Hag-Seed

by Margaret Atwood

  8Handz is behind the folding screen that hides the computer screen, the control panel, the central microphone, and the two sets of headphones--one for himself, one for Felix.

  There's a tension, familiar to Felix from dozens of opening nights. Dancers, waiting in the wings, first foot already poised. Divers, on their springboards, bending their knees, raising their arms. Football players before the whistle. Racehorses before the pistol shot. He smiles encouragingly.

  "This is it," he tells them. "We'll never be more ready." There's a gentle clapping. "To remind you," he continues, "these are the politicos who want to destroy our Fletcher Correctional Players." Soft boos.

  "Shame," says Bent Pencil.

  "Yes," says Felix. "They think it's a waste of time. They think you're a waste of time. They don't care about your education, they want you to stay ignorant. They aren't interested in the life of the imagination, and they have failed to grasp the redemptive power of art. Worst of all: they think Shakespeare is a waste of time. They think he has nothing to teach."

  "Double shame," says Phil the Pill. The secret directions Felix has been rehearsing with all of them over the past week have made Phil nervous. He's been raising objections to it--isn't it illegal, what they intend to do?--but the majority of the class is in favor of it, so now he's going along. Felix hasn't stationed Phil among the lead Goblins, however: he might lose his nerve and break the charm.

  "But together we can stop their cancellation plan," says Felix. "We can set things right! What we're doing today--we're giving them some excellent reasons for why they need to reconsider. We'll be showing them that theatre is a powerful educational tool. Yes?"

  Assenting murmurs, nods. "Right on, dude," says Leggs. "Beetles light on them! Blister them all o'er!"

  PPod says, "They'll be thinking poxy twice, after we get through."

  "We're on it," says Red Coyote. "Moon-calfs won't know what hit them."

  "Thank you," says Felix. "Okay, ready to roll. First part, they're escorted here by the sailors, they come in and sit down, you serve the refreshments. Blue cups, green cups. Don't get the colors mixed up! Green for O'Nally Senior, and also for Lonnie Gordon. Blue for Tony Price and Sebert Stanley. Popcorn for all of them. Remember that!"

  "The chalice with the palace is the potion with the poison," says Bent Pencil. Nobody gets it.

  "The clear cups are for the rest of us, and Freddie. You've got your black gloves?" says Felix. "Great. Your ear buds? Keep them out of sight. As soon as the screen goes dark, stick in the ear buds, roll down the ski masks, put on the gloves. Then you'll be virtually invisible. Watch for the marks on the floor, you'll see them as soon as 8Handz turns on the black light. TimEEz, we're counting on you to remove their security alarms."

  "Be not afeard, the isle is full of fingers," says TimEEz.

  "It'll be exactly the way we've been rehearsing it," says Felix. "I'll be with 8Handz, behind the screen. Listen for our cues. We'll be able to hear you, so if you run into trouble we'll send a backup. The password for trouble is 'scurvy monster.' Got that?"

  Nods all round. "I hope nobody's going to get hurt," says Bent Pencil. He's been fussing over this: snatch-and-grab is not his modus operandi.

  "Not so much as a hair," says Felix. "Unless they try to fight. Which they won't. But PPod and Leggs and Red Coyote are ready to keep them under control, if necessary. They'll use a bouncer hug, not a wallop. No excessive use of force, no matter how tempting. Promise?"

  "You got it," says PPod.

  "There's ways," says Red Coyote.

  "Now, locations," says Felix. "In half an hour, the dressing room will no longer be the dressing room: it will be Prospero's cave. The fifties demonstration cell will be Ferdinand's rock-and-log ordeal site, so young O'Nally will be placed in there. It's the one with the older toilet. Anne-Marie will babysit him for us: she's well prepared."

  "Are you sure this is ethical?" says Anne-Marie. "I know you've got some scores to settle, I get it, but the O'Nally son never did anything to you."

  "We discussed this," says Felix. "He won't be injured. Remember, it's partly his dad who crapped up your career twelve years ago. The palm trees are already on location, correct?"

  "Correct," says WonderBoy. "Plus the mermaid." He's looking sulky: Anne-Marie in a locked cell with another man doesn't sit well with him.

  "The other demonstration cell, the nineties one, will be the nap-time location for Alonso and Gonzalo--sorry, for O'Nally and Lonnie Gordon," says Felix. "It's the one with the cactuses. It's important to slot the right people into the right rooms. When they're all in the main screening room, and just before we push the Start button, Shiv will be outside in the hall, sticking up the signs on the doors: palm tree, cactus."

  "Got it," says PPod.

  "Excellent. Timing is everything. Goblins, we're depending on you: nothing in this play can work without the Goblins."

  "We gonna get away with this?" says TimEEz. "What about Security?"

  "No problem, they won't have a clue," says Felix. "The key is that we got cleared to have the dignitaries in our wing, unescorted. A friend of mine with a lot of influence swung that for us. We've got the video cued so that while we're doing our interactive theatre here with the politicos, everyone else in the place will be watching our show just the way they usually do. If they hear screams--which they won't--they'll think it's part of the play."

  "Fuckin' genius, man," says Leggs. No one rebukes him for the swear word.

  "I couldn't have done it without Ariel," says Felix. "Without 8Handz. He's been--he's been awesome. As have all of you." He checks his watch. "Now, here we go. Curtain's going up. Merde, everyone."

  "Merde, merde, merde," they say to one another. "Merde, bro. Merde, dude." Fist bumps.

  "The Tempest, Act I, Scene 1," says Felix. "From the top."

  The group of visitors is posed outside the main entranceway, with the Fletcher name clearly visible. The two potential federal leadership candidates, chests out, teeth on display, jostle for the most prominent position in the frame. The others group around them.

  The Honorable Sal O'Nally, Minister of Justice; the Honorable Anthony Price, Minister of Heritage; the Honorable Sebert Stanley, Minister of Veterans Affairs; and Mr. Lonnie Gordon of Gordon Strategy, Chair of the Board for the Makeshiweg Festival. Accompanying them is Minister O'Nally's son, Frederick O'Nally.

  Sal is paunchier by the year; Tony's ultra-tailored in his sleek suit, with still a good head of hair. Sebert Stanley has always looked like a seal--small head, hardly any ears, small eyes, pear-shaped body--and he still looks like one. The boy--Freddie O'Nally--is handsome enough--dark hair, white smile--but he's looking off to the side. It's as if he doesn't like the company he's keeping, even though one of that company is his father.

  Flanking the central group is a clutch of government minions and gofers, and some of the Fletcher higher-ups, who are most likely wetting themselves because it's not often they've had a ministerial visit. In fact, it's not ever.

  Estelle is in the background, half obscured: she doesn't like to be too obvious on such occasions, she'd told Felix, but she'd promised to run interference for him: reassure, distract, just in case the Warden's group got nervous. She'd synchronize her watch and make sure the two videos played at the same time. "Think of me as lubricant," she'd said. "I'll make things run smoothly, guaranteed."

  "How can I thank you?" Felix had said.

  "We'll talk." She'd smiled.

  --

  The main doors open. The group enters. The main doors close.

  In the viewing room, Felix settles himself behind the folding screen. "Take us to PPod's mic," he says. He puts on his headphones.

  There's a murmur of voices. The ministerial group is being run through Security one by one, just like anyone else, no exceptions, as Dylan and Madison explain politely. Quite right, says the voice of Sal O'Nally, glad to know you boys are doing your job, haha.

  All is joviality. As Felix knows from Estell
e, they've just come from a local political bunfest; they must have been well received, and he assumes they've had a few drinks. A quick stop at this holding pen for bottom-feeding social misfits and they'll be on their way, and the quicker the better because it's supposed to snow. There may even be a blizzard. Already some of the lower-downs whose function it is to attend to such details must be nervously checking their watches.

  --

  Sal's feeling mellow. They'll go through the charade of seeing this play or whatever it is, mostly because Freddie has insisted on it and he, Sal, thinks the sun shines out of Freddie's ass, even though he wants him to be a lawyer and not some fruity actor. But he'll humor the boy, and then, after they're back in Ottawa, Sal will announce the cancellation of this frill, this so-called literacy thing, whatever it is. Prisons are for incarceration and punishment, not for spurious attempts to educate those who cannot, by their very natures, be educated. What's the quote? Nature versus nurture, something like that. Is it from a play? Sal makes a mental note: ask Tony, he used to be in theatre.

  Better still, ask Freddie. The kid will be disappointed when Sal puts it to him that it's law school or no more monthly allowance because he's had his playtime. It may seem severe, but Sal wants only the best, and the boy would be wasted in the arts, it's a dead end and about to become deader under Tony's stewardship, as Sal happens to know.

  "Can't take your cellphone in there," says Dylan to Sal. "Sir. Sorry. We'll keep it safe for you here."

  "Oh, surely," Sal begins, "I'm the Minister of..." but he sees Freddie looking at him. The boy doesn't like it when Sal pulls rank; though what's the use of having rank if you can't pull it? Nonetheless, he hands over his phone.

  Tony has other things on his mind. Here he is with two potential leadership candidates, Sal and Sebert, and both of them want his backing. Sal feels Tony owes him, considering the help he's given Tony with his career. Supplanting Felix Phillips was just the first step: Tony's risen like a gas balloon ever since. From the life of theatre to the theatre of life, you could say, and Sal was his ladder. But once you've climbed a ladder, what use is it? You kick it away, if you don't intend to go down it again. Surely it would be better for Tony to back a candidate to whom he owes nothing; who owes a debt to Tony, instead. How to shake off Sal and tip the scales for Sebert? What's the long game?

  Having sacrificed his phone, Sal turns out his pockets, gives up his Leatherman pocket knife, also his nail file. "Clean as a baby," he tells the two security guards. Much reciprocal grinning. A security pager is clipped to his belt: not that there will be any use for it, says Dylan, but no exceptions, everyone must be issued with one. Sir.

  Tony sails through the X-ray with his hands in the air, affably clowning it up. Sebert does it straight-faced, smoothing down the hair on his little head after he's gone through the scanner. Lonnie proceeds through sadly, as if he's sorry there has to be such a thing as a security checkpoint, in such a thing as a prison. Freddie is awkward, wide-eyed: this is a whole other world, one he's never thought much about.

  Now they're all through, and, as if on cue, around the corner comes a group of men dressed as--what? Pirates?

  "Welcome, gentlemen all," says the one in the lead. "Welcome to the good ship Tempest, which you are now aboard. I'm the Boatswain and these are my sailors. We're sailing you across the sea to a desert isle. Don't be worried if there's some strange noises, it's part of the play. And this is an interactive piece of theatre, experimental in nature; we're alerting you of that fact in advance." He leers ingratiatingly. "Right this way."

  "Lead on," says Sal. Might as well be a good sport. It hasn't escaped him that these men are inmates, but the Warden and several guards are right there in the background, smiling, and the Warden says, "See you after the show, enjoy it, we'll be watching it too, from upstairs." "Have a good time," says Estelle what's-her-name: her grandfather was a Senator, he's seen her at a lot of parties, she's on committees or something. Now she smiles and waves at them as if seeing them off on a ship. So it's all fine, and he follows the Boatswain down the corridor to the left.

  Tony and Sebert are right behind him, and Lonnie and Freddie are right behind them. Right behind Lonnie and Freddie are three of the sailors, tossing--what's this?--handfuls of blue, glittering confetti. "It's water drops," says the Boatswain. "There's a storm, right?"

  "Oh, right," says Sal. What are shenanigans like this doing inside a prison? These men are having way too much fun.

  To the rear of the party a door slides shut, locking with a clunk. Only to be expected, thinks Sal. Of course. It's the security. He feels safer.

  In the distance there's a rumble of thunder.

  "Right in here," says the Boatswain. "Gentlemen." He ushers them through the door into the main screening room.

  "Well done, PPod," Felix whispers into his mic. He checks his watch again.

  There's a large flatscreen at the front of the room. More black-clad sailors escort the visitors to their places, indicating with bows and flourishes where they are to sit. Four of the sailors hand around soft drinks, in blue and green plastic cups, and little bags of popcorn, a homey touch. The three Ministers and Lonnie are in the front row; there's a row of sailors behind them.

  Felix, looking at the screen, sees that TimEEz is in the middle of the second row, his round moon face smiling vacantly, his nimble fingers hidden in his sleeves, poised to lift the security pagers as soon as the lights go out.

  Where's the rest of the party? Sal wonders. Oh, right. Upstairs with the Warden and what-not. That nice-looking woman, Estelle: a bit flashy but obviously well connected. He should take her to lunch sometime. He sits back in his desk chair. He's feeling the drink from that bunfest they went to.

  "Let's get this show on the road," he says to Tony. He checks the time. "At least they didn't take my watch," he grins. He digs into his popcorn bag: lots of salt, he likes that. He takes another hefty swig of ginger ale, from the green plastic cup. He's thirsty. Nice idea, this ginger ale. Too bad there's no booze in it.

  --

  Freddie's beside Anne-Marie, in the third row. "Hi," he says to her. "I'm Fred O'Nally. I guess you're the Miranda? In the play?"

  "Yes. Anne-Marie Greenland," she says.

  "Really?" says Freddie. "Are you that Anne-Marie--Aren't you--weren't you dancing with Kidd Pivot?"

  "You got it," says Anne-Marie.

  "That's awesome! I must've watched your video, like, a hundred times! As a director, I want to integrate, like, more movement, and some crossover--"

  "You're directing?" says Anne-Marie. "Cool!"

  "Well, not exactly," says Freddie, "I mean, not my whole own productions yet. I'm more like an apprentice. But I'm getting there."

  "Here's to getting there," says Anne-Marie, raising her clear plastic cup. Freddie raises his. He's gazing deeply into her wide blue eyes.

  "Fabulous dress," he says. "It's got the right..." Now he's looking at her one bare shoulder.

  "Thanks," she says, pulling her sleeve up a little but not enough to hide the shoulder. "I made it myself."

  --

  There are three sharp raps from behind the folding screen at the front of the room: Felix, with his fox-head cane, on the floor. 8Handz' index finger hovers over the Play button. In the light from the computer his thin face is impish.

  Felix glances anxiously around the dark space: where is his own Miranda? There she is, a glimmer behind 8Handz' left shoulder.

  The hour's now come, she whispers to him.

  The house lights dim. The audience quiets.

  ON THE BIG FLATSCREEN: Jagged yellow lettering on black:

  THE TEMPEST

  By William Shakespeare

  With

  The Fletcher Correctional Players

  ONSCREEN: A hand-printed sign, held up to the camera by Announcer, wearing a short purple velvet cloak. In his other hand, a quill.

  SIGN: A SUDDEN TEMPEST

  ANNOUNCER: What you're gonna see, is a storm at sea:
Winds are howlin', sailors yowlin',

  Passengers cursin' 'em, 'cause it gettin' worse: Gonna hear screams, just like a ba-a-d dream, But not all here is what it seem,

  Just sayin'.

  Grins.

  Now we gonna start the playin'.

  He gestures with the quill. Cut to: Thunder and lightning, in funnel cloud, screengrab from the Tornado Channel. Stock shot of ocean waves. Stock shot of rain. Sound of howling wind.

  Camera zooms in on a bathtub-toy sailboat, tossing up and down on a blue plastic shower curtain with fish on it, the waves made by hands underneath.

  Closeup of Boatswain in a black knitted tuque. Water is thrown on him from offscreen. He is drenched.

  BOATSWAIN: Fall to't yarely, or we run ourselves aground! Bestir, bestir!

  Yare! Yare! Beware! Beware!

  Let's just do it,

  Better get to it,

  Trim the sails,

  Fight the gales,

  Unless you wantin' to swim with the whales!

  VOICES OFF: We're all gonna drown!

  BOATSWAIN: Get outta tha' way! No time for play!

  A bucketful of water hits him in the face.

  VOICES OFF: Listen to me! Listen to me!

  Don't you know we're royalty?

  BOATSWAIN: Yare! Yare! The waves don't care!

  The wind is roarin', the rain is pourin', All you do is stand and stare!

  VOICES OFF: You're drunk!

  BOATSWAIN: You're a idiot!

  VOICES OFF: We're doomed!

  VOICES OFF: We're sunk!

  Closeup of Ariel, in a blue bathing cap and iridescent ski goggles, blue makeup on the lower half of his face. He's wearing a translucent plastic raincoat with ladybugs, bees, and butterflies on it. Behind his left shoulder there's an odd shadow. He laughs soundlessly, points upward with his right hand, which is encased in a blue rubber glove. Lightning flash, thunderclap.

  VOICES OFF: Let's pray!

  BOATSWAIN: What's that you say?

  VOICES OFF: We're goin' down! We're gonna drown!

  Ain't gonna see the King no more!

  Jump offa the ship, swim for the shore!

  Ariel throws his head back and laughs with delight. In each of his blue rubber hands he's holding a high-powered flashlight, in flicker mode.