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    Mad Boy Chronicle
    Mad Boy Chronicle
    Mad Boy Chronicle
    Ebook162 pages1 hour

    Mad Boy Chronicle

    By Michael O'Brien and Liz Nicholls

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    About this ebook

    Set in the final days of the first millennium, Mad Boy Chronicle hauls the Hamlet story howling back to its origins. Join the Mad Boy as he sets out in fierce pursuit of his destiny, in a world where wolves, elves, spirits, and Jesus Christ all compete for the future of humanity.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPlaywrights Canada Press
    Release dateAug 15, 2012
    ISBN9780887549502
    Mad Boy Chronicle
    Author

    Michael O'Brien

    Michael O'Brien founded The O'Brien Press in 1974. As an artist he illustrated several of our early publications, as well as books on Rathgar/Churchtown and Tallaght.

    Read more from Michael O'brien

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      Book preview

      Mad Boy Chronicle - Michael O'Brien

      ACT I

      Scene One

      Darkness. Night. The sound of a drum. The wind howls. Wolves howl. The smoke-filled hall at Helsingor, Denmark. Deep midwinter, AD 999. Viking dragonhead-posts stare northward.

      Inside we hear a Viking winterfest. Singing, shouting, laughing, fighting, the smell of burning cedar in the air. Vikings rant and roar and drink and howl. One Viking sings lustily with a drum:

      VIKING: Wealth must die, and Kindred die,

      A Man himself must likewise die,

      But Fame and Glory never die

      For him who achieves it well.

      Goats must die, and Kindred die,

      A Man himself must likewise die,

      But one thing is shall never die,

      The Verdict on each Man who dies;

      But one thing is shall never die,

      The Verdict on each Man who dies…

      Drums go quieter. Meanwhile, outside the village, INGA, an ancient fishwife, huddles in the snow. The black impenetrable forest looms beyond.

      INGA: Listen to them. Listen to them festivitatin.

      Howlin yowlin. Winterfest indeed.

      Not a scrap nor spot o’ human decencie,

      Makin us poor old wimmen sit outside

      I’ the wind ’n the ice ’n the snow…

      ANNA: Ahoy!

      INGA: Who’s that?

      ANNA: Me!

      INGA: Who’s me?

      ANNA: Your sister! Come from the feastin. Look what I filcht from the menfolk—look, dearheart, look!

      She has a cooked rabbit and a jug of ale.

      INGA: You didn’t!

      ANNA: Right off the fire.

      INGA: I’m starv’d. Naeone saw ye?

      ANNA: Too drunk they were.

      INGA: Greedy dogs. Swine.

      ANNA: I can’t bide Lord Fengo. Can’t bide his manner. Not that the last lord were much better. Or the one afore that. Or his father afore him.

      INGA: Aye, I’d like to flay the lot o’ them, every last Viking.

      ANNA: And roll ’em in salt.

      INGA: That’d teach ’em.

      ANNA: Oh well, one day everythin’ll change and the world’ll be wonderful.

      INGA : Aye. And we’ll be dead.

      ANNA: Aye will we. May the stars protect us.

      INGA: Now come on, give us some ale. Don’t you be piggin it all, greedy.

      They devour the rabbit. Wind howls in the distance. A drum beats.

      Behind them enters the GHOST of the late chieftain, Horvendal the Elder, in Viking burial dress. He brandishes a great war axe and green smoke issues from his nose. Glowing embers hang from his hair and beard. He hisses. INGA turns.

      Hoy sister—look we gots company.

      ANNA: Here piss off, we’re trying to eat.

      INGA: Go on then, have ye nothin else to do?

      Be off with ye! Off I say!

      ANNA: Ruffian! Hedge-hogg!

      INGA : Arse-manglin cur!

      ANNA: Aye, go cockwhallop someones else!

      INGA: That’s tellin him!

      INGA throws a snowball. The GHOST vanishes. Pause.

      Hoy shite—wot was that?

      ANNA: Wot?

      INGA: Himm! That were himm!

      ANNA: Who, sister?

      INGA: Himm! The lord what’s dead, sister, that were a blikkit ghost!

      ANNA: Ohh the Lord o’ the Slain protect us—

      INGA: Horvendal the Elder. Oh ’twas a wicked mann. Chopt off me late husband’s foot he did, just for the fun of aseein him hopp!

      ANNA: I am agonna hide.

      INGA: Me too.

      Drums. The GHOST reappears.

      ANNA: Naay he’s back, he’s gonna trundle us off to the spirit world! Inga, Inga throw a snowball at him!

      INGA: You throw a bloody snowball at him!

      ANNA: Here—we never hurt you! Haa! Go on wi’ ye! Away you fierce and horrible tyrant! Back to yer grave!

      She grabs a snowball.

      GHOST: (a ghostly whisper) Hoorvendaaalll… Hoorvendaaall…

      Where—is—my—Sonn?

      Pause.

      ANNA: He ain’t here.

      GHOST: (louder) Hoorvendaaaaal… Hoorvendaaaaaal… Where—is—my—Sonn?

      INGA: He ain’t here, we say!

      GHOST: (roaring) HOORVENDAAAAAL… HOORVENDAAAAAAL…

      WHERE—IS—MY—SONN??

      BOTH: Heeeelllppp!!

      Thunder. ANNA screams. The GHOST vanishes. Blackout. Lights up. Pause.

      INGA: That spirit were a-howlin for his sonn.

      ANNA: Wot?

      INGA: That dead wretched spirit, sister, he were a-howlin for his sonn!

      ANNA: I int gettin involvd!

      INGA: No, don’t you see? His soul, it’s not yet at rest! It’s up to us, to us, sister—to tells the Young Horvendal!

      ANNA: You tell the boy. I int a-tellin him. He don’t believe in spooks noways.

      INGA: He will believe. He gots to believe. I’ll go find the boy, and make the boy believe!

      INGA runs to the village. ANNA stays and drinks.

      ANNA: Oh Denn-Mark, Denn-Mark, ohh bastion of the brave,

      Folks int got the decencie to stay put i’ their graves.

      ANNA exits.

      Scenus Secundus

      Meanwhile. The smoke-filled hall at Helsingor.

      Lord FENGO sits surrounded by a mob of Vikings. He is very huge and very drunk, covered with food, and wears an eye patch. He is having a laugh at the expense of LILJA, a thirteen-year-old girl. Further off sits GERUTHA, his wife.

      FENGO: Bring the girl over here.

      Vikings bring LILJA across the room.

      Well, well prettygirl—how now, little thing? What say you to Fengo, Master o’ the Northern Realm?

      LILJA hides her face. The Vikings laugh.

      I don’t think yer daughter likes me, Matthius.

      MATTHIUS: Course she do, Fengo, course she do. She’s just in awe of ye, that’s all.

      FENGO: Have a drink with old Fengo, prettygirl.

      MATTHIUS: Go on sweetheart, don’t be afraid.

      FENGO: Don’t break me heart, sweet thing, come sit on my knee.

      MATTHIUS: Aye!

      LILJA: You are a fukkin animal, Fengo.

      LILJA slaps him.

      MATTHIUS: Lilja!

      FENGO: Haaaa! A child after me own heart! Come here! Smile at Lord Fengo, you rambunctious little filly!

      MATTHIUS: I dunno where she gots her mouth from.

      FENGO: Drink, bonnie lass. Drink Fengo’s health! Heyup, hearties, hold the girl down. Your health, my little Nordic beauty!

      FENGO pours beer over her head. The Vikings laugh.

      LILJA: Help!

      FENGO: What’s the matter with the youth nowadays? They’ve all gone soft ’n spoiled. What’s become of the Viking Spirit, Matthius? It wants reviving!

      (to LILJA) Have ye ever seen Fengo’s Hole? Fengo show yez Fengo’s Hole. Nasty dirty eye socket, nothin inside! Look, prettygirl, look!

      FENGO pulls off his eye patch and opens his eye socket. LILJA screams.

      Looks a bit like a rabbit’s bum, don’t it?

      GERUTHA: Fengo stop—

      FENGO: Why art afeard, girlie? It’s a good honest Warr-Wound! Hoy Matthius—Matthius look! (MATTHIUS cringes.) Haaa haaaa—

      GERUTHA: Fengo, for the love of your fathers, stop!

      FENGO: Ahhhh, I’m in a jolly mood.

      LILJA runs out. FENGO finishes his ale.

      I am Fengo:

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