Far More Than Kin, Far Less Than Kind

Gabriela Abramowitz

selections from a book of plays by Daniel Fruman

As Terrible as God

THE CZAR:

Behold this skull. This rotting, mournful bone. Behold its shape, its crevices, its filthy teeth, The aged cracks and scars it bears, whose very Image conjures up a thousand grisly tales. Behold this skull, how can ye see a thing That’s so precisely fashioned, that doth invoke Such horror i’the bosom, and not think It as the greatest, most exquisite work of God? This is the skull of Metropolitan Phillíp, A man who was most dear to me. The only Man that saw the very chasms of my mind With piercing clarity, who was my comforter In times of woe, and was the soul to all My councils. In deed, in thought, in visage –The picture of a Saint. A man I slayed, While he was in the midst of prayer for My Holy soul. I must confess, I am The causer of this skull’s misshaping. He was A man whom I didst think to be a servant Of the Lord, but who turned out to be a Squire to the Devil. With his advice I pardoned murd’rous traitors by the score –All in the name of charity and mercy. He was the fool that ran into a bear Pit with an icon of the Holy Mary, In an attempt to save a spy of Sigismund’s. In short, he was unfit to pray for me, So I deprived him of the means to do so. I watched him pray, his chanting baritone Filling the wooden church. Then I didst heft My staff and swung…the chanting stopped. This skull Still bears the gash. There was no cry of pain, No noise, just a pure, somber silence. A perfect Silence. I ponder this, because when I beheld his skull, And felt its ashen, wormy cold upon My hands, and smelled its serpentine perfume, I knelt and prayed. And whilst I prayed, A horror came o’er me. A question that Didst burrow in my mind and left me sleepless…

Is this God’s image? For He didst fashion Us from dust to be His likeness, so is His visage thus? For this is hidden deep Beneath our hides of skin. This is our core. And is not God the core of everything? When Adam saw his nakedness, he felt ashamed. Would ye not be ashamed, abash’d and mortified, If ye look’d thus? When God gave Adam clothes Of flesh, He pitied him and made him beautiful. For, Adam could not handle cosmic, untamed Beauty. Within his fragile mind, he saw Unbridled terror, so God didst pity Him and made him lesser – made him perfect Beauty. For, are we not beautiful, compared To this? If this is how we’re like to God, Is God not monstrous and we not monstrous At our very core? Behold this skull and Tell me tis not monstrous! Behold this skull And try to tell me it is not the face Of God! Behold this skull, and in beholding, See my God! And then behold my face and See your God! Behold this skull, the terror It instills in you, I must instill as Well, if I’m to be your Czar. Now you are privy to the content of My prayers. Let’s to work. Belsky, Godunov, what have ye here for me?

The Binding of Loki

LOKI:

And so the end begins. So have I, with My words, roused such a wind, fate’s spindle spun Again, thus setting all our destinies in motion. When skalds will sing their songs in the new age, Or scribes will write their codexes, they’ll say I’ve slain more men than death itself. They’ll say I was a traitor, a bringer of destruction, evil’s harbinger. And yet, I loved the Gods… Although I hate them. I was their friend while they in secret massacred my people. I’ve been their fool, though I’m above them all. What I have done for them, in any other land, Would merit thanks…would merit love… And did They love me? For if they did, why by the Thousands did they kill my kin? If they did Not, then why am I alive? But I loved them! By Ymir, they were everything… And when my daggers sliced their hearts, I was The one who bled. Why did I bleed, when they Should have? They wish me dead for I didst kill their Balder?! A hundred-headed, vile, marauding Jotun, Or any lowest fiend within my land, I loved as if they were a thousand Shining Balders! No… I am resolute. O let my heart burn Only with my hate. And let this dagger signify my newest oath! [he opens his right palm, which is nearly bisected by a long scar. With his left hand he takes out a dagger and slices the scar open, letting the wound bleed afresh.] And let the blood that seepeth from this wound Proclaim my hate. For ev’ry drop that loved The Aesir Gods will soak into the ground. For I will love no more. And I will think No more on anything besides revenge. Besides the Jotun’s justice. [he clenches his palm closed, then stands up, rips a piece of bedding and with it bandages the wound.]

The Gods are on my tail. I feel their footsteps on These Midgard hills. I’ve made my dwelling here Within this mortal realm, next to my son, Odin’s damnation – Fenrir. Who, by the Gods, was bound with mystic rope that turn’d him Into stone, thus turning a goliath To a mountain. His mouth agape, he drools The Franang lake. Within this lake I’ll hide In salmon shape. Yet they must catch me…for There is one more prophecy I must fulfill. And I do fear that if they find me now, I’ll meet my end. Therefore, I’ll tie a net And burn it in my fire, as a clue. Then I will wait for them. And when they grab me… Twilight thus begins. So, come ye hither, Aesir Gods, and I’ll revenge your sins.

The Conqueror’s Son

WILLIAM:

I have been told so many times that royal Life is full of richness and immeasurable pleasure. And since my younger days, I always saw It as a life devoid of care. My father Was a distant figure. A statue in The misty morning air. A statue that I headed towards, yet I could never find. I snuck into the sunlit council rooms And smelled the heavy odor of men’s sweat Commingling with the richness of spiced wine. I looked up at my father and he smiled At me. Then I was bid away, away Into another room, away from strength And to the cradling arms of smiling weakness. Thus was I always led away, until I was led in and saw my father on His deathbed. And I didst feel the cushion Of my life become a seat of spiteful agony. The people who once cared for me all turned Away and kept low their sad eyes. The men Whose odors I didst come to know became My enemies, whose minds I learned to probe.

Thus everybody turned away, when war set In and yet when solemn peace doth grace our land, And all the people turn to me with open arms, I turn away. I turn away from love, From friendship, brotherhood or faith, for I’ve found solace in the backs of people’s Heads. For men that turn away can never See me sin, or love. A life that’s filled with Hidden, distant love, and overt, horrid cares. I am the monarch of the richest kingdom Ever seen in Christendom, I’ve bent the Scots and Celts under my will. And under Me there’s not a day goes by that England Doesn’t prosper. It blossoms when I fade. I sense that something’s coming, I smell it In the air. Things have become too peaceful Recently, too quiet. And I have made a Habit out of filtering the noise. Yet I have no idea what it will be when It doth come. What treason, death or weight will Fall upon me next. And I’m not ready. Yet here I am, the greatest king that England Ever had, its foremost sinner and a Damned soul, preparing for my broken Psyche’s fears. The memory of my departed Father’s voice and eyes evaporating into nothingness. I’ve lost connection with myself and with My purpose. Yet, what will come, will come and I will face it, as I always have. And I will sin, or make some foolish error, as I always have. And then I’ll watch as the Whole castle topples: prosperity, My happiness, my love, my life… For in My mind, of late, grim death has walked with icy steps. I’ve lost myself and he is there to harvest Me. It seems the further that I try to Go from sinning, the more people yell the rumour In the streets. Methinks that there’s some match that Has been lit and I will helpless watch the Forest set aflame and then consume me.