A play!

That's right, and it's a long one. 16 pages on Word. Not sure what that translates to, blog-wise, but we'll see. I wrote this for a class and actually *just* finished it. I'm pretty happy with it, especially the ending, for some reason.

~November~
Written by Julian Mundy

Cast of Characters
Osgood November: mid-forties, private detective and paranormal investigator, male. Approx. 5’7”, wiry, has black hair that has begun to go gray in thin streaks, (witch?)hazel eyes, naturally friendly face and personality, impossibly intelligent. Has a rare neurological condition that causes him to forget anything he says immediately after he says it, requiring someone to write down all of his conversations. Cares nothing for the church or the state. Mother died in childbirth and father currently runs a brothel in Shanghai. Thoroughly English, North London accent.

Hildebrand: 27, aide under the employ of November, male. Very tall, bordering on 6’6”, dirty-blonde hair slicked back rigidly, blue eyes, not especially handsome. Self-educated, focusing later in his life on paranormal studies. Alienated by his family for his choice of career, comes from a wealthy family. Is almost as knowledgeable as November about the paranormal. Speaks in a thick Nordic accent.

Rebecca Spanner: 26, aide under the employ of November, female. 5’9”, very attractive despite being ever so slightly on the heavy side, wears her black hair in a thick plait down her back. Classically educated at Eton, used to be a police constable. Responsible for recording all of November’s conversations thanks to her astounding transposition rate. Comes from middle-class background, born in Wales, has a pretty Welsh accent.

Barthelemy Doyle: 33, professional Bantamweight boxer and minor celebrity, male. Arranges jobs for November with wealthy acquaintances. Friend of November and Hildebrand, object of affection for Rebecca. Very accommodating, personable. Speaks in a very North London accent muddled by Stallone-esque mumbling, presumably from many blows to the head and face.

Colonel Samuel Pershings: 64, former Queen’s Army colonel turned Provincial governor of York, male. Intimidated by his son’s intellect, austere. Utterly devoted to the English government. Yorkshire accent.

Torvald Kreskin Pershings: 20, private researcher of the paranormal and metaphysical, male. Worships November, dislikes Hildebrand, lusts after Rebecca. Intellect surpassed only by November’s, always looking for someone to listen to him talk about his research. Speaks with a rough combination of Yorkshire and Eastern European.

The Armadillo: A profoundly unfortunate armadillo whose past and future are as yet shrouded in mystery.

Setting:
(Lights up on Pershings Estate basement, a large stone room set into the very foundation of the manor house; the basement is lit by tabletop candlesticks placed randomly, illuminating the tottering piles of books and sheaves of notes covering all surfaces. In the corner of the room we see 12 stacked wire cages, each only big enough for a rabbit or small dog to live in comfortably; all but 2 of the cages stand open and empty, the last 2 holding an armadillo and a tabby cat. Enter Torvald Kreskin Pershings, Col. Samuel Pershings and Barthelemy Doyle; the three men enter at a leisurely pace and spread around the room according to their own preferences, with Torvald moving around feverishly, checking measurements and figures on a sheet of parchment and speaking excitedly)

Torvald: (still scribbling and pacing) I’m glad you decided to come, Mr. Doyle. It’s good to have someone bear witness to my work who isn’t a pigheaded skeptic.

Col. Pershings: Am I not allowed my opinion, Torvald? I have seen your experiments before and I would describe my feelings afterward as… well, let us say that horror would not be inappropriate.

Doyle: (amused) Torvald, you’ve gone on and on to me about this work you do. I’ve already said that I was int’rested, so you’ve nuffing to prove to me; this ‘ole biz-ness sends me inta a storm of ideas, none of ‘em quite so exciting as yours, of course. The biz-ness I’m in is simple; fist ag’inst fist, man ag’inst man but on the physical plane only! Come, friend, please give us two the specifics!

Col. Pershings: (clearly uneasy, with shaking voice) NO, no, really, that’s not necessary, son, please. I-

Doyle: (interrupting) Nonsense! This is most enthralling, sir! You must learn to approach all things with mind open and eyes wide! Miss nothing, my good colonel!

Torvald: You see, father? There are people in this world not quite so intolerant as you.

Col. Pershings: For the umpteenth time, son, intolerance is not the issue at stake! I am simply scared for my life, for my immortal soul, Torvald!

Torvald: (not listening) If I may begin…

Doyle & Col. Pershings: (Doyle excited, Pershings resigned) The floor is yours.

Torvald: (making a little bow, then straightening to pace the room in an authoritative manner) Thank you, gentlemen. Now, in order to affect the metaphysical through physical means is a labour that has taken countless hours of study and trial and error. By all rights, such a thing should not be possible, but with tireless research into Aztec spirituality, the relation of lunar and solar cycles, Planetary Alignment Theory and Renault Ectogram Compression, as pioneered by Anton Renault himself, I have found a foolproof way of breaching the bulkhead between the world of the body and the world of the sleeping mind. Just think of it, gentlemen! Proving that which the great Renault and Gregory Cullum of the Colonial Americas could not! With a few simple, 100,000 word incantations and a conductive glyph that many believed to be lost forever… (voice rising to a triumphant crescendo) I WILL SWITCH THE WAKING MINDS OF THIS CAT AND THIS ARMADILLO!

(Doyle’s expectant smile falters noticeably; Col. Pershings has placed his hand over his mouth in disbelief)

Torvald: But quickly Father, Mr. Doyle! There is a quickening and we must not waste such an opportunity! (he rushes to the cages and withdraws the armadillo and cat, straps them down and tickles them both beneath their respective chins; both animals mewl and snuffle frantically) There, gentlemen, you see! Both animals are masters of their own individual consciousness, but with the power of the mind… (making a grand gesture) They will NOT BE FOR LONG!

Doyle: (on edge but still vaguely expectant) Oi, Torvald, let’s not do anything we’ll regret, hey? Just calm down and-

Col. Pershings: (finishing the sentence) – and think about what you’re about to do, my son! What you are doing was never meant to be, it’s unnatural, like a trained circus bear riding around on those little bicyc… (trailing off then finding his thread again) Please, my boy, think about the consequences of your actions! Think! You could end up with a tabby-armored catadillo and THEN what’s to be done?!

Torvald: Oh, I have thought about it, father. At great length and I say to you one thing only: How often does one… (laughing in a maniacally) Get to play GOD!!!

(Torvald runs to a crate in the corner U.L. and extracts a freshly killed chicken, which he shoves into Doyle’s hands, and what looks to be a stiched-leather cap with gold television aerials sticking out of it at random places and angles; neither man even attempts to resist at this point and both stand staggered C.R.)

Torvald: Now father, Mr. Doyle, please stand very still while I recite the incantation. Get into a comfortable position, as this is a sodding long one…

(Torvald begins to chant in a strange and unintelligible language for approximately 15 seconds before both Torvald’s voice and the lights fade out; cue card appears from above reading 10 MINUTES LATER… before lights come back up to normal and Torvald’s voice is heard again, slightly more tired; he finishes his chanting and motions to Doyle)

Doyle: (looking down at a patch of featherless skin on the chicken’s back and speaking in a voice that clearly indicates that he is reading something written on it) We summon you O Lord of Dreams, to grant us a boon of power. Let these two bound thus be transposed upon each other, and let their lives be mastered each by the other. This boon we ask that we may feel the wealth of the dreamscape and the true nature of the mind. (shouting) ARABUM ASTOS POLLUX DEFINITUS ARCHAIA!

(Wind kicks up all around the room, blowing notes hither and thither; pops and small explosions erupt from beakers sitting on desks and smoke pours in from an unknown source before the whole thing stops instantly, leaving the three very startled and confused men standing stupidly and looking at the animals on the ground)

Col. Pershings: Is it… Is it over? (alarmed) AM I DEAD?!

Doyle: Did it… Did it work? What’s happened to the animals?

(Torvald runs to the center of the room to check the animals’ status; he prods the cat cautiously but gets no response)

Torvald: The cat appears comatose… (soft humming can be heard from somewhere; all at once all three men realize it is coming from the armadillo, which Torvald releases from the floor and holds up to eye level)

The Armadillo: (hums a tune for a few seconds before exploding, startling all present) THE SKIES WILL RAIN FIRE AND THE RIVERS WILL RUN WITH TAR! THE REIGN APPROACHETH! THE REIGN APPROACHETH AND THE RUINATION OF THE WORLD DAWNS LIKE THE ATMOSPHERE SET ABLAZE! YOU WILL EAT BLOOD PUDDING FROM THE UMBER TABLE BEFORE LO- (Doyle intervenes and clamps a meaty fist around the armadillo’s snout)

Torvald: (horrified) And the armadillo appears to be able to scream damning prophesies. (turning to Col. Pershings) Father, would you like to interject? I feel as though my immense brain isn’t working properly.

Doyle: (equally horrified but attempting to put on a brave face) I know this much: we’re metaphysically buggered. But I think I know what to do…

(Doyle dashes to the phone, which has been knocked over in the uproar, and speaks to the operator)

Doyle: Yes, Operator? Get me Osgood November!

(fade to BLACKOUT; SCENE CHANGE)

(Lights up on Pershings Estate Parlour; décor is very much in keeping with a state official seeming much more wealthy than he is, with ornate chairs, a desk and assorted rare-looking plants placed uniformly around the room; grand staircase placed center, leading to upper floors and bedrooms, doors placed off-stage R, leading to the vestibule, L, leading down to the basement, & U.L. and U.R, leading into what might be presumed to be the dining room, kitchen, living room, etc. Voices heard offstage)

Doyle: (off) Ah, Osgood! So glad you hear you could come on such short notice, guv’nor!

November: (off, casual) Not at all, Barthelemy. Good to see you well after so long.

Doyle: (off) You as well, guv’!

November: (off) “You as well” what? What was I saying?

Doyle: (off) Er… Nevermind then, guv’. Come in, you all. It’s bloody freezin’ out there.

(Enter Doyle, Osgood November, Hildebrand and Rebecca Spanner; each character moves around the room and settles according to their preference; the general formation is a loose cluster around Doyle, who is just L. of the center staircase)

Hildebrand: So, Barthelemy, what exactly is this problem you have?

Doyle: Oh, the problem ain’t exactly mine. One moment, please. (climbs up three steps and calls upstairs) Colonel! Torvald! The cavalry has arrived!

(Enter Col. Pershings and Torvald from down the main staircase)

Doyle: Guv’, this is the hon’rable Colonel Samuel Pershings, and his es-teemed son, Torvald Kreskin Pershings.

Col. Pershings: Ah, at last! Mr. November, what an honor to finally meet you! What a relief, I can hardly-

Torvald: (interrupting) Mr. November! You are Osgood November? THE Osgood November?!

November: (politely surprised) I suppose I’m AN Osgood November…. I’m sorry, young man, I’ve neglected to introduce myself, my name is Osgood November. What are you looking so excited about, if I may ask?

(Col. Pershings and Torvald seem at a loss for words at November’s behaviour, Doyle’s face looks as though he just remembered something unpleasant; Rebecca intervenes)

Rebecca: I apologize for any confusion, sirs. Mr. Osgood has, though his intellect is still honed as it ever was, he has from birth been the unfortunate host of a disorder that has disabled his ability to remember his own speech. In other words, he forgets what he says immediately after he says it.

Hildebrand: A more unfortunate affliction is hard to find, you must admit.

November: I try not to let it bother me.

Rebecca: I apologize for the lack of warning, sirs.

Col. Pershings: (still a little shaken) Oh, no no no, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It- Well, I-I just hope that you’re…

Torvald: Functional?

Col. Pershings: Well?

November: Well, I’m not a depressive, and that, I believe, is the first step toward leading a… well, as you say, a functional existence. (smiles; Torvald and the Colonel seem unnerved)

(Seeing that the Pershings’ reaction, Doyle interjects immediately)

Doyle: Now, this armadillo of yours, Torvald. Well, go on, son, there’s work to be done!

Hildebrand: Armadillo? You wouldn’t happen to have an infestation of Peruvian Cabalist Armadillos, because we haven’t the cloves or the ether necessary to-

Torvald: No, no, nothing like that, whatever that is. No, rather the armadillo is, well, screaming. And yes I know how that sounds.

Rebecca: Well, obviously.

Torvald: Well, obv- I’m sorry, dear lady; I don’t follow you at all.

Rebecca: Well, if you’ve heard the beast scream, then you obviously know how it sounds.

Torvald: Er, quite, yes… Well, er, I- Nevermind. That’s not important right now, if you’ll excuse me. No, what is important is how the incident started.

Col. Pershings: (to November, with a visible shudder) I can hardly bear to remember, sir.

Torvald: Yes, yes Father, very nice. But getting straight to the point… The whole incident was the result of a groundbreaking experiment I was conducting.

Doyle: (to November, embarrassed) Not to put too fine a point on it, guv’, but the proceedin’s went, well, pear-shaped, beggin’ yer pardon.

November: And what sort of “experiment” could possibly go so pear-shaped as to enable a marsupial to shriek?

Torvald: To be perfectly honest, sir, I was attempting my greatest project to date: to switch the minds of a housecat and an armadillo. I was quite confident in the project’s success, but clearly- (he is interrupted as November rushes over and grabs his hand and shakes it hard)

November: But my boy, what a wonderful idea! I’ve heard that Cullum tried to switch two minds years ago but failed miserably, but I wonder what you must’ve thought of it. What did you think about Cullum’s attempt? You know that I heard Gregory Cullum tried an experiment just like that 7 years ago, with no success whatsoever.

Rebecca: (seeing that November is repeating himself) Chief, don’t you think we ought to see to the armadillo? Speaking of, where is the wee thing?

November: Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right, Ms. Spanner. Yes, of course, Ms. Spanner. Lead on!

Hildebrand: Right as always, Rebecca. (Rebecca has been carrying a suitcase with her but has left it on the floor during the conversation; she motions to grab it again, but Hildebrand makes a motion to stop her) No, no, I’ll take it down, my dear, I insist.

(Rebecca smiles politely and puts a hand on November’s shoulder, the two of them following Doyle and Col. Pershings, with Hildebrand, a suitcase under each arm, trailing slightly behind; Torvald has not moved and is glowering down at his shoes)

Col. Pershings: (as he exits) Tread carefully now, gentlemen and lady! Some parts of this house are old as those peculiar trees in Jordon!

(Col. Pershings, Doyle, November and Rebecca exit into the basement; Hildebrand makes for the exit but is stopped by Torvald’s hand on his chest; the scene is peculiar, as Hildebrand towers over Torvald; Torvald’s voice is laced with barely-concealed jealousy and contempt)

Hildebrand: I’m sorry, young sir, but I must follow Mister November and Miss Spanner. The instruments they’ll need to test the cellar with are all in this-

Torvald: Don’t you think you can fool me, you overgrown lummox!

Hildebrand: Well, there’s no need for that sort of talk, young sir, and what do you mean by “fool you?” I haven’t done something to offend you, have I? (checks to make sure he hasn’t stepped in something)

Torvald: (growing more and more incensed) Where do you find the gall, you Viking stooge?! I can see through that veneer of manners as though it were wax paper!

Hildebrand: What are you going on about, young sir? What have I done?

Torvald: You have it in your mind to woo Miss Spanner!

Hildebrand: (genuinely confused) I… What? I’m sorry, young sir, “no hablo Loony.”

Torvald: Don’t think you can play dumb with me, sir. My intellect is such that I could see through walls, so your feeble mask of innocence has no hope whatsoever of deceiving me! I won’t have it, sir!

Hildebrand: Young sir, I haven’t the slightest clue what you are talking about. Miss Rebecca and I have known each other for years, since Mister November so graciously employed us. I rather think of her as a sister than a potential-

Torvald: Ah! But how the mind twists and perverts! You think of wooing someone who you used to value as a sibling! For shame, sir… (Torvald smirks evilly)

Hildebrand: For the last time, young sir, I have no thought in my mind of pursuing a relationship with Miss Rebecca, and if you know what’s good for you, you had best put the thought out of yours!

Torvald: Ah, now I see! If you could not make dear Rebecca yours, no one else should have her, eh? Well, I deplore your selfishness, sir!

Hildebrand: (growing increasingly frustrated; in an icy tone) Now see here, young Torvald, do away with this nonsense before-

Rebecca: (off) Hildebrand, get down here! We need the Echo-Spectrograph!

Col. Pershings: (off) Torvald? What are you doing up there, boy? There is no time to dawdle!

Hildebrand: (calling to offstage) Coming, I’m coming! Wait a moment! (refocusing on Torvald) –before I lose my temper and make you sorry for slandering me. Do we understand each other?

Torvald: (slightly cowed, but trying to remain firm) I will desist, but only because we are both needed elsewhere. Only, remember this, Viking… I’ll have my eye on you.

(Hildebrand and Torvald glower at each other for a moment before simultaneously breaking the gaze and exiting into the basement)

(BLACK OUT & SCENE CHANGE)

(Lights up on Pershings Estate basement; Torvald and Hildebrand enter from staircase U.R. to find that Rebecca and November are already rifling through sheaves of parchment and thick manuscripts, presumably looking for clues; Doyle and Col. Pershings stand watching L; Hildebrand reaches the center of the room, where he places the larger of his two cases on the floor, opens it, and extracts a pair of goggles, mottled with a number of dials, switches, and different lenses)
Hildebrand: (handing the goggles to Rebecca, who grabs them, delighted) The Echo-Spectrograph.

Rebecca: Magnificent! Now let’s have a look at this marsupial of yours, Colonel. Oh, Barty… (she indicates Doyle, her voice as sultry as she can manage) Would you please get the armadillo for me, darling?

(Doyle hesitates for a moment, then, with a face one makes before swallowing unpleasant-tasting medicine, he moves D. L. to an open crate, from which he removes the armadillo, which has since its last appearance had a belt fastened snugly around its snout. Doyle holds the creature at arm’s length, looking very unnerved at just touching it)

November: Marvelous little bugger…

Hildebrand: What a peculiar creature.

Rebecca: Right then, let’s have a gander, eh? (she holds the goggles to her face and looks intently at the armadillo for a few moments, then recoils) Lord in-! (masters herself) Chief, you’d best see this.

November: (taking the offered goggles, then holding them to his face; there is a pregnant silence for a few seconds) I hate to do this to you, Barthelemy, but… I’ll need to hear the poor marsupial speak.

Col. Pershings: (to no one in particular) If only he knew how bizarre that sounded…

(Slowly, Doyle removes the belt; the Armadillo says nothing for a moment before exploding)

The Armadillo: YOU HAVE NO IDEA OF WHAT HORRORS AWAIT YOU, PUNY FLESHLINGS! YOU ARE ALL AS THE DEAD, IN BUT A SHORT TIME YOU SHALL ALL FEED THE WORMS OF THE EARTH AND MAKE A BOUNTY FOR THOSE CREATURES THAT CHEW ON THE BONES OF THE DAMNED! HE WILL MAKE THE UNIVERSE AS A BAUBLE TO TURN IN HIS HAND AND ALL THE BEINGS IN IT HIS SWEETMEATS! HE DRAWS EVER NEARER IN HIS MIGHTY FURY AND-

(Doyle has once again clamped his hand over the armadillo’s snout and proceeds to fasten the belt yet again around it; November sits on a nearby stool and wears an expression of deep thought on his face, his lips moving silently; all others in the room seem both concerned and puzzled; it is Doyle that breaks the silence)

Doyle: Not to, uh, intrude on your brainwork, guv’, but… Wha’ever did the little blighter mean by all tha’? Might as well ‘ave stuck it’s ‘ead in a fishbowl and let it scream, for all the good it did.

November: Nonsense, Barthelemy! I’d rather think not, Barthelemy!

Torvald: What do you mean by that, sir? Surely you couldn’t have understood that gobbledegook, the little thing isn’t in its right mind. We can’t even be sure of what mind it is in!

Col. Pershings: Unfortunately, my son is right. I know my boy as well as anyone, and if his staggering intellect can’t decipher that yammering, I don’t see how you could, begging your pardon. What did it mean by “HE” anyhow? And why is HE going to kill everyone? I can’t die yet! There isn’t a war on!

Hildebrand: Colonel, your speech simply reveals how little you know of Mister November. Have faith, sir. If you haven’t any now, you will have very shortly.

Rebecca: I’m sure the Chief will be able to give you all the particulars of his deductive process, but I believe it’s drawing up on lunchtime. It does no good for the mind to operate without fuel, after all.

(Rebecca takes the armadillo from Doyle’s arms and places it carefully back in the crate, while the others look at each other and nod appreciatively; all move to the staircase, having a conversation in indistinct voices, with the occasional discernable remark about food; as the last foot disappears up the staircase, lights dim and spotlight focuses on the crate, from which we can hear what sounds like the muffled cries of the armadillo; the sounds continue until…)

(BLACKOUT & SCENE CHANGE)

(Lights up on Pershings Estate, patio; the floor is tiled stone, with low stone walls surrounding and a pair of stone planters flanking the door to the house itself; we see that there is a table covered in food, which the assembled party is gathered around, plates in hand, from which each eats various finger-food fit for a rich man; the group is generally gathered around November, and all stand in silent attentiveness. November is speaking, with Rebecca writing down everything with a pad of paper held slightly below his eye level, so that he may stay on the same deductive track)

November: -which allows the user to see the souls of the departed! A marvelous device, if I may say so. So beautifully simple, yet so staggeringly effective!

Col. Pershings: So you mean to say, sir, that this… device of yours allows a man to see the dead? Ghosts and things? What nonsense…

Torvald: Oh hush, father! You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.

Col. Pershings: Oh, you just wait and see, my lad. This is a load of stuff and nonsense and you’ve all gone funny in the head! You’ll see!

(While the Colonel speaks, November holds the goggles to his face and looks up and offstage, then after a moment’s pause, lowers them and speaks)

November: I beg your pardon, Colonel, but you seem to have a spirit haunting your upstairs toilet. Been there quite some time, by the looks of things…

Col. Pershings: (rushing over to November and snatching the goggles away, then holding them to his face) I what?! You must be out of your tr- AAAAAAAAH! (he recoils and hides behind Hildebrand for cover)

Rebecca: Oh, do calm yourself, sir. It’s only a wee ghost. Probably a dead relative who came to visit, or perhaps the former owner of the house. You know, more dead people snuff it on the toilet than anyone seems to realize.

Hildebrand: She’s quite right. You’re quite right indeed, Rebecca. Shame no one thinks of these things until they have ceased to be useful, damn shame.

Doyle: (with marked distaste) ‘Ow dreadful!

(Torvald has become steadily gloomier as the conversation has progressed, and finally interrupts, barely concealing frigid anger)

Torvald: Excuse me, Father, everyone, but I must have a word with Mister Hildebrand here. (Hildebrand already looks as though he is preparing for a fight) Mister Hildebrand, if you would, please…

Hildebrand: Of course, young sir. Lead on.

(Torvald and Hildebrand move D.L. and leave the rest to a conversation which the audience cannot hear; the sounds of eating, laughing and excited muttering are barely audible)

Torvald: Sir, this is the last time I shall be so polite, but I must ask you to cease this foolishness. For the final time, Rebecca’s heart belongs to me!

Hildebrand: I think that’s rather up to her, now isn’t it, little one?

Torvald: Ha! Please, sir, stop your joking. How could she resist such a specimen as myself? I have the body of a god (he admires himself for a moment) and the brain of a… well, something with a very large brain! Even one so choice as Miss Spanner could hardly think of rejecting a man like myself.

Hildebrand: Tell me, youngling, do they keep a special cell in Bodkin’s Asylum open, just in case you happen to pop in for a nap and a mental breakdown?

Torvald: Your insults mean nothing to me, worthless Viking pig!
Hildebrand: (in cold fury) I have warned you time and again, little fool, and still you poke and prod at me and my honor. Well, now you leave me with no choice, as I must teach you a lesson your father evidently failed to.

Torvald: (with a sneer) And what lesson might that be, headmaster? Hehehehe…

Hildebrand: I will teach you respect! I will teach you humility! I will teach you fear! And above all, I will instill in you forever that you do not always get what you desire! I will win Rebecca’s heart, and I will let you live with the horrible knowledge that you lost fairly! I will let that lesson sink into you and crush your spirit. I derive no pleasure from it, but if I must spite you thus, then I shall spite you thus.

Torvald: Ha! I think the Viking has had too much of his mead this afternoon!

Hildebrand: As you say, little one, we shall see whom (making air quotes) fortune favors.

November: Hildebrand! Young sir! Come here quickly! We believe we have an answer to our armadillo problem! We’re going to use the Soul Kiln!

(BLACKOUT & SCENE CHANGE)

(Lights up on Basement; everyone is gathered around a peculiar stone pot sitting C.; the pot is covered in strange symbols and dials and a sickly green light radiates from it)

Col. Pershings: So… Explain this again, please. I simply can’t grasp it. This little vase does what, precisely?

(Rebecca moves C. to fiddle with the dials as November explains how the Kiln works, but Hildebrand stops her gently)

Hildebrand: No, no, please, my dear, let me. Mister November might need you for dictation. (Rebecca resumes her position and begins to write as November speaks, letting him see the pad after each sentence)

November: Now, Torvald, much of this is directed at you, because you will likely understand the gist of what it all means. The Soul Kiln is a device which extracts and solidifies the soul of a creature through the Palladion Cycle, which is the reason for all of the markings on its exterior.

Torvald: So the Kiln focuses the soul through a leypoint created inside the pot, if Palladion’s Fourth Tenet is observed. I see.

November: Precisely! Now, in a normal creature, the soul solidifies into a sphere, which, when digested by the empty shell of the creature, will restore the soul. The problem that I believe we are having with the armadillo is the result of a fusion of two souls, of two mental energies, if you will. One interferes with the other, causing a struggle for dominance and giving the armadillo qualities it was previously without, in this case, speech. If we are to restore the rightful soul of the armadillo while disposing of the intruding soul, the situation should resolve itself fairly swiftly.

Col. Pershings: Well let’s switch on the bleeding thing, dump the armored allegretto inside and deal with this business once and for all!

November: Very well, Colonel. No point in dragging this affair on any longer than necessary. Hildebrand, if you would be so kind. (Hildebrand turns a dial, prompting the Soul Kiln to hum tunelessly) Rebecca, the specimen, please. (Rebecca removes the armadillo and walks it over to the Kiln; removes the Kiln’s top and gingerly places the little creature in the strange pot)

Doyle: Well? Now wha’, guv’?

November: Now, dear Barthelemy, we wait. Wait and pray, Barthelemy. Wait and see, my friend.

(A few seconds pass without anything happening until two small *clinks* are heard from within the Kiln; Hildebrand moves to the device and switches it off)

Hildebrand: Now let’s see, shall we? (he dumps out the contents of the Kiln, which happen to be two milky-white marble-sized stones and an inert, soulless armadillo) Ah ha! Chief, you were right all along! Two souls!

November: Yes, yes, very nice, Hildebrand, but we must see to the other soul’s disposal. One moment… (holds the Echo-Spectrograph up to his face and looks over both stones) There, the one on the right, that’s the intruder’s soul! Quickly, we must dispose of it!

(Torvald steps forward, eager to prove himself in November’s eyes)

Torvald: Not to worry sir! I’ll see to it, but first let’s give the little thing its soul back. I feel so guilty over starting this whole mess; I must set it right! (he picks up the stone lying R. and feeds it to the soulless body of the armadillo, causing November, Hildebrand and Rebecca to dash forward, but too late; the armadillo has already swallowed the soulstone)

November: No! NO! You’ve no idea what you’re doing, Torvald!

(Hildebrand and Rebecca tackle Torvald to the floor, but seeing that the armadillo has already ingested the stone, they focus instead on what is happening to their precious subject, transfixed by the marsupial)

Col. Pershings: (very worried) Well, what is it? What’s going to happen now it’s got the wrong soul in-
(The Colonel is cut of by a low bellow, soon revealed to be coming from the armadillo; all present but Torvald, whose arms are still pinned to the floor, smack their foreheads in exasperation)

The Armadillo: AT LONG LAST I AM COME UPON THIS WORLD! BEHOLD, FOR I AM THE END OF ALL THINGS REAL, AND LET ALL THINGS BE AS DREAMS!

(There is a pause in which the assembled group clusters around the armadillo, now immobile on the table; all come to the same realization)

Doyle: ‘Old on now… I don’t think the little fella kin so much as move ‘is little paw. Why’s ‘at, then, guv’?

The Armadillo: CURSE YOUR FEEBLE MOTHERS! RAAAAAGH! I AM NOT YET USED TO THIS BODY! BUT MARK ME, ONCE I AM, YOU WILL ALL BE MY FIRST SACRIFICES! YOUR BONES BELONG TO THE LORD OF DREAMS!

Torvald: Did he- it, just say “Lord of Dreams?” That can’t be possible… That would mean that the Dreamscape exists. The Dreamscape EXISTS?!

November: So it would seem, young man. Now you there, er, Lord of Dreams, would, erm… you please tell us why you are- oh hold on. (looks as though he’s come to a sudden realization and shakes head ironically)

The Armadillo: THIS WORLD WILL BE MINE!

Rebecca: Not by the looks of that poor little armadillo body of yours, lord.

The Armadillo: AAAAARGH! FINE! I WILL MAKE YOU A DEAL, LITTLE HUMANS. I CHALLENGE THE WISEST OF YOU TO A BATTLE OF WITS TO END ALL BATTLES! THE STAKES ARE THE FATE OF THIS WORLD!

November: So we are to assume that if you win, my lord, that you will take the world as your prize? So the world will be yours if you win, my lord, but what if the human defeats you?

The Armadillo: RRRRRRGH… IF YOU WIN, HUMAN, I SHALL… SENTENCE MYSELF TO ANOTHER ETERNITY IN THAT CURSED PRISON. SO WHICH OF YOU WILL STAND AGAINST ME IN MENTAL COMBAT?!

(The group parts and all point as one at November, who looks embarrassed but steps forward)

November: Very well. Very well, Lord, you may ask the first question.

The Armadillo: QUAKE WITH FEAR AT THE MIGHTYNESS OF MY WORDS, MORTAL INSECT! HERE: I AM SO FAST YOU CANNOT SEE ME, YET ALL SEE RIGHT THROUGH ME. I DO NOT STOP UNTILL THE DAY YOU DIE. WHAT AM I? (a sign drops from the ceiling with the question written in large, black letters, then rises back up into ceiling after 5 seconds)

November: (without a moment’s hesitation) The blinking of an eye.

The Armadillo: …CORRECT. (oohs and aahs from the group) RRRRGH. NOW I MUST ANSWER YOUR QUESTION… BUT REMEMBER, IF I ANSWER CORRECTLY, THERE SHALL BE A SECOND ROUND, AND A THIRD, UNTIL ONE OF US IS VICTORIOUS!

November: A woman was horrified to find a fly in her tea. The waiter took her tea into the kitchen and returned with a fresh one. The woman shouted, “You’ve brought me the same tea!” How did she know?

The Armadillo: (quite sure of itself) THE TEA CONTAINED ANOTHER BUG, BUT A DIFFERENT ONE THAN THE FIRST TIME!

(A pregnant silence)

November: …I’m sorry, Lord, but no. Bye bye now.

The Armadillo: WAIT, NO! YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE- (the voice of the Lord of Dreams trails away as another wind kicks up in the basement; there is uproarious applause)

Col. Pershings: Stupendous! I can’t believe that actually worked, Mister November! I don’t know how to thank you!

Doyle: Hahaha! Bit of a crap deity tha’ wos, eh? Hahaha!

November: Oh, it wasn’t anything special, really. Just a little riddle my father taught me…

(November, Col. Pershings and Doyle exit up the staircase; Hildebrand, Torvald and Rebecca remain where they are; Rebecca looks very satisfied with the situation, both Hildebrand and Torvald look uneasy; the silence is broken by the men, speaking almost simultaneously)

Hildebrand: You know, Rebecca, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time…

Torvald: Dear Rebecca, I feel as though I must say this before it eats away any more at my soul…
Hildebrand: Ever since we first met three years, I’ve felt an ache in my heart that I’ve never until now found the words to describe…

Torvald: At the first moment I saw you walk through those doors, I knew this from the depths of my soul…

Hildebrand & Torvald: Rebecca, I love you!

(There is a short pause, where Rebecca seems to be thinking, but soon her face twists into a look of deep amusement, and she exits laughing heartily, leaving the two men looking stupidly at each other.)

FIN