"Edvard Grieg † Peer Gynt"
"Peer Gynt"
Tonight is a special night… a gala night requiring glamour and poisonous grandeur… all the stars are out, and their glittering eyes peek through
the windows at the top of the vaulted ceiling in the estate’s grand
foyer, just hoping to catch a glimpse of the brightest dark star of all,
as she sweeps her entrance into the hall…
Gracious and fluid, she sashays into the vestibule, with hands carefully
poised over the swell of her hips, and posture forced upright by the bindings
of a black satin corset, its dull glow contrasted by layers of black lace.
The villainous threadwork forms a shawl over her shoulders, and its paisleys
and embroidered roses spiral down to scalloped edges that hang to a "V" just
below the top of the bustier, fastened with a diamond broach at the precise
point where the shadows of bountiful cleavage begin.
Through the net that embraces her shoulders and clings to her arms can be
seen the barest hint of pure ivory, dimmed by cells of woven fiber that cover
all the way down to the tops of her hands and end in a flourish of lace cuff,
obscuring everything but the very pointed tips of her nails.
But there is no want for skin to be viewed - another yardage of lace encircles
her hips, knotted at her abdomen with a trim of beads that sway with every
step. This garment would seem a careless afterthought were it not for the
precision of that knot, appearing so fragile, yet supporting the voluminous
weight of a lace train, of organdy and jet beads, that trails behind her
like a downed peacock’s tail.
The skirt is split at the front, of course, and there’s the skin - the
slender porcelain stems perched high atop the prop of a pair of statuesque
steel heels, each one making its birth into splashes of torch light, then
receding behind a curtain of black froth, to be replaced by its
counterpart… and it is this classical strut that carries her into the
center of the hall.
Lifting her chin in a regal, queen-of-all-she-surveys upsweep, she sidles
to the stocks, where her evening’s distinguished guest is already waiting
to be entertained. He is not in the stocks, but hanging from the center of
the ceiling beside them, suspended on chains looped through and around his
wrists, the very weight of his body stretching him down towards the floor,
and causing untold agonies to his spine… cradled in lace, her fingertips
thrum idly at one hip, as she studies him with a patient, scholarly eye…
his Gothic charm is undeniable, this boy of the pallid complexion and
bottle-black hair whom she so conveniently found wandering the streets of
Rhy’Din one lonely night.
What doubts he had about the dangers of the night then… how he scoffed
at her icon, Pain… blasphemy… what lies he accused her of
peddling… but the truth of the matter is in the now, and the truth is
that he is bound and bared, his ashen sinews exposed to the world’s
eye, and she is the one at his side, towering high enough to reach his side,
and prepared to burden him with the biting truth of her scourge.
A pair of liveried servants enters the hall behind her at that moment, emerging
from the mouth of the corridor and supporting, between them, an old-fashioned
Victrola, and on a velvet cushion with golden tassels swinging at its corners,
a disc of solid black vinyl, carved with grooves and emblazoned with a label
in gold lettering that reads "Edvard Grieg ~ Peer Gynt, Suite No. 1, Opus 46, In the Hall of the Mountain King".
The phonograph is positioned beside the bronze bull, clicking on nickel-plated corners as it is set into place, and the lid unlocked reveals a turntable only ten inches in diameter, set in a cabinet of buffed mahogany.
Rose, meanwhile, is undergoing a different form of preparation, as she reaches
to the top of the corset and tucks thumb and forefinger down between the
swells of cleavage, to retrieve the pommel of a poignard, blued until the
stamping of arabesques swirling over the handle appear to be carved of charcoal
rather than imprinted on steel. The guard is hooked in an arc on either side
and serrated with the scales of a dragon’s tale. Up, up, up comes the
knife, until the steel throat and leathern lining of a sheath come into view,
and even then, it seems an eternity before the tip of the scabbard arrives...
some sixteen inches in all, long enough to have been hidden down the front
of her torso and to reach even beyond, to the beginnings of the skirt, and
when she can breathe a little easier inside the corset, a sleight-of-hand
flicker sends the sheath away, to reveal that at least a foot of that length
is deadly, double-edged, and all damascus.
And what would torture be without the tried and true, the old standby, the
thick-handled flogger?
Laying the dagger carefully aside atop the stocks, where the slave boy, with
his limited periphery, can still get a clear view of it, she reaches into
the folds at the inside of her skirt, unhooking and producing a bulky whip
of long rubber strings. The tail is at least as long as the distance from
knee to toe, and there appear to be hundreds of the skinny rubber strands,
all so thin that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the next
begins.
The light weight of this whip will guarantee that the boy will feel next
to none of the typical bone-jarring thud, but the ends will bite and sting
like the needles of dozens of tiny insects.
While one of the servants has carefully positioned the disk on the turntable,
the other sets about the task of cranking a handle at the front of the
Victrola’s box.
Maestro…
The vinyl starts to rotate, and once the needle is dropped, both servants
retreat from the room, marching in unison with heads held high, stiff and
proud and looking down the lengths of their noses with eyes unseeing, blinded
by duty and refusing to watch the misery about to unfold… or perhaps
determined to watch what they can from the safety of the shadows.
The conductor clicks his baton, once, twice, and lifts his arms high…
and in the tremulous pause, the audience falls to a hush, stricken dumb with
anticipation…
"Suite No. 1"
The crisp crackle of static adds a certain old-fashioned charm to the ambiance
of the scene and disguises the whooshing of rubber on rubber as Rose drapes
the flogger across the stocks and takes up the knife once more. With its
tulip-shaped horn and cambered lid, the Victrola thrusts the sound out into
the center of the foyer, and the rounding of the room and the cupola vaulting
of the ceiling do their part to help the acoustics from the antiquated
phonograph.
So the notes are everywhere as our hero creeps in… one long stretch
from the French horn, four full counts unsteady and wobbling, and then lazy,
sluggish oboe belches skulk across the tile… one and two and three
and four and… the ghost of a rakish adventurer lies in wait in the
shadows…
Rose flashes the knife once, then reaches up, to trail its point along the
inside of the slave boy’s arm, and Peer Gynt enters the court of the
Troll King on stealthy feline feet… one and two and three and
four…
With the threat of a dagger teasing his skin, mocking its virginity, the
boy shivers, and the fraction of movement is enough that he inadvertently
pierces himself on the blade point… gravity and depraved fascination
tugs his gaze downward against hers, bloodshot terror meeting molten emerald,
and she holds his eyes in mesmerized captivity…
Up and down the scales trip the oboe notes, tighter and more pronounced
now… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and… sweeping
back down and up the other arm, so quickly that the steel winks like diamonds
in their brief exposure to torch light… as she reaches across with the
knife, Rose leans back to the arm first violated and purses her lips over
a hint of a wound, lapping at the blood beading onto the surface of his
skin… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
The music climbs an octave… one e and ah two and three and four
and… as Peer Gynt ascends the throne which he so emphatically covets,
he spies another confection, another reason to envy - the golden-haired
princess… one e and ah two and three and four…
Rose brings the knife across the slave boy’s shoulder and holds it vertical,
allowing it to rest on her flattened palm, nestled inside her grip, as the
point is positioned at the center of his throat… one e and ah two
e and three e and four e and... one slip and the dagger would plunge
in, puncturing his vocal chords and leaving behind only the will to scream,
without the means… one e and ah two e and three e and four...
TROLLS. Kill him! The son of a Christian has
raped
The heart of the Dovre-Master’s daughter!
TROLL CHILD. Can I cut one of his fingers off?
2ND CHILD. Can I pull his hair?
TROLL GIRL. Let me bite his crutch!
WITCH [with a ladle]. Render him down to make a soup!
2ND WITCH [with a chopper]. A roast on a spit, or stew in a pot!
She draws the knife down the center of his torso, slow and winding, in a
serpent’s trail, and only a hair’s breadth, a shudder, an inkling
of vibration away from opening his gullet, riving a channel of gore where
his chest should be… one and two and... still the oboe
cowers… three and four and… but its voice grows more proud
with every note… one and two and... the haunting pluck of violin
strings urges it along… three and four…
What if she slips? What if, in a moment of passion, the thoughts that we
all entertain, of killing and maiming with no thought to the consequences,
comes bubbling to the surface, and she gives in to the temptation to spear
him?
DOVRE-MASTER. Human help could be very useful.
Besides, he’s almost without a blemish,
And well-built, too, by the look of him.
It’s true he has only got one head,
But, then, my daughter’s no better off.
Three-headed trolls have gone out of fashion;
Even two-headed ones aren’t seen very often,
And the heads of those are pretty inferior.
Wedging the point of the dagger into his navel, she focuses her grasp and
turns once, straight on into center of his stomach, dimpling the muscle with
the applied pressure… recoiling against the threat, the orchestra falls
an octave, leaving the pipe a lone tongue on the stage… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and...
But never actually breaking skin, Rose backs the knife out and traces a circle
down around his scrotum with the beveled razor edge… frightened and
skittish, the music cycles around on itself… one e and ah two e and
ah three e and ah four... and with a glint of wicked glee in her eyes,
anticipation flushing the swells of her bosom, she twirls the knife handle
like a baton through the fingers of one hand, and lays it aside…
"Opus 46"
In come the faeries, dancing across harp strings, wee little toes plucking out a tune… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... Up comes the flogger, dainty rubber tails swishing over her thigh in a playful tease, masking the wolf in a lamb’s hide, an overture to the rain of prickling thorns to come… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
DOVRE-MASTER. So you want my daughter?
PEER GYNT. I do: and also
Your kingdom as dowry.
DOVRE-MASTER. You shall be given
Half when you marry, the rest when I’m dead.
PEER GYNT. That’s fair enough.
A clarinet dashes in… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... bold and brazen, trampling down the faeries with its clubbed fist… Rose’s own fist brings the whip up with a flourish, capering over the slave boy’s abdomen and cutting a cross-hatch above the petal-pink line left by the knife’s edge… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
DOVRE-MASTER. Yes, but not so fast;
We haven’t settled your part of the bargain.
Promises have to be made on your side.
If you break even one the contract’s void.
You’ll never get out of here alive.
First, you must banish from your mind
Everything outside this kingdom;
Day must be shunned, and all its deeds,
And any place where the light gets in.
In a mutinous revival, the pixie strings prance back to life, scaling the tonal peak and shooting dagger glances at the reeds… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... with a ballerina’s grace, Rose flits a step backward, and brings her arm around full circle, to deliver
the strings of rubber crashing down the length of his nakedness, to slice into his peace with the teeth of a thousand razors… one e and ah two e and three e and four... a cow twangs a gutstring with its cloven hoof, a sow in tights jigs to the strumming…
Across the top of each thigh and back again, creating a lattice work of welts where flawless flesh once lay… one e and ah two e and three e and four... the clarinet answers by drowning the strings in its mournful
reed song… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and...
Entrenching, digging in for a last valiant fight, the strings drop again, their impish wings crumpled and hanging limp at their sides…one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... defiance seems to be the mistake of the day, as the slave boy, writhing in his chains, finds within him the impudence (disguised as mettle) to sneer down at his captor… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four... and as a single tear of frustration boils over his lower lip, Rose responds to his plea for more, obliging with a backhand that cracks his jaw with the butt of the whip, and sends the remaining tears flying to splatter atop the wood grain of the nearby stocks…
PEER GYNT. What will you do?
DOVRE-MASTER. I’ll scratch the left eye
A little, to help you see obliquely;
But all that you see will be rich and strange.
Then I’ll take the right one out completely --
The clarinet cuts off the end of the phrase, demanding, dictating… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... and the strings whine on every other beat as their cries are choked, throttled by the woodwinds and the thunderous roll of drums that join in league to ensure their defeat… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
Rose spins like the dervishes’ concubine, propelling herself with enough force to send the long train of her dress coiling around her thighs, then fanning over the tiles as she slows, and to cast the scalpel tips of the whip, those tiny rubber tusks, with hurricane strength over his hip and backside… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... gypsy chimes crash at every turn… waves breaking against a stony cliff wall… in the tussle between strings and reeds, as each competes for supremacy… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
DOVRE-MASTER. Consider how much harm and anxiety
You will save yourself for the rest of your life.
Your eyes are the well-spring, don’t forget,
Of tears, and their burning, bitter flow.
Faust smiles, and Robin Goodfellow does a reel, as the battle rages on… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and...
DOVRE-MASTER. No, stop! The way in is easy enough,
But the gates aren’t made to open outwards.
Nicks and cuts and dots of welling blood like droplets of perspiration, fine and humble, appear on the slave boy’s back, as Rose, swept up in the fury of the music, sends the rubber tails to do her bidding… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
"In the Hall of the Mountain King"
Our hero, unwilling to accept the Troll King’s terms, now falls into complete denial of his original intent…
DOVRE-MASTER. First you come and solicit my daughter –
PEER GYNT. A damnable lie!
DOVRE-MASTER. You have to marry her.
PEER GYNT. Do you accuse me of –
DOVRE-MASTER. What? You can’t
Deny that you lusted after her?
PEER GYNT [with a snort]. If I did? Who cares a fig about
that?
The skirts of the dervish whirl up an octave, as the music twirls faster and faster… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... faster, too, curls Rose’s wrist, with frantic strokes and unyielding brutality, bearing down on the boy’s back… one e and ah two e and three e and four... violence leaves its scars on his skin (the welts will disappear, eventually, but the wounds will always remain, just under the surface)… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... it’s apparently not wise to flout the rules of a sovereign… one e and ah two e and three e and four...
DOVRE-MASTER [looking at him contemptuously before speaking].
Dash him to pulp against the rocks!
Thunder rolls across the floor and spills out onto the courtyard… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... by now, the bricks in the wall are reverberating with the mighty symphony storm… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four... the notes skitter across the page, anxious and desperate to escape, mirroring the angst in Peer’s heart as he clambers up the chimney…
But running like a man on a treadmill, with no escape, no escape… one e and ah two e and three e and four e and... and the walls, too ripe with booming to absorb another sound, cast back the sickly disease of rubber lashing skin in the form of an echo… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four...
PEER GYNT [chased by the YOUNG TROLLS].
Let me alone, you rags of hell!
«CRACK»
A pair of cymbals ring out their destruction… a sledge hammer smashes through a distant window…
«CRACK»
The slave boy thrashes to no avail, to escape the scalding of a thousand tiny sabers digging into the raw meat that his back has become, salted by the rivers of sweat that seem to have come unbidden on this frosty night…
Piccolos and flutes prance up to the cliff side, then retreat gingerly, frantically, on pointed toes, and Rose dangles the whip by its handle, to tickle and torment the coarse, open wounds…
PEER GYNT [flailing at the YOUNG TROLLS].
Help, mother, I’m dying!
«CRASH»
The bells and brass plates scream an explosive funeral knell…
«CRASH»
A pyrotechnic nightmare going off in the boy’s head, an eruption of laughter frothing from her lips…
Strings and reeds, with staccato steps… one e and ah two e and ah three e and ah four... like lemmings in a suicidal frenzy, cast themselves headlong over the precipice…
YOUNG TROLLS. Flay him!
Now for his eyes!
«SMASH»
A quake shocks the estate grounds, as another cymbal blast threatens its very foundation…
«SMASH»
Knuckles crunching into cartilage… Fangs driving in to an exposed vein at the boy’s shoulder blade…
The frantic heartbeat thrumming of strings and horns and flutes and trumpets… the double-time cadence of walls crumbling under the force of earthquakes… crevices opening in the earth and belching, spitting, bleeding fire…
YOUNG TROLLS.
Bells in the mountains! The holy-man’s cows!
At the sound of a drawn-out tympani roll, the trolls fly, shrieking in disorder… The Throne Room collapses, everything disappears, and Peer Gynt is left in pitch darkness, slashing and striking at the air with a great bough…
And with a final cymbal crash, a final blow to the slave’s craven back that carries Rose sweeping into a bow, the boy’s consciousness fades to black, his body going limp and swinging with inertia in the chains…
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