Pyx tries all the coin when year is done,
And sticks are frayed when flung from leary linn.

Rats:

[off-stage] All hear, O, council! Council has begun!
The days of carefree offsets find their end,
No more can we steal of the farmer's farm,
Our penance rules the hour, demanding mend!
                [Enter the rats]

Ages:

All here, O hear! May we no longer fend,
Nor feed our children corn of workless gain,
Plush magnanimities of witless men,
The husband's yield's not ours, we must abstain!

Justin:

Our conscience binds our troubled hearts in low
Servility, to insufferable thrall,
Relief's deliberating how we'll go,
Now ope ye wide the doors of council hall!

Rats:

We'll draw a plan to leave our coddling knee
And suckling teat of illegicit yield,
The only bond of writ as sets us free,
Is contested today, in council's field!
                [Exit rats, with Justin leading Ages]

Brisby:

My word! and forth they leave, in shouts of state,
For all of Ages' frets, he was not late;
Inside's a battle, so much I construe,
Away they'll fly, although a fevered hue
And protest comes from Jenner, darkened knight,
For all his illumed words, he has no sight,
As he would let them all to nim and steal
The farmer's work, and goods in grain and meal
Could feed him, as he gluttoned off his way
To doom and wrath in mortal, bloody fray
As would destroy the children and the wives
Of warriors, and make claim to half their lives.
And when good Jenner's fourscores fail and done,
He'll sadly search for days when he was young,
To recollect his innocent attire,
In hopes of sneaking past a roaring fire
That's glad of fuel in purloined meal and grain,
And licks with flaming tongues those off the main.
If penant he'll not be, he'll fight and plot
To attain that which is, and then is not,
And lasts but floats of moons, and wastes away,
Is spoiled in a moment and a May.
For all his troubles, if he should succeed,
Persuade the rats to revel in their greed,
And sway them all to linger where they are,
His gains advance him wishingly afar,
But his transporting hour's not so long,
How slightly far he'll fly on wings of wrong.
                     [Exit.]



~ 3.3 ~

In the Rats' council hall

 

             [Enter Ages, Justin, and rats, and Jenner and Sullivan from another way]

Ages:

The council has begun, and of proceeds
I know we're not away until it's said
By Nicodemus, council has begun.
             [Enter Nicodemus]

Nicodemus:

The council of the Rats is under way.
Pray, let assembly hear what you will say.
              [Enter Brisby behind Ages]

Brisby:

[aside] Good Ages! I'd supposed you'd lost your crutch.

Ages:

[aside, to Brisby] Nay, not lost yet, still standing up besides.
The frothing ocean's calm, as whipping winds
Are still, and still thou remain'st buoyant yet.

Brisby:

Aye, I am here, not lost yet. I deigned to go where the people were.

Ages:

Here are but thoughts, and speakers chosen so
Their words are swift, without a careful edge.
Thou art of care, and politics of gold,
The former's rare, the latter soon grows old.

Nicodemus:

The speaker's Jenner, take ye to the floor,
And counsel all the Council all the more.

Sullivan:

Oyez! Jenner takes the floor!
               [Jenner takes the floor]

Jenner:

Good rats, and masters of our own estates,
We come today to choose our children's fates,
And how our darling waifs shall find their food,
And whether we care for our gentle brood
Enough to let things stay, as staying has
Kept us with warming bellies 'till today,
When Nicodemus' chanting turns them cold,
And makes us sick for food and family.
I'll drive my disgust down, as I command
Those echelons who hold a gleam of sense
And gen'rally a bit of wit to hold
Survival grippingly betwixt their paws,
Who will not let it go, not for the dreams
And follies of senile old churning-rats.
What do we fear? A punishment of our
Own design? Shall we reprimand ourselves?
Shall we of tears and weakness fetters bind
Which any brave revolter soon may break?
We contracts build in haste, and plans inscribe
That we might scurry pell-mell 'cross the moor,
Or flee and fly in a well-choreographed way
And might retreat to do a ballet shame.
Thou prudes! I hate thy grotesque, pompous ways
Of whimsy, join with me, and we will stay.

Nicodemus:

A most impassioned crying for your case.
Shall anybody answer to his face?

Justin:

I make the motion, Nicodemus.

Nicodemus:

The Captain of the Guard will statement make.
May Justin, man-at-arms, the hall's floor take.
               [Justin takes the floor]

Justin:

Good Council, you in chamber came today,
To hear of controversy, and advise;
The rosebush until now has sheltered well,
And kept our secrets, but can this remain
As it has been before? I say, nay, no!
The Rats are growing, and our children, as
My comrade Jenner made allusion to,
Are quickly populating every nook
This thorny house can offer. Shall we stay
To be revealed? Then we will quickly leave,
And bear a dim gleam of a chance to keep
Survival in our homeless, fumbling paws.
If dance it be, the step had better start
Tomorrow, and not after Jenner's dead.
For whether he does know it, he's alone,
And there's no shadow of an argument
To discuss. We shall move, there is no more
To say, when we know destiny demands.
The future is not here, we are not safe,
Tomorrow's weave is waiting at the lathe,
We may it work, and see our plan's effect,
Or we may let it crumble with neglect.
               [Justin steps down]

Jenner:

Futility's in things posterity!
You'll speak of plans until the elements
Do melt, and once your means have been consumed,
You'll seek to play them out; I see no force.
If all's been worked upon, then tell me this:
When shall our plan be made to manifest
Itself, if earnest, you may then explain
How ever morrows mesh into todays,
And how by putting off what we should do
By council, we shall ever make an act.
I say, discussion's foul! and plans are but
The dreams of moppets and aspiring hopes
As can be quickly crushed. Who here has e'er
Attained a goal with shy propriety?
Who here has gained a goal, nay, tell me first,
Earth's wells are dry, and all alive must thirst.
The lofty skies as veil the frustrous Fates
Doth sloppily conceal a vale of hopeless hates.

Brisby:

[aside] He goes again! A rat of pouting moans
And selfish pities, which do clothe his greed
As shoddily as his constructed skies,
What vulgar ends can start in bootless sighs.

Jenner:

The words of sense shall drill with touching bore,
And caustic words may test a shining knerl,
To see what base composite it contains,
So take I to our plan discerning touch.
Good rats, and choice performers of good sense!
List to my loud dissension, I alone
Have eyes to see the folly of our plan,
Why should we not deprive of any man?
The farmer knows us not, and as that's so,
He'll never note the loss, or, if he does,
He'll blame it on some other name or cause
Than hiding rats of strange and new design!
Where should he seek us? Where could he begin
As we have wit above our common kin,
And leave no trail for men of brutal sense.
He'll find us when we're limp, and all come 'way
In cold, to make to move our colony out.
But if we shield ourselves, and condescend
To keep content with tooth and cheek's contain,
And feast on all we've taken, when we had
The opportunity to make a quick grab for't,
We'll glow in wealth as grabbed by sharp-kept claws.
Why should we not steal food? Did he not steal
It first, from its sprung-up root in the ground?
If we take grain, it's but a secondary sin,
We're taking feed from viler, baser men.

Nicodemus:

Good Jenner's said the same he's said before,
Would any other member take the floor?

Ages:

I'll make the motion, and quickly!

Nicodemus:

A gyrate welcome, and a frenzied shout,
Calmly step forward; play your motion out.
               [Ages takes the floor]

Ages:

Good fellow member of our revered state,
And all my kindred friends, I've come today
As I have knowledge you've no notion of,
With my distinctions, I will have my say.
Where is a pure soul? Let me ask of you
If there are faults in any member here
So grievous as to follow this sobbing
But grinning crocodile, to standard with a
Maleficent infidel, traitor to
Our cause, and firm ingratiate, a cheat
And swindling steward, of a manner as
Has ne'er been given trust with stores he has,
As this is so, his crime's much greater than
Common impunity, much greater than
The peasant insurrectionist, and more
Than any badman of but average skill;
He pushes evil where it soft avoids,
And leaves it marooned, howling in the wind.
He's Judas, one of twelve who attained grace
And blessing from its solitary source,
One of the first to receive new insights,
And he deceived and lied, and lief betrayed
The Maker of the world! But that small group
Of twelve did multiply, and became hosts
And forces as fight with bright Michael's sword,
So all the more's the shame. He is condemned
By his own brooding on our increased young,
For they'll be faithful, more likely than not,
Of Nuncle Jenner, they'll have stories of
Such shall give young ones nightmares, which dissolve
When sunlight sifts through shutters as shall side
Our mansion new, which lies across the moor.
I'll pity him, but as th'epistle says,
This one shall die, that all the rest may live.
                   [Ages steps down]

Jenner:

Such allegory! Mind not my hot friend,
He is a bit upset, he's lost a game
To me at dice. And, no, I don't throw casts
For untorn robes! I'll take what I can get,
And as for Judas, he made ill missteps
By taking on opponents greater than
Himself. Who am I to now so opposed?
The stumbling fool! The lord, caught up in eld,
Of rats of newfound brains! I'll laugh at that,
And cackle at my fortune, for I've found
An adversary, that I bowl at in
One strike; he'll tumble like a bobbling pin.

Nicodemus:

Another speech about my overthrow,
It's stuff we've heard, and sayings we well know.

Jenner:

Good fancier of all things curious,
I must admit, to you an enemy's rare,
But if you find one, shall you let him be,
And let him set him near your seat of power?
Why make him privy to your plans and wills?
I've yet a point to make...
[to Brisby] And who is this?

Brisby:

What does this mean?

Justin:

Oho! He's decided the trick is worth the play, after all.

Ages:

Aye, and trump is hearts.

Brisby:

[to Jenner] Why, I'm...

Jenner:

Step forward! None can hear you.
                  [Brisby takes the floor]

Jenner:

[aside] Here is thy chance to lay thy designs out.

Brisby:

[aside] Why, I'm deeply grateful!...

Jenner:

[aside] Posh! Just tell them who thou art, what thou mean'st, and anything else.

Brisby:

[aside] Thank you.
[aloud] Good Rats, and friends... O, I'll not speak like you;
I'm not to argue 'bout your hotly contested plan; I've not the blow to beat swords into plowshares. But think! The sword and the tiller are made of the same material, one to kill and rend, one to prepare soil for the infiltration of life. One invades the body to cut, one invades the earth to steal the life away it's taken before... from dust, the substance of dust. I come to plea the sun and the wind to stop the coming thaw, or to beg Winter one last graspinghold to make of the day... to keep its frosty grip a week! Or for a summer heat, to warm us to health. But at the balance line, for a spring of life, and not for a spring of death. Both are made of the same things, Marches and Aprils, sultry southerlies, sparrows making the reacquaintance of their October nests, and rushing bourns, swelled by the mountain's melt - these are both. But the components are not the whole, and the sweet smell of new-blooming hyacinths has no charm against quick and sudden death, nay, Saint Christopher was not born in May. The first spring, a new spring, springs life up, and balms a cut body; the second spring frostkills fragile flowers. Two springs! of the same construct; I'm not wise in the taxonomy of springs, nor am I an architect of seasons; I am no master of Time, I cannot call its march. If I could, I'd have no need of you, I'd turn it full reverse... oh, days of newly fulfilled nubility... of healthy children, gleams in their eyes, sheens on their cheeks, days of... of... I'm weak. I'm so weak.

Nicodemus:

The winds are not here to make of a boon,
Nor is the summer sun or harvest moon.

Brisby:

I've come for you, Nicodemus. To your braky bush I've come, in the hope that 'tween thorns and beneath briers, I might find help... help the Owl has ordained for me. Help that Ages has prescribed me. Hope I'm promised... hope for Timmy, ill at home, swathed in spring... deadly spring. Its melting erlking has him an object of cruel recreation. He's ill, Nicodemus. He's pneumonia. But we must move from our winter home, for the farmer is coming to plow the earth up again... we'll not live through't, not without help. He cannot move, Nicodemus! Where else shall I turn?

Jenner:

Ha!

Brisby:

[to Jenner] What?

Jenner:

I said, 'ha!', and if you'd like, I'll say it again: ha!

Nicodemus:

What say you, Jenner, to this mother's plea?
What make you of the words of Dam Brisby?

Jenner:

I listed caref'lly to her colourful words,
In prose deposit, not in noble time,
I listened to her obscene faltering,
And her weak moaning... and I scarce could bear
The weight of her speech for but half a minute.
Look to our Nickie, council! See how weak he is!
He hears her whining, and is not unmoved!
He's generous, to waste the precious time
We have in chamber, for our motioning,
In forfeit to a widow's sorry lacks!
How can we help her, how can we her move
When we aren't even leaving our safe bush,
The cat's out there, the farmer and his wife,
And all our nat'ral enemies as well,
And yet our leader perks his ears for this!
Thy plans aren't hatched, and yet ano'er procraste
Is come in train; O, how does folly last!
Did we not take her husband to our vests
In care, and tender our best worth in him?
He was too weak! We should have known it then,
And our investure's lost, O, what a waste!
We can't trust reeds, let's no addition make
In such a suff'ring weep, as would us drive
To spend, and be no worth at all to us.
For once, let us keep ends pragmatic in
Our minds, when we in calm collection do
Decisions ordinate! We need no soul
So simpering and sickly as this case
Of falling to the murine lot of life!
Her husband, whom she venerates in love
And honours after death, was far too weak!
He died because he was not fit, and did
Not keep the vital prize close to his breast,
He did not let his mind rest on his wife
And children, as he should care and protect,
Or he would never let his life fall through
His guard so easily; he was too weak!
He died unworthy, at incipient,
For he was puny by nature, and had
Honour too much, that there is left besides
Such surplus after death! As for his wife,
If Jonathan was of no use to us,
Why should we benefit her, she is bound
To be of similar stuff; she's said as much,
If we should never have promoted our
Late Jonathan, why should we then his wife,
The mouse's mouse? Why should we favour her?

[Jenner, with an eloctory flourish of his arms, reveals the sword under his cloak to Brisby]

Brisby:

[aside] O, mercy! Is that how it is?

Jenner:

And now, good staller, I'll advise thee well.
Thy life, not yet in moiety unfurled,
Is still ahead, think not upon thy son!
Leave us alone, and value thyself well;
Mak'st thou not the mistake thy husband did:
To put another in front of one's self.
A soul like thee, so fragile and so small,
Muliebrial and gentle in her ways,
Does not fit well in body politic,
So avaunt thee away from council hall.

Brisby:

I ne'er did hold you suspect, I ne'er did hold you suspect as...

Jenner:

Ah, thou trust! Thou shalt be readily hurt,
And find phantasms legion that once wert
Thy husband; follow not to his domain,
A noisome col and valley of deep pains
As wreak a blighted soul, and sting a wight
Till day's unwanted, and relief is night.
Nay! Take thee up the dark to battle first,
As only better follows after worst.

Brisby:

Take up the sums of a declining health,
And make comparison of accrued wealth.

Jenner:

It's more? It's less! And thou art less, indeed!

Brisby:

Never as... nay, ne'er as suspect as thy...

Jenner:

Now, what? Never as suspect as what?

Brisby:

Thy friends!, who found suspicion in each turn
And syllable of your unbridled speech,
And wanton flogging, flaunting out your ken
And subjecting to hurt those as did not
Give you a means or cause!

Jenner:

                                            Now, be thee gone!
I've nothing more of this, thy speech is done!
Thou'st made thy beggings, seek thee a new porch
To victimize with thy guilt making pleads,
And throwings of thyself! See me no more!
I've no respect for thee or simple words
Like 'charity' or 'friends', such things timeworn!
I've heard them all afore, a thousand times,
Like well run-into boots, they're comfy, though
Not fitting here, they've not a share at all,
And to them now employ throws gauntlets brave,
That thou use to us taunt. Begone, away!

Brisby:

I've... what...

Jenner:

Avaunt, exeunt, be off, depart, take leave!

Brisby:

Thou art not as thou seem, thou winding pipe!

Jenner:

How gleg of you. Bailiff, come see her out!

Brisby:

I am away, but Jenner, keep in mind,
I ne'er said word against thee, ne'er did breathe
A curse cross thee betwixt my grieving sighs,
And I shall bar it e'er from being so.
Hale not me out, for willing I will go.
                  [Exit Brisby]

Nicodemus:

Thou'st ruled the day in council, Jenner, for
Thou art a show, I'll see it so no more.

Jenner:

I've done as my kind should deserve to do.
Such souls as I, who am a willing knave,
Brutish with words - I use my lengthened tongue
To snap those who oppose me any way -
Are proper here. I am a soul
Egregious and calloused in my ways,
I do fit rightly well in body politic.

Ages:

Thy body's politic, as thy mouth, thy arms, thy legs, thy teeth, thy cancerous mind are all of one accord - to thy wealth!

Jenner:

A toast I sing every day, good Ages.

Ages:

Thy body politic nearly trampled Madame Brisby with its legion demons.

Jenner:

So, it is true that my cancerous mind has a claw to it. Ah, but I do what is required.

Ages:

Thou villain! Thou welting horsefly! Thou green-backed, vilifying...

Justin:

Ages! Not here in council.

Ages:

Thou'rt right, I'll save it for a more seeing body.

Jenner:

Or an epigram calendar. May we go on?

Nicodemus:

Nay, not with you in forefront anymore.
I trust thou hast naught else before the floor.

Jenner:

Aye, nae.

Nicodemus:

Then leave thee from thy pedestal, where from
Thy turrets of unletting brickbats come.

Jenner:

I'll fly down from my newly-branded coop,
And saddle such as nae will come again
To take it up with likewise circumspect
And ride with such a grand imperious manner
Across the faceless moor. Ah, ne'er again!

Ages:

Thy thoughts doth like thyself, pray, weigh thee down
And set thy key steps lower, I've no sound
Nor ear for chimes so dissonant and high.
I'll see no shine upon thy speaking face
Which gleams in braggart manner, and in not
A humble fashion, as thou so suggest'st.
Thou spoke of shining knerls, I'd scratch thy wrap
To see myself what wax and poster may conceal.
Abscond, thou turning prater of repeat!

Justin:

[to Jenner] Thou hast the floor no more, thou must step down!
                    [Jenner steps down]

Nicodemus:

The floor is empty, all our ears are keen
To take new contributions for our bein.

Ages:

Can I motion that we close the session?

Justin:

First you must provide proof it e'er was apert.

Jenner:

I second. Let the meeting be closed.

Nicodemus:

Good scrivener, thou page, hast thou today?
Hast thou down all the words we had to stay?

Rat:

Yea, it's a sorry story.

Nicodemus:

Our words are written down. We must so live
To play our parts, for we our outlines give
To all who come anon, set down in script
Our character, leaves from a tome ripped
Set down by Time, and in our piecemeal page
We bit by bit redress our story's stage.
Those later may our words for wisdom read,
They'll come for counsel, and we shall them lead,
From our dead council, set in scriben song,
We may lend aid to right a greater wrong
Than that which evilly gloats on us today,
And threatens to sweep all our plot away;
Our plan is laid out, may it us suffice,
But may it sooner best a future vice.
                 [Exeunt.]



~ 3.4 ~

In the rosebush's hollows

 

       [Enter Jenner with Sullivan]

Jenner:

I'd say that was the finest Council we've had since we've last finished one.

Sullivan:

I'd say it were cut a bit short by thy lashing scourge.

Jenner:

What? An' what were that? It was finished! They would not agree.

Sullivan:

Jenner, we will move! It is decided!

Jenner:

Aye, but I've a brave recourse. Do you think my sword's to prick little pests? Do you think it a sultan's scimitar, to slice a pillow a'twain? Perhaps a butterknife, fit for slicing no resistance firmer than muffins?

Sullivan:

Nay, it's a hot, impatient blade, whose only fit scabbard's in thy enemies.

Jenner:

Well answered!

Sullivan:

But is it for intimidation, as thou used it for in Chamber?

Jenner:

You saw the sword!

Sullivan:

No, but I knew it was there. Thou hast it hidden from all in the council; they were transfixed on the dangerous acrobatics of thy mouth. But the poor woman!

Jenner:

O, she'll live, if she doesn't die. Hark! wait a moment. What's that sound?

Sullivan:

What, that?
                [They listen to it]
I should think that a soft cry. Rather sad, I'd not think it something to be shared, nor a fine matted accompaniment for our private plan. Let's away, and let the crier be alone. A soft cry, 'tis all it is.

Jenner:

Soft as my foot! That's an undampered sobbing if I've heard it.
                [They listen to it awhile longer]
It would only have been better for me had she salinated in Chamber.

Sullivan:

Jenner, are you saying what I am hearing?

Jenner:

Quite possibly. Now, quiet!
               [Jenner listens to the crying]
What was that about an accompaniment? She is my orchestra, and I am her conductor. Watch me direct her tears, one to the left, one to the right, ha! Watch me wave my hands for her serenade, ah! A sweet accompaniment for our plotting, Sullivan, fine music. I'll let her meet her much missed maestro yet, yes, I shall indeed.

Sullivan:

Jenner, thou art waving thy hands in the air, and I know not what to make of the breeze.

Jenner:

Soft! Do you not hear it getting louder? That is what I am motioning. Louder, wail! Yea, I'll show Ages an assortment of keys!

Sullivan:

Of course she's louder; she's getting nearer, Jenner!

Jenner:

O, yea, we shall then now be off!

Sullivan:

She'll set you to flight, Jenner?

Jenner:

You wanted to be away, let's away!
               [Exit Jenner with Sullivan]
               [Enter Brisby, from the other direction, weeping]

Brisby:

Why can I not just leave...? There's no comfort for me here, no, none for Timmy either, and I've left him alone when I should keep him close in charge. I've an option. Yea, somebody else can help, there's a less troublesome... O, that's silly talk. It's not for naught that the Owl directed me here; it's not for naught that I was brought before that infernal council body. But one thing's sure, not e'en Ages is here for me, and I know not where Nicodemus is.
               [Enter Patrick]

Patrick:

Aye, halloo, hail, ho! Dear abba, I've my prey! Tally-ho! To the hunt! Away and off! Let us ride to the capture, and swiftly!

Brisby:

Who are you?

Patrick:

I, dear victim, am Patrick, Nicodemus' clown, and yea, his only son.

Brisby:

His son?

Patrick:

Yea, I'm the leader's son, which rightly means
A noble prince I should forever be,
And enjoy boons of aristocracy,
But Nick's not for the court, nor does he care
For drapes and trappings, frothings bothersome,
And coats of varnish as hide mortal rein,
For under ev'ry velvet mink's a man.
So I'm a clown, but if I were a prince,
I'd have a crown, my father gives me paint,
I'd have a stole of vole, my father gives me rags,
I'd have a ball and feast, he gives me all the least,
But only so I'll make more of my gain,
A prince's station's but to wait for death,
To seize a throne of power - not for me!
I'll dance in masks, and make a life more 'live,
My bergamasque's not folly, I am pleased,
As boring, tawdry pleasantries of state
Hold no allure for me. The fool's the royal life,
As I make no pretense of being more
Than I'm, a pile of impotent dust
Painted in gaiety, in hopes to make
Our passing hour more pleasurable, I am
Patrick, the clown. The regent's child as
Does please the king does also him advise,
And he who pleases children is a king.
I know no princedom offers such rewards.
But who are you?

Brisby:

I've heard that question once before today, and I'm just beginning to understand it. I don't know; I've always been what I was at the moment.

Patrick:

Are you the widow of Jonathan Brisby? For such a one I am to find.

Brisby:

Yes, I am.

Patrick:

A glad start! or sad, perhaps. And you've an ill and a child?

Brisby:

Yea, my son is deathly ill.

Patrick:

My father sent me first to answer your venturesome riddles. He said you're a veritable chestnut tree, raining riddles upon any poor pondering soul as came for your shelter on your grassy hillock, to hear the wind. He said you're full of curious conundrums and contradiction; I have come to witness your prodigy.

Brisby:

He did not mention your prolix paradox? Such a wordy fool!

Patrick:

I've a rare and selected breed of wordwrighting. I'll turn a phrase on his head quick enough to... well, I'm a jester. What could you expect?

Brisby:

You're a pantaloon to give any common loon uppance.

Patrick:

Aye, don't pun! Last night I was harangued by the punning muse in my sleep, and as I rose, she had me earnestly believing that an impress was an empress, a garnet a small garn, a beach a tree, and a herald an old growth beard. But my father sent me first to proffer comfort in the form of lunacy, and secondly to usher you to him personally. I know his chamber, and Ages is away on a mission of importance, with the captain along. You must be attended to, dear mother! You must be attended to!

Brisby:

I'm not forgotten?

Patrick:

Forgotten! Such a foolish word: as long as you've children, you're ne'er forgotten, you're in their prayers at the moment. But they must know you to forget you, and to know you is to always remember you. I never knew my mother. She made a grand exchange: her life for mine, and Death's commission on the trade was an hour of pain. This puts me in deficiency, but I would set the records even by sparing you woe.

Brisby:

If Death owed me a favor, I'd ask for greater things.

Patrick:

Aye, but he's a stupendous haggler. If righteous Hezekiah could get but twenty years, with oscillations of sundials aside and divine favour, I could hope to get a frayed shoelace for myself. But for you, perhaps more. What say you? A mother's misery for a mother's misery. Should the ransom be made?

Brisby:

Such a sour trade for you. But what know you of me?

Patrick:

What I've gleaned from our scribe's foul notes. I know you'd plea the sun and the wind for your child; how if Sister Moon? But of your being, I know so little. Perhaps this will clear it up. What do you do, when you've no dire preoccupation to consume you?

Brisby:

What is the lot and privilege of all
Things mortal, as laid out implicitly,
I came a'thrust, I've learned to pull and tug
At life's thin rope, and when I've wearied out,
I've learned to cry, I've learned to keep my grip
As I'm alive; I have four children who
Were sired by a one who's left away,
The pass of my departure's not in hand,
I'll wait, for as I've learned from life, it's true
Along with push-and-pull, the end's reward,
The end of stern preoccupation's grim
But afterwards is all the meaning as
This life can hint at. I'm alive, I work
At things of quality, when I'm allowed:
I'll teach my daughters, and I'll teach my sons
What wisdoms I may know, so when I board
With Charon, they might what I've taught share on,
With children theirs, and children theirs, and on
The ropes do go, enlinked, braided and twined,
To fathom depths in Time's ink-jetty well.
My life's my children, that is who I am:
For I'm a half of them; I'll wisdom give
As I'm entrusted, as I still shall live.

Patrick:

So it's so, good Brisby, and I'll ask, what riddles am I to unravel for you?

Brisby:

O, riddles? I suppose... can you tell me why Fate wears a thick-gilded crown?

Patrick:

Ah, what?
            [He takes her aside]
Who revealed this to you?

Brisby:

A friend of mine, a shrew; she said it in hotness: how Doom is found in both Death's toothsome maw and Fate's thickly gilded crown.

Patrick:

This shrew of yours 's a sage, with more teeth than Death's grin. Let me speak of Doom. Why do you suppose the spring has come?

Brisby:

I've ne'er reflected upon that before.

Patrick:

Is it in part to bring you here?

Brisby:

Perhaps, in part, though a small part, I'd suppose.

Patrick:

And do you know of our story, and the story of your husband?

Brisby:

My husband's story I've taken up much in the middle, and of you I'd know more.

Patrick:

Then you must the story hear, though I'm not to tell it. My father shall, if you will come with me, and the clown shall see you to the leader's chamber, as it were.

Brisby:

As it shall be, you mean; the son shall see me to the father.

Patrick:

The rat shall see you to the rat, when all the scrapings are off.

Brisby:

Then take me to the leader, Nicodemus,
Clown of rags and juggler of words,
And set me 'fore the mortal in his rein,
To see what jewel's entrusted to his care,
And of his stories tell, I'm keen to hear
How you did come to be here, how you did
In secrecy this place in covers keep,
When in the open plain it stands erect
So obviously hiding more than stems
And shootings of a rose, much more than thorns,
For in this bush much sharper thorns have cut
Me, and I've witnessed evils that, if known,
Would bring the arms of good in sweeping force
From all terrestrial nations, and from each
And ev'ry shining body, hosts would come,
With gleaming blazons shouting for the cause;
Were they but known! I've caught my cape upon
A thorn, which tore it; I've no like-worn cloth
To patch it up, it's doomed to rend. I have
Found there's no comfort in sweet falsities
As spoke by sugared tongues, they'll bane you as
A nightshade or a yew. Yea, it is so
The truth, which can in retroflection hurt,
Hurts as a childish dream gives rise to pains.
It's done! it's gone! it's passed away in night!
The moment's passing wafts away the sigh
Of making one's self more than one's self is,
The flower transit, spark ephemeral,
Which flies struck from the flint, flares, and is gone,
What is our past? Smoke clearing in the wind,
A trace of memory, a fond keepsake,
The itch of faded kisses, and the sting
Of speech that's spoken, which in sonorous waves
Flies swiftly through the night, and's heard no more.
If thinking back does hurt me, I need but
Turn my direction frontward! such a sound
Effective answer to imagined ills.
I'll keep on problems that try us today,
Remind myself on Timmy, he's alive,
But yet I'll hear examples from your books
Of written history: they teach today.
Let me my husband know, I would have known
Him when I saw him, when I heard his voice;
I'll know him now, and trust your kind recall.
The Owl's his sources, and I have my own.
Take me away, and tell me of my past;
Do not make pause at the awkwardities,
The truth may cause a sore, mayhap an ache,
To patch the cloth is to the needle take,
But these are but the growings of the soul
That cleave the frayed, and make the partial whole.
               [Exeunt.]



~ 3.5 ~

In Nicodemus' chamber

 

               [Enter Patrick and Brisby]

Patrick:

Well, naught to do but wait.

Brisby:

It would be empty when I came here.

Patrick:

It's not empty: it contains us!

Brisby:

I'll keep it to myself no longer.

Patrick:

What were that?

Brisby:

Good Patrick, you know of the ill which lurks
Within this bush, and how its plague doth show
No symptoms but an unsatisfied soul,
Please, if you love your father, let him know!
There's danger in these thorns, and tho' they're sharp,
Much keener are the blades of cunning swords
As wrought by stony hearts! Yea, let him know,
Let Nicodemus ope his glazened eyes
And see the check and threat upon your lives!
For if he holds a jewel, a pearl of price
Or deftly crafted wisdom of some worth,
He's keen to judge, he's keen to set it right!

Patrick:

Evil is seen by the loftiest stars, and where's the host to fight? Aye, if it's a battle, it's death, and out of death's watering blood, more evil springs up with thicker thorns. My father knows the ill of which you speak by name: he's high in rank, and not discreet.

Brisby:

And naught's to do for it?

Patrick:

                                       No, something is,
And that's to glibly gape upon his face
And wonder at his wryness; ha! the fool,
He'll lap it up with such amazing strokes
His tongue would take the Thames; his fitful lash
Is only tamed with much amenity.
While in his prideful buckets, he will find
No need to thirst - so he'll let up his plots,
All we need do is swallow our equine call,
And stay our neighs away for but a while:
To him say 'yes', while yet our hearts say 'no',
Let those who see him not continue on
In bringing forth our plan, in fractions where
He has no interest! Work it without his wis,
For if he saw all good come charging down
He'd turn his back and lose himself posthaste;
Divert his eyes with flattery, and play
The palming pass your shill standing behind
His back, and he won't know what steps he took
Out of his turn! He'll have to come along,
Or swift abandonment's the following result.

Brisby:

To speak on high's to speak as those would follow.
If we'll say 'yea' and work a tall impasse,
He'll have the time to scale it; if we work
Covertly, to repress his ill designs,
What shall prevent him from continuing like,
Constructing plans in air, and writing words
In milk, not ink? If we work secretly,
He's ev'ry right and reason to the same,
And in his silent obverse, he shall see
How our parroting prating's inversely
In meaning true, he'll see right through our weak
And trivial cipher, and our coding break,
And peek right to our centres, which he'll take,
He'll read our hearts for books.

Patrick:

                                                Yea, it is so.
I'm but the clown, and may his reading eyes
Reveal a work of riddles and of jokes.

Brisby:

I will not hide my work, nay, I shall be
Painfully obvious to all, except
Myself. I've but a question to be soon
Answered, a problem which must find resolve.

Patrick:

By Loki's beard, aye! It is a most ill situation, and Father is restlessly considering it, disheveling himself for't, forswearing food and losing sleep for't. His evil mustn't break our plan; his evil mustn't cross yourself.

Brisby:

I don't know what to make of one like Jenner. I'd say there is no safe pigeonhole to keep him.

Patrick:

Rarely ever is a condor kept in a canary's cage, however, a canary's cage might feasiblely hold a nobler bird.
               [Enter Nicodemus]

Brisby:

'Tis Nicodemus! O, shall we hail?

Patrick:

Nay, not yet. Let him wobble to his chair. Watch his motions.

Brisby:

He seems so old.

Patrick:

You'd be surprised. He's seen things most of us have never let our minds fear. He's struggling under the weight of the day; his burden's his limp.

Nicodemus:

My Patrick, hast thou brought her unto me?
Hast thou in train the one I sought to see?

Patrick:

She's come, she's here.

Nicodemus:

I cannot see her; motion her to me,
I use my heart to speak, but eyes to see.

Brisby:

Here is the trial of my day.
                [They walk to him]

Nicodemus:

I've never seen thee, confidante of woe,
Why is it thou hast come, what need'st thou know?

Brisby:

Thou seest me, Nicodemus, may thy heart
Reveal my inward lackings, as I am
Quite trifling to look at, as my heart's
So anyone may know me, as I am.

Nicodemus:

I heard thee say it, and I know thy mind
As I've been granted one of sim'lar kind.
In rhyming duples shall I now relate
Of the rats of NIMH, and how they found their fate;
How they in sordid comeupon met ken,
Entrapped in the treacherous meshes of men.
The days were once encloaked in stifling veils,
The yellow sun were hazy on the dales
We swarmed upon with but Ate's reflect,
We worked our ways without a mind's direct.
We did not think, were brutal in our ways
And stayed content in our minds' gauzèd haze.
Then came the nets with shades in hooded form:
Composite men, without our sense's warn,
They made claim to ourselves and took us for
Their alchemy, their ancient chemist's lore.
Pythagoras ruled o'er their outlawed state
Their secret commune excommunicate,
They knew of things which ne'er a man had known
And understood the make of blood and bone.
They raised their germane cords and ropes of splice
And took upon we fourscore rats and mice,
Subjecting us in ventures altercate
To see th'effects transform of Adam's take.
Our sun, which were a shaded blot of ink
And haloed by concentrics indistinct,
Was suddenly through us impermeant made
Our newfound sight illumined their foul glade;
We saw with blinding vision our new light
And burned with furious fires of new sight.
The pains of changing scarred us from within
And left a gaping schism from our kin;
Between us and our mothers, sons and wives,
We read a writ of exile on our lives.
So we withdrew from capture and our field
And took a new residence that did yield
A hope of isolation, which was found
In these thick tangles, tunneled nether the ground.
Here we in solemn solitude have stayed
And haunched in fearful loneliness have laid
From all the world; we're tenanting these delves
For we have become foreign to ourselves.

Brisby:

And my husband?

Nicodemus:

He paved the clearing road for our retreat,
And let us from our shackles pull our feet,
And gave us rich allowance to be gone,
Deep purses to be blown 'way in the fon.
'Tis odd that he who let us be alone
Was married, had a wife and happy home.
He had a doubled life of day and night,
One lain in shadows, one reposed in light.
One never met the other, nor did he let
The wife concern the colony, never met
His children our endearing youth's delights;
Our innovations for young tots' insights
Ne'er could they learn. We were alive incaged,
Though nearly dead in our mind's instanced change.
He had a strength and presence in his mind
That were unseeming, ne'er did I expect to find
In such a tiny thing, without our doubled strength;
While we laid languid, he held his height's length.
The lentils, of the fraterns made their stew,
Of which they composed their foul, fetid brew
Were stayed near close our second nets befall
From which, unlike the first, we ne'er could gnaw.
Then Jonathan made poke his smallish head
Through our frames, which no other one as said
Could venture. He made our surrounds explore,
That he might know our riddle well, and more
Could seek to solve it. His experiment made
Discovery: the bag of food near laid,
And he could through the captors' feedbag chew
And add contamination to the stew,
The only problem was what to obtain.
Good Jonathan made light of this, he fain
Would to us comforts serve, not sorry seed.
He found, I know not how, a powdered weed
In paper packaged, that would induce sleep
That grew in Hypnos' cave's forgotten deep.
His obstacle a philtre solved, he brought
It to the meal's itinerary unsought.
O, how they fell! they brought the beer out, and
Made reverie, and soon their subverse band
Was laughing in their drink. They fell like stones!
Dropped to the ground, to all the other's moans,
Leaned over in their chairs in fits of snores,
The others saw it, and burst all the more
In fits of guff. It were a sight to see,
The bouts of sleep - it won - we knew it'd be
Attributed to drink, imbibing fools!
Such are the ways of studiers of schools
Unmeant, heretic, too oft uncontrolled,
Yea, are those who in evil ways are schooled.
Then Jonathan, in his unnoted size
Made open ev'ry cage, and therein lies
The story our escape, now legend, for
The hero of that day is now no more.

Brisby:

That is a tale. But, I'd know him when I knew him, his exploits beforehand are but the makings of him whom I loved and could speak to, and I could guess what he was before.

Nicodemus:

His charcoaled, mid-cleaved branch of ill-used time,
Is too unseeming to be set in rhyme;
I cannot speak that story, read it there,
For books illume that too heavy for air.

Brisby:

My Latin's not good.

Nicodemus:

I've Wycliffe for a friend, I condescend
To write my prose in words of common men.

Brisby:

That reassures me.
                 [She goes to read the book]

'Ah, the undying concerns and plight of mortal things! How it is, we absurdities, that have been given sapience and bull of release from Folly's fist, are still under bond of Death, and how it is that we are composed of the same stuff as before! But naught's to be done by the lament, it is a load no created thing may throw off. Today Jonathan Brisby performed such astounding acts at the pipe that I would write it here, lest I forget the sound. O, if but words were as easily music as a phrase of piccolo! If I could draw out the sound, I'd spend the entire book on it. But, alas, the sounds cannot go down here, and no amount of notation may describe the wonder of any of his improvisations, nor convey his litheness. And his is a flute I shall hear wind of no more; it is an astounding thing how quickly one's composition may be set anew, I wonder at the speed with which the composer makes his segue of transition. Ah, but what music! It brings pains to my heart, and Jonathan's part in the ensemble is done; he's taken his instruments and left. Drugging the cat was a disaster today; it is a great deal of work to administer balms, and easy to intoxicate, but those who deliver poisons must expect to take some poison in return. We have taken our soul sickening tonic all at once today, our mortal colic's none the better. Jonathan! May thy music never fade in my mind; the cat is the instrument of thy demise. One stroke! such in forte is all a violin needs to drown out the pipe, one swipe! Thou art a part to play no more, and yet thou hast a quintet without accompaniment. I fear for them... I fear for them all. They've no way to know; they are sitting behind the eaves. But such a resonant sound must continue, and the hall is a social place. Mayhap they will someday become acquainted with the works of their Jonathan, and it may be that someday his children will study the works of this master, marvel at the setting in the symphony of this cosmos, and raise a pipe to their mouths. I would hear thy music again. Thou hast set a fine example, and left such a body of études to confer to the hardest student. For thy widow, farewell, Jonathan. Farewell.'

...O, O, Jonathan! it were the cat; we'd guessed, but never known!

Nicodemus:

The cat is all our fates, in diverse form,
Attend thee to thy sorrows while warm.

Brisby:

I shall, O, Nicodemus, I shall! But, O, Nicodemus, why was this ever hidden? Pray, how was this ever hidden?

Nicodemus:

'Tis hidden in that inviolable sea,
The mind. The memory fails those who would be
Back in NIMH's clutches, yea, the opaque mind
Would nevermore acquit what it's assigned,
The evils that may pass by mortal's eyes
Impress themselves upon our soon-doffed guise,
How strange that he who cannot keep breath's pace
Is hostaged by the wrongs before his face
And lets his blessings blend into a blur,
And gleefully ignores all he should incur.
Five foolish maids are we, with lacquer none
To let the glories soon resolve to one,
And wonderless miracles in life's wedding procession
We let eas'ly fly by in a sundry succession.
These ingrown horrors wring my umbraed soul,
Our captors' hubris wrung an unbred toll
And, then, in pain they man-cares did impart
For which I paid the price of half my heart.
They grafted us a cubit's lifespan length
Proverbially by fretting out our strength,
And cruelly set us e'er to keep our youth
To dwell upon the mis'ry of this truth:
Those fools as smuggle life through dying lands
Must see their loves die, drownèd in Time's sands.
Though now, I'm pressed, there's something still said not:
This may thee aid, though it thou never sought,
But, nay! The morrow's brighter, the calming day
Shall hear these things; I'm not too sure to say
Whe'er I have said too much to say no more,
Or let tomorrow brave my rarified lore.

Patrick:

[to Brisby] You have heard from him what you came to know
Except one thing, how you might make to clear
The farmer's plow your children and yourself.
I'll tell you that. We've spoken friendly rats
And pled them move your house, Arthur and his
Guild's architects are rigging now the means
To move your house, and Archimedes shall
Be proud, it's quite the scheme, you'll need not know
Of it much further, except that it shall
Deliver your son from his sickly ills
And keep him from the blades of scythes and tills
As would him quickly lose, his raging flame
The frost will kill, O, how it's such a joy
To see the ending of another's trials!
The night shall look down from her starry loft
And witness, awestruck, him escape her grip;
She'll grope for other means, what shall she find?
We're here for you, and we shall for you fend;
For your love's fortune, this is not the end,
Your Jonathan's provided after death
A team of allies to assistance give
Your children move, may that your children live
And how their tones shall sound! There'll be such noise
That there's no lark will find help but to join,
The throats of men shall echo our refrain,
The only way to deafen not your ears
Will be to shout along. O, such a song!
The lyrics... they shall find us in the end,
But 'fore then, we'll just do without, and be
Led honestly as we're meant to be led,
Batons shall fill our eyes, the music fill our ears,
And when it's over, all will quiet be
Except for night's applause. Our orchestra
Is waiting, keenly, rocking in its chairs
And, restless, tunes its tempers for the sign
Of the impending start. Let's take our first
Positions, and obediently refrain,
The day's for ransom; all shall redeemed be,
If we'll but wait... if we'll but wait... if we'll
But pause. How impatient I'll grow
'Tween now and then. I shall my fingers train,
They'll find compulsive exercise.

Brisby:

What part play I?

Patrick:

                            Aye, is that yet assigned?
How I know little! I'm unsure: I've asked
You who you are - you'll sing and play aside
Your children astute and by Jonathan:
Mark my words! What a glorious noise there'll be
I know naught of the tune nor of the words,
But injoined are the people and the birds,
The winds - such chimes! - the waters - such a sound! -
The time is Time itself, it's conducted by
Who's been conducting concert all along,
The world is being ushered to its end,
Let's shout along with it. Life is so short,
But we will move your house, ere we do die,
The song's the kind as makes new turns, which can
Not be expected, let us forward be,
And sing our song with grace, while yet we can.
Fair mortals, thou wert brought up of the ground,
Take thine attendance in our jubilant throng,
No el'vate king's too prideful for this sound,
Nor life's too lengthy to take up our song.
                     [Exeunt.]
 



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