Susannah Elisabeth Pabot
Chorus (a call―soft, urgent―from the village):
Last night a ewe died in the pastures of Montagut, and with her a lamb.
There they lie: side by side;
their fell
entangled in the barbed fence above.
It is almost noon and the sun shattering. They walk side by side, close yet not touching, a path of dust and torrid gravel beneath their feet. More than an hour ago, after leaving the road, they passed three or four stone houses, but none lately. All around, rocky terrain and shrubs, dried out by the late summer heat, stretch far into the hills. In the pastures, sheep graze on what is left of the once-green grass.
Ana stops under the shade of a lone oak. She turns and looks onto a herd of sheep grazing next to the path. There are many lambs. She moves closer to the fence, lifts one hand and touches the barbed wire with her fingers.
“I can't go on,” she whispers.
“We’ve come so far. We’re almost there now.” Marcel places his hand on her shoulder.
“I can't recognize anything. It frightens me to be here.”
“You'll recognize Montagut. I promise.”
Motionless, her fingers hold the barbed wire. Nearby, a lamb nuzzles its head under a mother ewe and begins to suckle. He reaches for her hand and she lets go of the fence.
“Come. Just a little further and you'll see: you'll begin to recognize everything.”
Her hand is rough, heavy―empty in his.
Above the sun rises even higher, and with it the heat.
Chorus: (louder, and in a more insistent tone; a summons):
There they lie: a ewe and a lamb;
one on Borignas’ land, the other on Boudreau’s.
The old man Borignas drives his sheep downhill to another pasture,
past drying shrubs,
nearer the shade of three sycamores by the stream.
He cries out to his animals to move, his voice fierce and loving:
Bouge, bouge!
But there is one who will not get up.
The old man strides through the dry grass to the sheep lying―
Allez, bouge!
white by the fence―
Putain de merde!
It is then that Borignas sees the flies,
too many,
and is hit by the stench: thick, sweet, fetid.
He stands in the dried-brown grass and finds his dead ewe.
Only when he comes back with a wheelbarrow and a pick
to remove its already rotting carcass does he see:
there are two.
His old ewe and, pressed against her on the other side of the fence,
a lamb.
Chorus (figures, coming into sight near the stream, and the sycamores):
Montagut, terrain farmed by two families.
Borignas’ land lies on the hills and Boudreau’s below.
They have not spoken for as long as memory.
Theirs a silent, lingering feud that
has lost all meaning.
They climb the path slowly. When they reach the rise of the hill he promised her, Ana stops once more; she has seen the ancient stone grange, forlorn, crumbling in the pastures.
Marcel stands next to her, silently, and together they see: the old grange is growing a young oak. Through an opening where the roof has collapsed onto itself, from within the fallen stones, tender leaves are sprouting.
Borignas touches his hard boot to the hollow belly of the dead lamb on Boudreau’s grass―
it is a newborn, still without markings.
He knows: his old ewe was mother to many lambs,
but not this one.
Chorus (ascending the hill):
They have not spoken for as long as memory.
Marcel turns toward Ana, watches her gaze at the grange. He knows she longs to talk to him of their children, running inside. Playing. They are climbing the oak, the older ones are helping the littlest ones. From up high in the branches, they look down onto the sun-burnt pastures of Montagut and far beyond.
Sitting in the tree’s branches, the children see all the way to the village church where their parents were married.
Marcel knows that Ana longs to speak, but she gazes at the grange, wordless. When she turns to him, her face is very young. He reaches for her hand -
“You were wearing a golden dress.”
- and this time her hand is a little alive, a little his.
Borignas drags the dead ewe by its haunches over his pasture, into the wheelbarrow,
his old body suffering, trembling
under her weight, the heat and the terrible stench.
Their fell entangled,
the lamb is hauled halfway through the fence,
its carcass stretched until its soft belly tears,
spilling intestines out onto the late-summer grass.
Chorus (ever louder and closer, now in a pasture nearby):
And yet, there were times
when the silence was broken in Montagut, when the two feuding families
raised their voices and called to each other, over the pastures.
When their land or their animals became entwined,
making words necessary.
Hand in hand, they walk up the path toward the grange.
Suddenly, ahead of them, a wheelbarrow –
NON! Halte! Arrêtez-vous!
and in the pasture, an old man, gesticulating, shouting for them to stop –
Arrêtez-vous!
Continuez-pas!
Ana cries out and Marcel steps in front of her, furious at this stranger for startling her, for stopping them now they have come so close –
Quelque chose ne va pas?
Des bêtes mortes ; là, dans le champ.
Chorus (climbing over the barbed fence that divides Boudreau's
and Borignas' terrain):
In this instant Borignas remembers the young man.
He is a man now, no longer a boy;
he has been a man for a long time already,
but Borignas is old and his years have flowed together.
There is much he has forgotten.
Borignas shakes his fist in fury.
Et pourquoi tu es là, eh? Quelqu’un t’envoie?
“I'm here for her; only for her.”
Chorus (hands reaching toward the path, pointing in unison):
The men stand in the dirt and gravel;
between them: the woman and in the wheelbarrow,
the dead ewe's carcass.
Marcel recognizes the old man’s anger and forgets Ana next to him, for a moment, until she sits down in the path, covering her skirt in dust. He kneels, placing his arms around her.
“Who is he?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He points at the grange just ahead of them in the pasture.
“We’re almost there.”
Borignas stands by his wheelbarrow, tired and hot.
He sees the younger man’s face grow old with concern,
knows what the summer sun can do in these parts,
and that the young man too should remember.
Elle va pas bien?
Marcel can't turn away from Ana, can't answer.
Venez! Elle a besoin de boire.
He strokes her cheek, presses his mouth onto her hair.
“The old man owns this land. He is telling us to come with him so that you can rest and drink water.”
“No. Not here. I can be only with you.”
“Ana, he owns the grange.”
She looks up at the ancient stones, stands up, slowly.
Chorus (motionless now, hushed whispers):
There they walk, up the path, past the ewe in the wheelbarrow
and the lamb’s torn body in the grass.
The young couple and the old man Borignas.
The woman stops by the wheelbarrow,
and Borignas knows she will see the ewe, lifeless, heavy,
and the clamoring flies; and then, not far, by the fence –
Non, regardez pas! Venez!
bloodied, the body of the unmarked lamb,
a newborn.
Chorus (heads bent):
The woman sobs, between the men who hold her.
Together, they lead her up the path,
past the grange in the pasture,
toward Borignas’ house,
built of brick and mortar when he himself was young.
An old woman, still handsome -
skin weathered, eyes folds around blue -
steps out of Borignas' house. He calls to her:
Germaine! Germaine!
and in their deep accents tells her of the couple he has found,
of the young woman who needs help -
but Germaine has understood, already.
She takes the young woman’s arm, guides her to her table,
places a glass in front of her onto the aged wood.
Tenez, de l’eau.
Borignas and his wife watch the young woman take large sips,
swallow the water of their land.
Only then does Germaine place
a glass of water in front of the young man.
She cuts bread―thick, heavy slices -
ladles potée into bowls.
And when the young people have drunk and eaten,
she leads them to a room upstairs, under her roof.
There is a bed with white sheets, and a painting on the wall of hills and a church.
In its foreground: sheep grazing.
Ana lies down on the bed, her skirt fanning, colors ablaze on white. Marcel bends over her, pulls off her shoes. Then he walks to the window, stands in its frame.
“I can see the grange. I am so close I can see the stones crumbling. I can see the oak growing new leaves.”
He turns back to her and realizes that she has fallen asleep. He walks to the bed, bends over her and kisses her eyelids, her cheekbone, the angle of her chin. He moves his hand over the shape of her body; slowly, he traces her contour. In her sleep her face softens, she moves, reaches toward him. He kisses her hand, her open palm.
Downstairs, in the kitchen, Borignas turns to his wife.
“He is Boudreau’s grandson.”
“I know.”
“I didn't see, at first.”
“It is evident.”
Borignas points out the window, his voice suddenly rich with anger.
“We lost a ewe last night; and next to her, a lamb.
The lamb lies on Boudreau’s land.”
Germaine watches him, her eyes quiet.
“His grandson has come for the lamb.”
Chorus (muffled voices from outside, ricocheting off the walls):
The sun, high over Montagut,
bears down onto
the wheelbarrow, where the old ewe lies and rots,
and, torn and deserted,
the newborn lamb.
Inside, Germaine draws her curtains; long-ago red, they are now faded.
Upstairs the young woman lies asleep.
In the kitchen, alone,
the old man Borignas waits, his gaze on his hands―
browned and silent on the table before him.
He does not look up when the young man comes down the steps,
sits down at the other end of the table.
The table is larger now, with the men at either side.
The young man is the first to speak; he raises his head and looks at the old man.
His words harden them both.
“I learned your name before I could say my own: Pierre Borignas. My brothers and I spoke your name in our pastures, calling over the terrain, and our mouths were full of fear and hatred:
Pierre Borignas.”
The old man does not move, does not meet the young man’s gaze.
“And even now that I live beyond Montagut, beyond the village, all the way past the river, in the city – "He gestures toward the door, the path that leads downward and away from them - “even now I hear your name in my dreams: Pierre Borignas.”
When he speaks, finally, the old man’s voice is deep, broken.
He does not look up from his hands.
“Your wife does not come from these parts.”
“No, she was not born here, not anywhere near these pastures –”
Marcel hesitates -
Now the old man looks at him.
“There is a lamb on my land.”
“There are many lambs.”
“This one has died.”
“The lamb on the barbed wire.”
“It died on your grandfather’s terrain, Marcel Boudreau.”
He stands up, crosses the room, pushes open the door.
The light pours in, and with it the heat and the stench
from the pasture nearby.
“You know that my grandfather is long dead, and his house empty.”
Borignas stares at the young man; his eyes hot and tired.
Finally he whispers:
“This is your lamb.”
He stands up, walks to the door, stops by
the young man in its frame.
“There are flies, and worms already.”
Marcel doesn’t move.
For a long time both men at the door remain silent,
facing the path and the pasture beyond.
“I will fetch the lamb. I will bury its carcass.”
“Go to the grange; go find shovels.”
Chorus (in the pasture, encircling the lamb):
The grass in the pasture is red from the blood of the lamb,
there are flies and inside the carcass:
worms battling for infant flesh.
Borignas walks down the path, his shoes heavy in the heat
until he reaches his wheelbarrow and nearby on the fence:
Marcel Boudreau’s lamb.
When Marcel catches up with him, his hands are empty.
“There is only one shovel, and its handle is splintered.”
With a wave, the old man calls him to follow him, anyway.
Marcel climbs into the pasture, walks to the lamb on the fence,
its insides spilling onto the burnt, yellowed grass,
sweet, fetid―
“Your lamb, new born.”
Marcel coughs -
“Where is its mother?”
- retches.
“She wanders, searching."
“For how long?”
"Today, maybe tomorrow, then she forgets.”
Chorus (their arms raised toward the sky):
With their hands the men bury the carcasses,
deep into the earth that divides their families’ land.
When it is done, dusk has fallen.
Ana wakes. She is alone.
She calls for him, softly.
“Marcel!”
But he is not with her.
“Marcel!”
She has dreamed of the grange, and of their children. Again, there are many.
They are dark, as she, their mother, and they are light, as he, their father. They run in the grange, climb the young oak. Wave.
And they are laughing.
“Marcel!”
She walks to the window, her feet bare.
She sees the grange and she sees him, coming up the path,
carrying a shovel, broken―
She runs down the stairs.
In her kitchen, Germaine cuts apples,
peels half-rotten figs she will turn into sweetness.
She sees the young woman enter, her eyes trembling.
“He is outside –“
Ana crosses the room, walks through the door. Her shadow -
long in the fading light -
almost touches the old woman at the stove.
She crosses the path, runs toward the crumbling stones,
and the oak. She crouches, walks through a low entrance, toward him.
Marcel reaches for her hand, pulls her close.
“The dream,” she whispers.
“One day it will stop. Maybe today.”
Ana leans her face against his; his cheek is hot―and wet.
“This is why we came back,” he whispers.
Chorus (dispersing as they begin to move back down the hill):
They have been here once before.
She wore a golden dress.
Marcel leads her to the young oak, lays her beside it,
and the earth is soft and warm.
“The old man –“
“He has gone to find his animals, to bring them to other pastures―come.”
She leans against the oak, runs her fingers along its bark, over tender ridges.
“It is a new tree.”
He bends his head, touches her thigh, her breast, reaches for her body with his mouth.
Above, through the branches and the fallen roof, the sky is near,
and the scent of the fruit from across the path, cooking into sweetness,
mingles with their own.
Lying on his shoulder, her voice, when she speaks again, is hollow.
“The old man didn’t understand. No, he couldn’t see. The lamb was his, it came from his own dead ewe.”
She stops, her breathing heavy. Begins again.
“No. I didn’t see it either, at first, but now I do.”
She sits up, turns his face toward hers with her hand, makes him see with her.
“The mother found her child dead, and she lay down beside it to die.”
Chorus (backing out of sight, offstage):
There they lie, naked.
It is night now, and dark.
Outside, the sound of cicadas. She watches his body, asleep, follows the movement of his breath.
In the darkness she reaches down between her legs. She feels her blood still running out of her, warm and thick and sweet - and she knows it will always be like this,
and no more.