The Possession Page #21

INT. INN (NEAR CEMETERY)

RAIN POURS down. In the bar, around a fireplace, a muddy

crew of scholars, in pajamas and dressing gowns, drink hot

toddies; Blackadder and Leonora hold hands, in love.

Beatrice passes around the letters.

BLACKADDER:

How strange for Maud to be descended

from both Ash and Christabel...

FERGUS:

Yes. Your lives' work, all in

vain...

CROPPER:

No, no. I sensed it all along. The

old Cropper instinct. I knew it was

something vast...

BEATRICE:

I can imagine Ellen. She didn't

even read it. Just put it away -

BLACKADDER:

For Maud. As it turns out. She

preserved it for Maud.

BEATRICE:

Poor Ash. He never knew... never

knew..

(CONTINUED)

119.

CONTINUED:

Looking to Leonora, for once speechless, gazing at a damp

letter.

LEONORA:

... Wow.

PULL BACK from the discussion -- TO upstairs -- where -

INT. INN (NEAR CEMETERY) - ROOM

THROUGH the windows of the 18th Century inn -

In a white room, with a white four-poster, with white-veiled

curtains. Maud and Roland by a white bed.

ROLAND:

I'm afraid of it, too. Just like

you.

MAUD:

What cowards we are, after all.

(beat)

Kiss me.

ROLAND:

That's what I was afraid of.

Behind the white veils, Maud finally kisses Roland, softly

at first, then with all her repressed passion, as they lie

down upon the bed -

DOWN BY BED - BOX

And beside it -- the WATCH. With its plait of golden hair,

where we HOLD for a moment. Until, weakly, fitfully, the

sweeping second-hand gasps out a few inexplicable TICKS -enough

to let us know -

It is alive.

ASH (V.O.)

There are things that happen and

leave no discernible trace, are not

spoken of or written of, as though

such things have never been. Two

people met, on a hot May day, and

never mentioned the meeting...

DISSOLVE TO:

120.

FLASHBACK - EXT. MEADOW (SEAL COURT) - DAY (1868)

The same WATCH, TICKING...

In the hands of a man, walking down a country lane on a hot

May day of bright sunlight and BUZZING INSECTS. Nearby, a

meadow full of flowers, like a Monet: blue cornflowers,

scarlet poppies, a carpet of yellow daisies sway in the

breeze.

Up a lane, walks a bearded man in a black, wide-brimmed hat.

From cool shadows, he stares wistfully out in the distance,

at -- the gothic towers of Seal Court. The old man is hot,

wipes his brow.

As he catches his breath, a nearby CREAKING sound, to and

fro, distracts him. Yet so intense is his stare, he hardly

notices a young GIRL (8), swinging on a gate.

GIRL:

Hello! Are you lost?

The Girl, in blue dress and white pinafore, hums to herself,

making a daisy chain. The man looks down at her: he is

Ash.

ASH:

Am I -- ? Oh, hello. Yes... I was

looking up at yonder house. Do you

know it?

GIRL:

That house? Of course I do. That's

my house.

ASH:

(beat)

Is it really?

Suddenly curious, Ash c*cks his head towards her, lowers

himself on one knee. A gentle matter-of-fact tenderness.

ASH:

Well, you are a very fortunate girl.

(holding out his

hand)

My name is Randolph Ash. How do you

do? May I know yours?

GIRL (MAY)

My name is May Bailey. I have

another name also, but I do not like

it.

(CONTINUED)

121.

CONTINUED:

ASH:

I think I know your mother. You

have a true look of your mother.

MAY:

No one else says that. I think I

look like my father.

ASH:

I think you have a look of your

father, too.

Ash puts his arms around her waist, lifts her down to his

side. Mays sits, pulling grass, surrounded by a cloud of

butterflies.

ASH:

You seem very happy.

MAY:

Oh, yes. I am, I am.

(beat)

Can you make daisy chains?

ASH:

I will make you a crown for a May

Queen. But you must give me

something in exchange.

MAY:

I haven't got anything to give.

ASH:

Oh, just a lock of hair. To

remember you by.

MAY:

Like a fairy story.

ASH:

Just so.

Ash hunts in his satchel, takes out a tiny pair of pocket

scissors. And very gently cuts a long lock from her golden

hair.

MAY:

Here. I'll plait it for you, to

keep it tidy.

May's fingers set to work, Ash gathers up twigs, ferns,

flowers.

(CONTINUED)

122.

CONTINUED:

ASH:

I'll make you a crown, like a

fairy's child. Or like Proserpine.

Do you know any poetry?

MAY:

I have an Aunt Christabel who is

always telling me poems. But I

don't like poetry.

ASH:

I am sorry you don't like poetry, as

I am a poet.

MAY:

Oh, I like you. You make lovely

things and don't fuss.

ASH:

If I wrote down a message, would you

be kind enough to deliver it to your

aunt?

MAY:

A message? What will it say?

ASH:

Simply that you met a poet, who was

looking for his fairy goddess, and

who met you instead, and who sends

her his compliments, and will not

disturb her, and is on his way to

fresh woods and pastures anew.

Ash locks into May's eyes. A moment he will remember with

absolute clarity, but which will fade in her memory over the

years. Tiny beetles crawl about their feet.

They go back to working beneath the sun. A man and a girl,

content to share one moment of their lives. As a breeze

floats through, ruffling the leaves around them -

DISSOLVE TO:

SAME SCENE - MOMENTS LATER

Ash stands by the gate, watching May run through the meadow,

note in hand, daisy crown upon her head. Ash winds her

blonde hair-plait around the chain of his watch.

(CONTINUED)

123.

CONTINUED:

May climbs up a hill towards Seal Court, where her brothers

ambush her. They rough and tumble, falling down the grassy

slope. Her crown falls beneath one brother, is crushed.

Among her things, May picks up her half-embroidered cushion

(the one Maud finds a hundred years on) with verses only

begun. Ash turns away as -

HIS NOTE:

without May even registering -

Flies from her hand, up into the air. Carried by the wind

like a leaf, it floats through the fields. Over the grass,

connected by diamond-threads of light -

Over the yellow and purple flowers, up into the branches of

a tree. When a wind blows, RUSTLING LEAVES, seeming to play

music upon them. HOLD ON the tree. SLOW PAN THROUGH TO -

END OF FLASHBACK.

EXT. LONDON LIBRARY (ST. JAMES'S SQUARE) - DAY

That same tree. A hundred years later. Now full circle,

growing magically in an elegant square in central London.

As the WIND RUSHES through the branches, in an ancient

harmony -

About to pluck from its branches to tap upon a library

window -

Leaves, floating like birds.

FADE TO BLACK.

THE END:

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