I didn’t, I –
Gwynne
– I took him to rear as my own. Is my own. Good as.
Rose
I didn’t deny him, I –
Gwynne
– It does something to you when you know your own mother didn’t want you. Something gets broken inside, bruised. Well if your own mother couldn’t love you, why should anyone else? And you become shy and awkward and incapable with others. You doubt your worth, your right to be on the earth. And so you need help. And with that help, you find your way, you make your life, you have your family, your home – the door to close and keep everything in and that cold, hurting world out.
Rose
Did my mother reject me, too?
Gwynne
He’s all the family you need.
Rose
But mother –
Gwynne
– You both did without.
Rose
But –
Gwynne
– I told you. You’re not like others. You were made to be his perfect fit. Out in the fields, working side by side.
Rose
You never take me to the fields. We never work like that.
Gwynne
Sun beating down on strong, firm arms. Strong limbs, slow to tire.
Rose
Just stories. In your head.
Gwynne
I saw my boy lonesome. He was pining for company, eyes straying to the town. Can’t have that. So I brought you home for him.
Rose
He says I was magicked.
Gwynne
And so you were.
Rose
Must’ve come from somewhere.
Gwynne
Out of flowers and thin air.
Rose
Something can’t come from nothing.
Gwynne
You can’t doubt the power of the forest. Things happen there.
Rose
Piglet comes from sow, pup comes –
Gwynne
– You came from the forest, girl, I told you. I found you in the forest.
Rose
Found?
Gwynne
Found, made, magicked. It’s the same.
Rose
It’s not.
Gwynne
They’re just words.
Rose
You’re good at that. Confusing me with words, with your stories.
Gwynne
What are we but stories? This doesn’t last – this body, flesh. It perishes and falls to nothing; burns to ash, is taken by the wind and scattered. But a story. A story lives, passed on from one mind to another, jumping host, going down the line from father to son, generation to generation. That’s what’s real. Not this. We’re like the shadow on the wall, a trick of the light, then gone. Stories can’t die; they can’t be killed. They may be lain down for a while, but they’ll be taken up again, leaping like a spark from one stack of kindling to the next, one head to another, where a story will sit glowing until it takes and burns. You’re unimportant. But a story ... A story of a girl from the forest The story of a woman made from the flowers of the oak? That story goes round and it’ll go round forever, so long as there’s a forest, or even just the myth of one, for the forest is shrinking. It’s the forest that’s endangered now. And when the last tree being felled is not a living memory but rumoured by the descendant of the one who saw it done, when no one can believe there was once a wild place where things grew as they chose and not for convenience in easily harvested lines… Then, when the tale of that last tree in what had once been a forest is told, then the story of the girl who came from it will also be said aloud, and live again in the imaginations, in the dreams, springing into life as the shadows spring against the wall with the leap of the flame. Some things are eternal. That is my gift to you.
Rose (signs)
I don’t want it.
Gwynne (signs)
Be careful.
Rose (signs)
Me? No. You be careful.
Lewis enters and pauses when removing his coat, feeling the change in dynamic. He looks to Gwynne and Rose, but they continue as usual, as though nothing has happened.
Nine.
Graham and Rose together outside. When not directly speaking with Rose, he is engaged in his field study, observing activity and making notes of bird calls.
Graham
Ko’ko.
Rose
Ko’ko.
Graham
It means ‘Watcher of the dark.’
Rose
Watcher –
Graham
– of the dark. For the Hopis, the Burrowing Owl – Ko’ko – is the god of the dead and the guardian of fires. It also tends and nurtures all things underground, including the germination of seeds. So it’s just a sleep, death, like the seed sleeps until called to grow another life.
Rose
I think I had another life.
Graham
You believe in reincarnation? A previous existence?
Rose
No, in this one. Before the forest.
Graham
When I think about myself when I was younger – it’s a different life, a completely different person.
Rose
I don’t remember.
Graham
I try not to think about it, either. I was a disaster. Not very good at being young. So serious. Head in a book, or down a rabbit hole. I sometimes want to tell that younger self ‘hang on in there; it’ll be okay. You’ll be doing a PhD on this stuff in years to come, nature diary for a magazine.’ It was all about city living and being urban and edgy when I was younger. The natural world was so uncool, never mind being into night birds.
She moves his hand from covering his mouth.
Rose
I want to see your mouth. More.
Graham
The Kwagiulth nation believe owls represent both a dead person and their soul on its journey to the afterlife. It’s the silent flight, I think, that creates these links to death. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen an owl flying, but it’s astonishing – moving at speed through space with no sound – this noiseless predator, a silent killing machine… Though not all of the stories are quite so gloomy. The Inuit and ancient Welsh believe the owl was once a beautiful girl transformed into the night bird as punishment for her crimes.
Rose
What did she do?
Graham
She fell in love with the wrong person.
Rose
That’s a crime?
Graham
She tried to kill her husband – I sense a theme developing here – so she could be with her lover, and so she was turned into an owl. Spectral figure; winged denizen of the dark … (Several beats.) When did you lose your hearing?
Rose
I didn’t. I’ve always been like this.
Graham
But you have spoken language, so it must’ve been after you were seven?
Rose
I don’t think I was ever a child.
Graham
An old soul – solemn and wise.
He hears something, a birdcall. He immediately makes a note and listens intently, trying to locate the call. Rose watches him listening, moving softly on.
She speaks aloud, knowing he won’t hear her.
Rose
I’m like this because flowers don’t have ears.
He is oblivious to her, having moved away.
Rose
Meadowsweet, oak blossom, chestnut, primrose, broom. Hawthorn, nettle. The flowers in the forest. (A change in dynamic, more internal, in Rose’s imagination.) He said I was made for him. That first time. I remember. He put his hands on my waist. We were outside. It had been snowing. His fingers were cold. I felt them where my shirt had come out of my jeans. Undone. He said then I was his. I’d been made for him. Can’t remember anything before. Just more of the same. Like always. Get up when it’s still dark, ghost of breath on t
he air. Ice on the inside window, like lace. The pigs in the morning, giving them their gruel. And cold. So cold my fingers are burning. And the ache. So tired, but must keep awake. Scrub. Clean. Feed. Wash. Comfort. But what about me? Where’s my comfort?
Lewis and Gwynne appear in dim light.
Lewis
You don’t need any as you’re mine.
Rose
Stupid girl with no mam, no dad, no family, no prospects. So where else would I go?
Lewis
You’re better off here – clean bed, giving comforts. I’ll look after you.
Gwynne
You can bolt that door at night and the world can’t get in.
Rose
You don’t want the world let in with its nastiness and corruption.
Lewis
Better here on the farm, where you’ve always been, where you belong. What else would you do?
Gwynne
Go to the city and walk the streets
Lewis
sleep in a doorway,
Gwynne
prey to anyone passing by, no protection, no one to run to.
Lewis
Would you want that?
Rose
And nothing before, no memory, just his fingers on my waist. Under my coat. On my skin. Claiming me.
Lewis
I’ve made it nice for you here.
Gwynne
I’ve made you a good farmer’s wife, for the boy.
They go.
The dynamic shifts again to the forest, to Rose and Graham, who has returned.
She looks at him.
Rose
Touch me. I want you to. I’ve never wanted anything before.
A duet – music, sign performance and movement.
Rose
I fly in my dreams. Over the farmhouse and down towards the river. My love is there, standing by the stone. He touches me and flowers bloom against my skin. Meadowsweet, broom, the flowers of the oak. All the petals, stamens, the cells, feathers, the claw and hollow bone, all the ticking in a clock, the pulse of life beating, beating, beating of wings, of time passing, of life, all this is him.
Ten
As opening. Rose stands beside a tin bath.
Lewis tries to embrace Rose.
Rose
Not now.
Lewis
Rose...
Rose
I said not now. (Beat)
Lewis
I don’t remember before. Maybe I don’t want to, maybe farmer told me to wipe it from my mind so I did and it was wiped. He says the mind is everything – you can control and make things turn out as you want just through words. You call something into being – you say it is, and it is. It isn’t magic. It’s how things work. Power of the word. Mind control. (Beat) We don’t take any shit. Not from anyone. We need to pull up the drawbridge, make our own little camp. It’s cold and dark and getting darker. The world ... They only want to screw you over, take what they can and just ... Safe here. We’ll be alright. You’ll see.
He tries again to embrace her. She flicks him off as she would a fly.
Rose
I’ve got to get on; I’ve the pigs to settle. The black sow’s spooked, playing up and –
Lewis
– Be nice to me.
Rose
I said not now. I’m away to the sow before she eats her young.
Lewis
I want my comforts.
Matter of fact, she turns to him and allows him to kiss her, passively. He pulls away.
Lewis
So I’m just another chore to you?
Rose
Lewis, I –
Lewis
– There’s no warmth in you. No spark.
She embraces him with more enthusiasm.
Lewis
Ow! (He pulls away) That hurt!
Rose
You wanted passion.
Lewis
Not like that.
Rose
I can’t win with you, can I? I try and then you complain ...
Lewis
I want you to respond, not claw me to death.
Rose
So I’ll cut my fingernails in future. Will that satisfy you?
Lewis
Don’t get in a huff ... I just wanted to –
Rose
– Have your way.
Lewis
Don’t see it like that
Rose
How else do you expect me to?
Lewis
Come on, Rose, sweet Rose ...
Rose
I’m not sweet.
Lewis
Come give me my comforts, be kind ...
Rose
It’s not in my nature.
Lewis
Don’t be so prickly.
Rose
I can’t help it.
Lewis
Kiss me.
He roughly grabs her and kisses her. She bites. He raises his hand to her. She stares him out.
Rose
You stink of pigs.
Lewis
So I’ll have a bath.
He steps into the tub, fully dressed and sits down. Silence. Angry, she turns away from him. Graham is there. Rose sees him. They stare at each other. Suddenly she turns and pushes Lewis under the water. He struggles. She holds him down with difficulty, his feet out of the bath. He struggles, then he lies still.
She steps back. A beat. The sow starts squealing, as if at slaughter. Graham stands frozen as Rose becomes full of action. She puts Lewis’s legs into the bath, and tries to cover the tub. She starts pushing Graham out.
Rose
You have to go. If Gwynne sees you here … I’ll deal with it. I’ll find you. Go.
Graham finally moves. He tries to catch her face in his hands, but she pushes him away.
Rose
Don’t look at me. Don’t. You mustn’t see my face.
Graham goes.
The fluttering of bird wings, shadows across her face. In a mix of spoken and visual language:
Rose
Feather. Claw. Eddying swirl and buffet. Air. Held aloft, braced against the current. Dip and soar. Wind combs through feather, eye sharp and bleak against the glare of moonlight on the lake, viewed from above, through claws. Flying. I’m flying. The shadow a crucifix below me. I’m a bird.
The shadows of birds against the walls, across her face, growing more sinister, threatening.
She startles as though from a bad dream. Gwynne is making shadows of birds with his hands. She is in the kitchen.
So you don’t accept my story? The woman of flowers magicked from the forest. You want something else. I can give you something else. What of the bird, so hated by its own kind, it has to hide by day, only daring to show its face by night?
Lewis enters through the door. He is wet. He sits blankly beside Gwynne. Rose is confused, she looks over at the tin bath.
Gwynne
Thought you could lie and hide from me, girl? Thought you could break the rules, have your way and not be found out or punished? I dealt with the intruder. Your owlman’s with his like in the dark, deep in the forest. He won’t be bothering us again.
Rose
I don’t believe you.
Gwynne
It doesn’t matter. He’s gone, and you’re here.
Rose
I will find him.
Gwynne
He’s disappeared. In fact, he never was.
Rose
I’ve had enough of your stories.
Gwynne
There’s plenty more. How about the little runaway, shop-soiled, damaged goods, the beaten child that turned up here and out of the goodness of our hearts, we took you in…
Rose
I don’t –
Gwynne
– Or maybe we saved you from a terrible accident, found you knocked out and bleeding in the forest with no memory, dumped, no details, no bag, no nothing. Authoritie
s not interested.
Lewis
Didn’t even turn up to look.
Gwynne
So we took you home and nursed you, gave you food, warmth, family.
Lewis
No one else wanted you,
Gwynne
Not even the police. Not the slightest bit interested. Human trash.
Lewis
Not worth the paperwork.
Gwynne
Just another accident, another near-murder, another domestic, yet another runaway. Should’ve just left you there.
Lewis
Less bother.
Gwynne
Such ingratitude. Or another story – the human pin-cushion, tramlines up her arms, collapsed veins, sunken eyes, the broken doll selling herself for the cost of a fix, all dignity gone, and with it all trace of humanity …
Rose
I –
Gwynne
– You don’t exist. No papers, no identity, no passport, no national insurance number. You only exist as a story. Trafficked, sold, found at the side of the road – which version would you prefer?
Rose
How about the girl taken from the front garden of her mother’s house where she was playing? How about a girl kept ignorant and away from the world, fed on stories and kept in fear of the magic in the forest?
Gwynne
Be careful.
Rose
You thought you made me, shaped me as you wanted, what was good for you, easy for you. Wash my clothes, where’s my dinner, come to bed. You thought you could control me – own me – but I am myself, I own my self. The flower face grew thorns. Why do you never go into the forest at night? For the same reason, you should be afraid of me.
Gwynne
I will have my revenge.
Rose
You’ll have to find me first.
Gwynne
The shame you bring upon my honour, this house.
Rose signs and then speaks:
Rose
I am not of this house. Not of your laws, or your rules, or your punishments. The way is open. And I’m walking out.
A way through appears. She moves out.
Eleven
Rose in the forest. Owl calls. She signs.
Rose
Days pass.
Sun revolves around.
A tiny pure light is lit
deep in my belly.
It frightens me at first,
What is it?
The flicker of flame.
The leap of the tongue.
What is it?
And then I realise:
It’s joy.
She walks on.
The End.
With thanks to:
Kirstie Davis for her innovation and spirit of adventure, and to Sophie Stone and Jean St Clair for our hours turning printed words to poetry sculpted in air. Thanks to Phillip Zarrili for his patient dramaturgical eye and to Conrad Williams, and Isobel Dixon, agents extraordinaire. Final thanks to the unknown ancient storytellers who first spoke of the woman of flowers, and the anonymous Welsh hands who with such skill wrote those stories down.