A Field in England Page #4

So, maybe you should fashion it

one of your pretty lace doilies...

(SOBS)

...while we try and find out

what's at the bottom of it.

(GRUNTING)

(SNIGGERS)

Hmm.

- What?

- Nothing, Mary.

I think I have worked out

what God is punishing us for.

Everything-

(GASPS FOR AIR)

O'Neil!

This man is sick!

He has bewitched me.

Attend him.

But have that hole dug all the faster.

Once I get my wind back, I'm gonna smash

every one of you bastards' teeth.

(GROANS)

(GRUNTS) Up-

WHITEHEAD:
Help!

WHITEHEAD:
Say, "Ah".

Ahhh.

WHITEHEAD:
Cough.

(COUGHS)

Am I bewitched?

No.

Sir, you merely suffer a disease

in the private parts,

occasioned by too much venereal sport.

'Tis all?

Well, I also deduce gout, bloody flux,

apostem of the mouth,

the pissing disease,

St Anthony's fire, iliac passion,

haemorrhoids and palsy brought on by drink.

Then, I'm not going to turn into a frog?

'Tis the one complaint you do not suffer,

uh, besides plague.

CUTLER:
Back to work!

All I can do is administer

a poultice to your yard, to soothe.

Thank you.

Baloo, my boy

lie still and sleep...

(HUMMING TUNE)

(SILENCE)

(SNIFFS)

(SNIFFS)

(SIGHS)

Thank you.

I am my own man.

I am my own man. I am my own man.

I am my own man.

I am my own man. I am my own man.

I am my own man!

I am my own man.

- Please, God.

- I am my own man!

Save and deliver us, from the hands

of your enemies, abate their pride,

assuage their malice, confound their devices,

that we, being armed with thy defence,

shall be preserved from all perils,

to glorify thee, giver of all victory

through the merit of thy son,

Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

I am my own man! I am my own man.

I am my own man!

I am my own man!

I am my own man. I am my own man.

I am my own man.

I am my own man.

Well, this is a fine hole we've dug here.

- I do bless they give us that.

- You dumb bastard!

(SHOUTS)

(GROANS)

Girding your loins?

(GROANS)

You are a slave!

(GROANS)

(SCREAMS)

- You...

- And I'll be a better slave than you!

(GROANING)

If you do not cease,

we may be blasted by an ill planet.

(GRUNTS)

- This is what a yard looks like, friend!

- Argh!

(GROANS)

(GASPS)

Friend?

Friend? Friend?

There, see?

The word sounds good on your lips.

That other fella uses it

like a poking stick, does he not?

What have you done, Cutler?

Can you do something?

I never had so many friends

as I do in this field.

Remember my song.

Ugh.

(GASPS)

When you get to the alehouse,

see a way to get a message to my wife.

Anything, friend. Anything.

Tell her...

Tell her I hate her.

(GRUNTING LAUGH)

Tell her I did bum her fathers barn.

'Twas payment for forcing our marriage.

(GRUNTING)

(GROANS)

Tell her I loved her sister.

(GRUNTS) Who I had.

Many times.

From behind. Like a beautiful...

prize... sow.

(GASPS)

If I'd have known that, I would have

paid you more respect, brother.

And...

(GRUNTS)

Yes?

- Hey? Yeah?

- And lo...

...'twas good.

(SOBS)

WHITEHEAD:
I am the resurrection

and the life, saith the Lord.

- (SOBS)

- (WHITEHEAD CONTINUES PRAYING)

(SOBBING)

(SOBBING)

He has dug his grave,

but he'll not lay there

until that treasure's out.

(SOBS)

Deposit the corpse elsewhere for now.

He shall have a Christian burial.

(SOBS)

WHITEHEAD:
No one will molest his bones.

(SOBBING)

He did it to himself.

Down is the only way out for you, Cutler.

Sooner I get back to f***ing London,

the f***ing better.

A new f***ing coat.

F***ing doors that f***ing shut!

And citizens that pay

small f***ing reckoning to astrology!

I would rather die of the f***ing plague

in the f***ing FLeet

than spend another f***ing minute

in the countryside!

(GRUNTS)

(SOBBING)

I'll deliver that message, friend,

if it's the last thing I do.

Baloo, my boy, lie still and sleep

It grieves me sore to hear thee weep

If thou'lt be silent I'll be glad

Thy moaning makes my heart full sad

Baloo, my boy, thy mother's joy

Thy father bred me great annoy

Baloo, baloo

Baloo, baloo

Baloo, baloo

Lu-li-li-lu

(EERIE CLANG)

(RINGING)

(RUMBLING)

CUTLER:
Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Sir!

Christ in heaven, Cutler!

Where are they all?

CUTLER:
We have it, sir!

We have the treasure!

Can we go to that alehouse first, sir?

There was no alehouse!

It was just a figment of your imagination.

It was just to entice that dimwit drunk

and that grinning idiot.

Was it, sir?

I can have him divining treasure for me

all over this land.

I must capture him before he starts

thinking for himself.

Well, dig, Cutler! Dig!

(LOW RUMBLING)

(RINGING)

(CYMBAL CLASH)

O'NEIL:
Come to your master, Whitehead!

Whitehead, show yourself!

I am my own master.

O'NEIL:
Whitehead!

Whitehead!

You shall have as many books

or lace bobbins as you like!

(PANTING)

O'NEIL:
Show yourself, Whitehead,

you f***ing coward!

(PANTING)

O'NEIL:
You cannot escape the field,

Whitehead!

(SHOUTS) Then I shall become it!

I shall consume all the ill fortune

which you are set to unleash!

I shall chew up all the selfish scheming

and ill intentions that men like you

force upon men like me

and bury it in the stomach of this place!

We are brothers now!

Open up, you stubborn bastard.

(PANTING)

O'NEIL:
Two halves of the same man!

This country is at the edge of something,

Whitehead!

F*** this.

O'NEIL:
Sever your conscience from your art

and you will profit!

(LOW RUMBLING)

(RUMBLING BUILDS)

(LOW RUMBLING)

(RUMBLING)

(CLANG)

(RINGING)

(LOW RUMBLING)

(RUMBLING)

(CHIMING)

(CREAKING)

(POP)

(CHIMING)

Get down, you fool.

I have come back to rescue you,

you great dunderhead.

No, friend, it is I who will rescue you.

Look. An angel, mounting guard

over the field's treasure.

Hey.

Whitehead?

Whitehead?

Come, friend. I will protect you

from yourself as best I can.

And, after that, I shall pray

for more legs and arms,

to greater appreciate

the many natural intrigues

and wonders that play out below us.

Arses.

Maybe I shall pen a book on the subject.

We've less than no chance

now they're together.

What say you to this for a title?

A Field In England, or The Myriad

Particulars of the Common Weevil.

Catchy.

There is no gold, sir.

Whitehead's a lying bastard,

just like his man Trower said.

Just like I thought.

Nothing in that hole but

dirt and old bones.

You put your money on the wrong man.

(LAUGHING)

He is more of a charlatan

and a fraud than you.

That is, I mean to say, uh...

(WHISPERED INCANTATION)

I... I mean to say that you...

(WHISPERS)

O'NEIL:
Open up and let the Devil in.

Open up and let the Devil in.

(GUNSHOT)

(CHIMING)

(INHALES)

He's the king of cold-hearted bastards,

I'll give him that.

Could do with more like him in the ranks.

O'NEIL:
Whitehead?

You all right, brother?

(THUNDER RUMBLING)

Come.

(THUNDER RUMBLING)

Not much left. Here!

I have no knowledge of weapons.

(CHUCKLING) It comes alive,

does it not, in your hand?

That's a fine-looking load you got

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