The Flower and the Serpent

by Madeleine D'Este

  ‘Remember the opening night party for Wild Minds? Excellent production by the way, great use of sound. I can still hear the nails up the blackboard. Anyway, we discussed my new project.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. You're very kind. Now, I spoke with lots of lovely people that night. And the bubbles were flowing, if you know what I mean. Would you be so kind as to refresh my memory?’

  ‘My upcoming production of Macbeth.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You're the chap with the blonde fringe.’

  ‘No,’ Ravenswood said, swallowing hard. ‘Glasses and shoulder length brown hair. You complimented my cravat. I was in your Directing 201 course in '88.’

  He didn't want to mention the name of his final production. He expected Alan would've forgotten all about it. Ravenswood had, almost.

  ‘Silly me, of course. Ravenswood. How could I forget? The Scottish Play, you say? Community theatre wasn't it? Or was it am-dram?’

  ‘High school. Beacon Hill.’

  ‘High school kids and the Bard. Excellent. A few select scenes, I gather?’

  ‘No, the whole play.’

  ‘Your end of term production? You've been rehearsing the Scottish all term, I take it?’

  ‘Not exactly. We've done bits and pieces here and there in class. A scene or two. They study it in depth in English class in Year Ten. I've hand-picked the best talent in the school.’

  ‘You're doing the whole play in a week?’

  ‘Three days really.’

  ‘I see. Quite ambitious. Very...erm...bold.’

  ‘Thank you, Alan. I want to prove any group of kids are capable of mastering Shakespeare.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  Ravenswood blushed. He and Alan Wolf were kindred spirits, both lives committed to the noble cause of improving the cultural literacy of this backwater.

  ‘Now, Peter. Sorry to rush you, Peter, but I really must be tootling off to my first appointment—’

  ‘I called to invite you to our opening night on Friday,’ Ravenswood blurted.

  ‘I will have to check my diary—’

  ‘There'll be complimentary tickets on at the door for you and a guest, of course. And afterwards, if you could talk to the kids, give a little speech. Advice for those interested in a career in the theatre. The kids would really benefit from your experience.’

  ‘I'll have to let you know. My apologies, Peter—’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘I must be going. It was nice speaking with you. And break a leg. Very ambitious. Cheerio.’

  Ravenswood placed down the receiver and crossed his arms, Alan Wolf at the performance on Friday. Once the great man had witnessed what Ravenswood had accomplished in only a week, his transformation of a group of average kids into competent Shakespearian actors in only a few days, he'd sit up and take notice.

  Ravenswood smoothed back his hair. And later backstage, Alan Wolf would compliment him on a wonderful job. Right there and then he would offer Ravenswood a place in his theatre troupe. He'd blush humbly. He'd thank Wolf for his offer and say 'he'd have to think it over'. He had to consider the kids, of course. And he couldn't appear too eager.

  Leaning back in his creaky chair, Ravenswood smiled. The fluorescent tube in the ceiling above his head flickered. He flinched and glanced in all directions. Without the usual bustle of other teachers and kids, the corridors felt as cold and clinical as a morgue. There was nothing to drown out his apprehensions. Ravenswood shuddered as the light steadied back to normal. After Friday night's production, it'd all be worth it, coming back to this place with all its memories and myths, ignoring his sister's warnings.

  But the fears had never been far from his mind. They'd been with him even at his interview six months earlier.

  ‘Do you have any other questions?’ Mrs Petrakis had smiled, her diamanté flower brooch sparkling against her dark blue suit.

  Ravenswood had chewed on his lip. There was a question on the tip of his tongue, but would he ruin the interview if he asked?

  ‘This might sound a little unusual...’ he rubbed his hands in his lap. ‘But the school...’ Mrs Petrakis pressed her lips together ever so slightly, but Ravenswood continued. ‘... has an interesting history.’

  Mrs Petrakis lifted a finger in the air. ‘Let's be clear. Not the school. Beacon Hill itself. Long before the school was built. Are you a superstitious man, Mr Ravenswood?’

  ‘No,’ Ravenswood fidgeted in his seat. ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Before the government started building, there was an interdenominational ceremony that involved Catholic, Protestant, Islamic, Jewish and Buddhist leaders. The local Aboriginal elders played a pivotal role and even the Order of the Thorn attended. Did you see the photographs in reception? It was quite the event. But if you ask me, it was a publicity stunt for the mayor. Anything for the front page of The Mercury.’

  ‘The ground was exorcised?’

  ‘Someone has been watching too many films.’ Mrs Petrakis blinked slowly. ‘Up here on the hill, with the bush on all sides, we're separated off from the rest of the suburb and the city. At this high elevation, the clouds roll in during winter and hang about all day. Rumours get passed through families, from one generation to another, and embellished along the way to scare younger brothers and sisters.’ She shrugged. ‘People will believe what they want.’

  ‘So, you've experienced nothing strange here?’

  Mrs Petrakis's eyes drifted to the floor, she toyed with the fine gold cross at her neck.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ***

  VIOLET

  Violet rested against the rough brick wall by the gold payphone, her back to the empty corridor, and flicked through the White Pages. Taroona, Berriedale, Lenah Valley. Where would Mrs Petrakis live? A ripple of air, like a cool exhaled breath, wafted through her hair. A cold chill quivered up her spine. She jerked her head up, eyes darting left and right, but she was alone in the dark corridor.

  She rubbed her neck and tried the first name listed. Mrs Petrakis would understand. Violet practised her most convincing speech as she waited for the headmistress to pick up her call, but the phone rang out. No one picked up, not even an answering machine.

  Her coins rolled back down the chute and she tried the second number. An elderly woman answered in a thick Greek accent and asked when she was coming to fix her heater.

  She dialled the third and final number. ‘The number you have dialled is unavailable. Please check the number before trying again.’ She slumped against the payphone. Her watch said nine thirty. Time for rehearsals to start.

  As Ravenswood had said, the play was voluntary. Violet could walk away and take a few more shifts at Terri's Bakehouse. She could sleep till lunchtime, lie on the couch in her pyjamas and watch midday movies, scoffing Tim-tams while her Mum was at work. Or she could read ahead, study up on next term's curriculum and guarantee her place in the drama course at uni. She could leave these amateurs to their mess.

  But Lady Macbeth was hers. She was already living inside her head. Their blood was mixed in her veins. She couldn't walk away. And besides, Mrs Petrakis would be home later. Three days was plenty of time to get her role back. Violet smiled and turned for the drama room. There'd been no mention of an understudy. Until her role was rightfully returned, she'd be Angelika's shadow and revel in every one of her mistakes.

  The open plan drama room was empty except for a circle of thirteen plastic chairs. The windows at the far end of the classroom looked out onto the soggy drooping gum trees which surrounded the school. Weak daylight struggled in through the glass and dappled the scratchy blue carpet tiles.

  Wayne and Jason were in T-shirts despite the winter. They wrestled, knocking over a chair with a cheer. Jacinta, Angelika and Lionel chatted and leaned against the wall, all straight teeth and long limbs and not a single zit between them. A few younger pimple-faced boys sat in the circle of chairs, scowling, probably relegated to guards and footmen.

  But no one had been downgrad
ed quite like Violet who had nose-dived from star to bit player. She ducked her head to avoid their sneers and scrambled for a seat.

  ‘Did you speak to him?’ Lila slid next to her.

  ‘He’s such an idiot,’ Violet muttered.

  ‘He's not too bad,’ Holly added as she slid into the plastic chair beside them.

  ‘Oooh. You think he's cute. Mrs Ravenswood.’ Lila elbowed Holly.

  Holly violently shook her head but her cheeks went pink.

  ‘I told him he'd made a terrible mistake and I wasn't going to stand for it,’ Violet said. ‘But he wouldn't listen. I'm making a formal complaint.’

  Lila covered her mouth with her bitten fingers.

  ‘This is my future he's wrecking. It's serious. I have to do whatever it takes to fix it. I called Mrs Petrakis to complain, but she wasn't home,’ Violet said. ‘It’s no biggie, she'll be there later. But until she sorts him out, I'm going to be the understudy.’ She jutted out her chin.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Lila frowned.

  ‘Hasn't she gone on holiday?’ Holly said as she twirled a finger in her dark brown hair. ‘Someone mentioned a conference on the mainland?’

  Violet narrowed her eyes. ‘As if she'd go anywhere.’ But Violet's stomach plummeted. Holly couldn't be right all the time.

  Ravenswood swept into the centre of the circle of seat and clapped his hands. ‘Take a seat, everyone. Time to begin.’

  The chatter died down as everyone drifted into a seat around the circle. Violet scowled. There was no place for her to hide in this seating arrangement, another reason to curse Ravenswood.

  ‘You've all seen the cast list by now. Congratulations to our leading actors. Lionel and Angelika.’

  Everyone clapped, except Violet.

  The olive-skinned Lionel doffed an imaginary cap with a smile. He was regal with excellent diction, unlike the rest of the ocker mumblers. Violet had to admit Lionel Pereira was the only choice for Macbeth.

  Angelika shyly smiled with a half-shrug and a toss of blonde hair. Violet clenched her fists and resisted the urge to leap across the circle and smash in her dimples.

  ‘But well done, everyone. I knew there was talent here at Beacon Hill and I was not disappointed.’

  The door squeaked open and Jez slipped into the last spare seat in the circle. He dumped his skateboard with a thud and flicked his floppy fringe from his eyes. Violet's stomach cartwheeled. She dropped her scowl and beamed across at him, but Jez didn't even glance in her direction. Like everyone else, his focus was on Angelika.

  ‘So our cast is settled—’

  Violet raised her hand. ‘I have a question.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ravenswood stuttered as he reached for his scarf.

  ‘What about understudies? Because I am—’

  ‘No wonder she didn't get the part,’ Wayne snorted at Jason next to him, but Wayne was more accustomed to shouting directions on a footy field and everyone turned. ‘Can't even read.’

  Violet glared.

  ‘It was on the board.’ Ravenswood nodded.

  Violet turned to Lila and hissed. ‘Who?’

  ‘Rowan,’ Lila murmured and lowered her head.

  Rowan’s freckled cheeks reddened as Violet glowered at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I tried.’

  With a huff, Violet slouched down in her seat. Now there were three in her way. Angelika, Rowan and of course, Ravenswood.

  ‘And that's not all. I have some exciting news.’ Ravenswood rubbed his hands together. ‘I was just got off the phone with Alan Wolf.’

  ‘No,’ Violet muttered under her breath.

  ‘Alan Wolf runs the Tasmanian Theatre Company and is one of the best lecturers in the Uni’s Performing Arts course. I studied under him myself.’ Ravenswood puffed out his chest and smoothed the wide lapels on his red velvet jacket. ‘I invited Alan to our performance. It’s a real honour and a great opportunity for some of you.’

  Violet squeezed her eyes shut. Could it get any worse? He was spoiling her chance to play Lady Macbeth before Alan Wolf, and impress the most influential man in the state.

  ‘That's exciting,’ Lila whispered and raised her eyebrows at Violet.

  ‘No. No. No,’ Violet mumbled and tightened her fist. She crumpled up her paperback copy of Macbeth. ‘Not as a witch. No. This is not the way it's supposed to be.’

  ‘We only have a few short days to put together our production. It will be hard work but I'm sure you are all up to the task. But we all need to pitch in. All of us. No slacking off. No wagging. Understand?’ He scoured the circle, looking at each person one by one, but Violet dropped her head before he reached her. She was here, wasn't she?

  ‘Do I have your commitment?’ Ravenswood asked.

  The cast responded with mumbles and rolled eyes.

  Violet homed in on obstacle number one, but Angelika met her glare directly with a curious smile as she tossed her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder.

  ‘If you remember what I said before the auditions, my Macbeth is very minimalist. We’ll have only a few back drops. The audience's attention will be focused on you and your performance. Toby Yang, our tech guy will create the perfect atmosphere through lighting.’

  Toby, chubby in a black hoodie, bowed his head shyly.

  Holly raised a hand. ‘What about costumes?’

  ‘The drama wardrobe will be sufficient, and with make-up and Toby's lighting, you'll all be transformed into proper Shakespearean players.’

  Lila elbowed Violet with a grin.

  Violet screwed up her face. Amateurs.

  ‘What about swords?’ Wayne asked, stretched out horizontally in his chair. ‘Neilo said we could use his.’

  ‘No. Not without his supervision,’ Ravenswood replied. ‘And Mr Neilsen is at a re-enactment in Ouse. We'll use props from Wardrobe.’

  ‘But they're plywood,’ Wayne scoffed.

  ‘The real swords are too dangerous, Wayne.’

  ‘This is bullshit.’ Wayne folded his arms. ‘His swords are cool.’

  Jason joined in with a grumbling chorus.

  ‘Mr Ravenswood.’ Lila meekly raised her hand. ‘I've been doing some reading. About the play.’

  ‘Suck,’ Jason said through a cough into his hand.

  ‘This play...’ Lila's voice wobbled. ‘This play is cursed.’

  Wayne jumped up from his chair and moaned, his arms outstretched like a sleepwalker. ‘Wa-woooooo.’

  Violet wrinkled her nose. Lila and her heebie-jeebies again. After her hysterics at last year's school camp when they tried fooling around with a Ouija board, she'd been very quiet, and Violet had assumed she'd grown out of her obsession with the occult. People like Lila shouldn’t be allowed to watch Twin Peaks.

  Ravenswood pushed his glasses back with a wry smile. ‘The play does have a rich and colourful history,’ he spoke as if Lila was a kindergartener. ‘But it's all superstition, Lila.’

  ‘But there have been deaths. I read about it in the library,’ Lila wrung her hands. ‘We shouldn't say the real name or anything. We have to call it The Scottish Play.’

  ‘Go back to The Three Torches with Witch Girl,’ Wayne snorted.

  ‘Now Lila. It's great you've taken such an interest, but the play was written at a time when everyone believed in witchcraft, before the advances of science. This is the 20th century. We are safely beyond all that foolishness now.’

  ‘But here, in this place? Should we...’ Lila's voice trembled. ‘...risk it? We all know the stories.’

  ‘Cool, bring on the zombies,’ Jason said, popping up his collar between smacks of gum.

  ‘Boys,’ Ravenswood tutted.

  ‘I vote we call it The Scottish Play. Not the real name.’ Lila glanced frenetically around the circle. ‘Who's with me?’

  ‘I think we're safe, Lila,’ Ravenswood said, with a little sigh. ‘We can call Macbeth by its proper name.’

  As soon as the words left his mouth, all fou
r fluorescent tubes in the ceiling zapped off and plunged the room into darkness.

  Lila squealed, Violet's stomach lurched, and even Wayne and Jason stopped laughing.

  ‘Calm down, everyone,’ Ravenswood said, his voice with a slight wobble.

  The lighting flickered back on, one tube at a time, until the room was brightly lit again.

  ‘Only the maintenance staff fiddling with the wiring. Nothing to be afraid of.’ Ravenswood handed a stack of pages to Lionel. ‘Time to get to work. Take one and pass it on. Ow!’

  Ravenswood stuck his finger in his mouth, and Violet snorted behind her hand.

  ‘See,’ said Lila. ‘It's happening already.’

  ‘It’s only a paper cut, not some evil curse,’ Ravenswood said firmly. ‘Focus, people, focus. Let's start with a read through. Where are our witches?’

  Lila rocketed her hand straight into the air. Violet sat still, her jaw tightly clenched. Lila elbowed her with a frown.

  Holly eased her hand up slowly.

  ‘Duh,’ Wayne said. ‘Pick the witch to play a witch.’

  Holly glared. ‘You shut your mouth, Wayne Moore.’

  ‘No need for a costume for you, Witchy-poo.’

  ‘There'll be no belittling behaviour in my production. One more outburst like that, Wayne and you're out of here. Where's the third?’ Ravenswood looked down at his clipboard. ‘Oh yes. Where's Jean…sorry. Violet?’

  ‘Vile-ette. Oh, Vile-ette,’ sang Jason in a falsetto.

  Violet sucked in a breath. She pushed away the disappointment and anger and gathered up all her available nonchalance. The first witch situation was only temporary.

  ‘Here,’ she said, her voice clear and composed.

  ‘Good. Let's begin. Act One, Scene 1. A desert place, thunder and lightning....’

  Violet exhaled. This was the moment she lived for, when all eyes were on her, when the whole audience was waiting on the edge of their seats. She stepped onto her stage ready to breathe life into these words like no one else before, or since. She'd show Ravenswood. She'd show them all.

  She dumped his photocopied script onto the ground and flipped open her own crumpled paperback. The First Witch had one advantage: she was the first to speak. Violet raised her eyebrow at this first small victory, the first of many. But the rest of her retribution could wait, her stage was calling for her.