SCENE I
[A forensics laboratory in Northern Ireland. Two anthropologists stand over an operating table. The light is interrogating. The backdrop is dim and the bay windows dark. One figure is male, the other female. The decrepit mass on the table resembles a skeleton hide.]
SCIENTIST Scalpel.
ASSISTANT Doctor?
SCIENTIST Yes, Laura?
ASSISTANT The spec. data indicates dairy and meat digestion, which corroborates our highborn hypothesis.
SCIENTIST Further testing is needed for conformation Laura.
ASSISTANT Rory, we are so close. It’s all here. God willing--it’s all in front of us.
SCIENTIST Have you read Aeschylus?
ASSISTANT Don’t lecture me Rory. The nails are filed. The hair is gelled with French oils. The skin is laced with lavender extract. The bowels are ritualistically dismembered. This man was a Brahman, or a Druid, or even a King! A King Rory! Imagine that! The implications--think of the implications.
SCIENTIST Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart. And in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
ASSISTANT I don’t believe in God.
SCIENTIST Do you know why my parents named me Rory?
ASSISTANT No I’ve never known.
SCIENTIST My namesake was the last of the Irish Kings. Long after the high kings at Tara--long after the extinction of the giant wolves--and long before my lineage could possibly be traced. We are the descendents--the bastards--of god-kings who spat in the face of Christian Gods and worshipped the bogs they crawled out from.
[The scene fades to black.]
SCENE II
[The stage is suddenly illuminated exposing a stone cavern ordained with megaliths--
each baring an intricate carving. Three blood-filled cauldrons rest beneath three
archways exiting the tomb temple.]
KING Bring him forward!
[Three hooded figures drag forward the tortured body of a richly clad clansman.]
HERETIC Vile! Unclean! Usurper of my father’s throne!
KING Silence doomed one. God has spoken.
HERETIC You desecrate the stone throne. You, who would call yourself God and King of men, you that dare the slave come hither? Covered with an antic face. With no fear or scorn at our solemnity. By the stock and honor of my kin, I’ll see you struck dead from this life or the next. In dirt or pine, from the soil I’ll dry your roots and poison your herds. I’ll famine your slaves and watch from below, as you too are unseated! I’ll greet you with open arms and the embrace of a fervent worm--eager to digest.
KING Flesh-eater you will not be given the ritual of Passover. Take him to the bogs, make him a eunuch, tie weights to his limbs and feed him to the sludge of the earth. Forever he shall rot--till the very ends of time.
HERETIC I curse you! You and your misbegotten sons of whores! I’ll see you doomed for this and I will rise again! I’ll eat the flesh of false kings and bastard children! I’ll return for mine! A curse on you and all who call you true King! I’ll haunt you and yours hereafter, till the very end of time.
KING [betraying a hint of fear]
Cut out his tongue.
[Scene fades as HERETIC is carried away convulsing in rage.]