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    The Cure at Troy

    Page 6
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      Why are you arguing a case for them?

      Forget them, and remember what you said

      You’d do for me. You made a promise

      To take me with you when you were going home

      To Scyros. And that’s what you must do.

      Otherwise, you’ll be tainted with their guilt

      Just by association.

      Neoptolemus

      I can see that.

      But even so, the signs are that the gods

      Want you to go to Troy, and me with you.

      Philoctetes

      How can you bear to take their side like that?

      Neoptolemus

      It’s not their side.

      It’s what our fates involve.

      Philoctetes

      This is real turncoat talk. Have you no shame?

      Neoptolemus

      What’s the shame in working for a good thing?

      Philoctetes

      But good for who? Me or my enemies?

      Neoptolemus

      Am I your friend or not?

      Philoctetes

      I thought you were.

      Neoptolemus

      Stop just licking your wounds. Start seeing things.

      Philoctetes

      There’s danger in all this somewhere. I can sense it.

      Neoptolemus

      The danger is you’ll break if you don’t bend,

      So I give up. From now on, you can live

      With every consequence of your decision.

      Philoctetes

      Whatever’s been laid out, I’m ready for it.

      But there’s consequence to your own endeavours:

      You gave your word – you pledged with your hand

      And promised you’d take me home.

      So do that now.

      Restore your good name. Bury the name of Troy.

      Neoptolemus

      I gave my word.

      So. Fair is fair.

      We go.

      Philoctetes

      We go?

      Neoptolemus

      Gather yourself. Come on.

      Philoctetes

      I can’t believe it.

      Neoptolemus

      The Greeks.

      No, wait.

      The Greeks’ll be after us.

      Philoctetes

      Forget them. You’ll be safe.

      Neoptolemus

      But the country won’t be.

      Philoctetes

      I’ll be in your country.

      Neoptolemus

      And what good’s that?

      Philoctetes

      Hercules’s bow!

      Neoptolemus

      The bow. We have it still.

      Philoctetes

      Hercules’s bow is miraculous

      And will save us every time.

      Neoptolemus

      Then so be it.

      This time your farewell is farewell for good.

      Philoctetes repeats some part of his original rite of departure. Perhaps he raises both arms, perhaps prostrates himself. A silence then, music perhaps also. Then an eerie, soundless (at first) flash and flame; mountain-rumble far off; an air of danger, settling into a kind of threatened, pre-thunder stillness. Darker stage, a kind of purpled twilight. Chorus in spotlight, positioned as at end of prologue.

      Chorus

      Human beings suffer,

      They torture one another,

      They get hurt and get hard.

      No poem or play or song

      Can fully right a wrong

      Inflicted and endured.

      The innocent in gaols

      Beat on their bars together.

      A hunger-striker’s father

      Stands in the graveyard dumb.

      The police widow in veils

      Faints at the funeral home.

      History says, Don’t hope

      On this side of the grave.

      But then, once in a lifetime

      The longed-for tidal wave

      Of justice can rise up,

      And hope and history rhyme.

      So hope for a great sea-change

      On the far side of revenge.

      Believe that a further shore

      Is reachable from here.

      Believe in miracles

      And cures and healing wells.

      Call miracle self-healing:

      The utter, self-revealing

      Double-take of feeling.

      If there’s fire on the mountain

      Or lightning and storm

      And a god speaks from the sky

      That means someone is hearing

      The outcry and the birth-cry

      Of new life at its term.

      The full thunderclap and eruption-effects occur. Then a lingering, wavering aftermath of half-light. Brilliant spots find Philoctetes and Chorus.

      Philoctetes (crying out)

      Hercules:

      I saw him in the fire.

      Hercules

      was shining in the air.

      I heard the voice of Hercules in my head.

      Chorus (ritually clamant, as Hercules)

      I have opened the closed road

      Between the living and the dead

      To make the right road clear to you.

      I am the voice of Hercules now.

      Here on earth my labours were

      The stepping-stones to upper air:

      Lives that suffer and come right

      Are backlit by immortal light.

      Go, Philoctetes, with this boy,

      Go and be cured and capture Troy.

      Asclepius will make you whole,

      Relieve your body and your soul.

      Go, with your bow. Conclude the sore

      And cruel stalemate of our war.

      Win by fair combat. But know to shun

      Reprisal killings when that’s done.

      Then take just spoils and sail at last

      Out of the bad dream of your past.

      Make sacrifice. Burn spoils to me.

      Shoot arrows in my memory.

      And, Neoptolemus, you must be

      His twin in arms and archery.

      Marauding lions on that shore,

      Troy’s nemesis and last nightmare.

      But when the city’s being sacked

      Preserve the shrines. Show gods respect.

      Reverence for the gods survives

      Our individual mortal lives.

      Philoctetes

      Something told me this was going to happen.

      Something told me the channels were going to open.

      It’s as if a thing I knew and had forgotten

      Came back completely clear.

      All that you say

      Is like a dream to me and I obey.

      Neoptolemus

      And so will I.

      Chorus

      Then go, immediately.

      The winds are blowing and the tides are high.

      Philoctetes (in a sort of daze, on all fours perhaps, or clasping an upright support: knocked out, flattened)

      But I can’t believe I’m going. My head’s light at the thought of a different ground and a different sky. I’ll never get over Lemnos; this island’s going to be the keel under me and the ballast inside me. I’m like a fossil that’s being carried away, I’m nothing but cave stones and damp walls and an old mush of dead leaves. The sound of waves in draughty passages. A cliff that’s wet with spray on a winter’s morning. I feel like the sixth sense of the world. I feel I’m a part of what was always meant to happen, and is happening now at last. Come on, my friends.

      Chorus

      Now it’s high watermark

      And floodtide in the heart

      And time to go.

      The sea-nymphs in the spray

      Will be the chorus now.

      What’s left to say?

      Suspect too much sweet talk

      But never close your mind.

      It was a fortunate wind

      That blew me here. I leave

      Half-ready to believe

      That a crippled trust might walk


      And the half-true rhyme is love.

      About the author

      Seamus Heaney was born in County Derry in Northern Ireland. Death of a Naturalist, his first collection of poems, appeared in 1966, and was followed by poetry, criticism and translations which established him as the leading poet of his generation. In 1995 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, and twice won the Whitbread Book of the Year, for The Spirit Level (1996) and Beowulf (1999). Stepping Stones, a book of interviews conducted by Dennis O’Driscoll, appeared in 2008; Human Chain, his last volume of poems, was awarded the 2010 Forward Prize for Best Collection. He died in 2013.

      By the same author

      poetry

      DEATH OF A NATURALIST

      DOOR INTO THE DARK

      WINTERING OUT

      NORTH

      FIELD WORK

      STATION ISLAND

      SWEENEY ASTRAY

      SWEENEY’S FLIGHT (with photographs by Rachel Giese)

      THE HAW LANTERN

      NEW SELECTED POEMS 1966–1987

      SEEING THINGS

      LAMENTS BY JAN KOCHANOWSKI (translated with Stanisław Barańczak)

      THE SPIRIT LEVEL

      OPENED GROUND: POEMS 1966–1996

      BEOWULF

      ELECTRIC LIGHT

      DISTRICT AND CIRCLE

      THE TESTAMENT OF CRESSEID & SEVEN FABLES

      HUMAN CHAIN

      NEW SELECTED POEMS 1988–2013

      AENEID: BOOK VI

      THE RATTLE BAG (edited with Ted Hughes)

      THE SCHOOL BAG (edited with Ted Hughes)

      prose

      PREOCCUPATIONS: SELECTED PROSE 1968–1978

      THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TONGUE

      THE REDRESS OF POETRY: OXFORD LECTURES

      FINDERS KEEPERS: SELECTED PROSE 1971–2001

      STEPPING STONES (with Dennis O’Driscoll)

      plays

      THE BURIAL AT THEBES

      Copyright

      Paperback edition first published in 1990

      by Faber & Faber Ltd

      Bloomsbury House

      74–77 Great Russell Street

      London WC1B 3DA

      Cased edition first published simultaneously by Field Day Theatre Company, Derry

      This ebook edition first published in 2018

      All rights reserved

      © The Estate of Seamus Heaney, 2018

      The right of Seamus Heaney to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

      The quotation from W. H. Auden on p. vii is from The English Auden edited by Edward Mendelson, reprinted by permission of Faber & Faber Ltd.

      This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

      ISBN 978–0–571–34619–6

     

     

     



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