Twenty - The Burial - A Play for Radio

SFX:

Wind blows fiercely. Flapping material. Shuffling footsteps, wails and cries. Static to be used where appropriate to dialogue.

Narrator:

Exterior shot. Funeral procession walking down road. The camera focuses on feet walking in slow motion. The shoes are all black, the ground is dusty and clouds of dirt rise as they walk. The shot is overlaid briefly with the sight and sound of static. Colour seems drained from the scene, it is mostly made up of shades of black, white, and grey with occasional tinges of blue.

SFX:

Stop all effects. A moment of silence. Old man’s voice is treated with a slight echo.

Old man:

Another funeral. Sometimes it seems as if more people have died than have ever been born. If only there was some other way to....

SFX:

Effects return - fierce wind, flapping material, footsteps.

Narrator:

Shot changes. Camera pans across group. Shots in close up. All the people are dressed purely in black. They walk in a regimental formation. Their feet are shuffling. A wind is blowing through the group, making progress difficult and slow.

SFX:

Stop all effects. A moment of silence. Woman’s voice is treated with a slight echo. Her speech has the feel of a chant, or mantra.

Woman:

Water is a grave, a grave for roses, water is a grave, a grave for thorns. All my smiles turn to grimaces, all my laughs sound hollow in my ears. I am bound with chains, I am chained with rust. I am filled with longings, I am water, water is a grave, a grave for roses....

SFX:

Effects recommence - wind, flapping material, wailing, shuffling feet.

Narrator:

The black clothes flap in the wind. The pallbearers have blank expressions. There is selected wailing and crying. None of them look at each other, they all look straight ahead. The landscape around them is devoid of vegetation. There is a predominance of grey and brown.

SFX:

Stop all effects. A moment of silence. Girl’s voice is treated with a slight echo. Her speech has the feel of a chant, or mantra.

Young girl:

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, I think she’ll die. There was an old lady who swallowed a spider....

SFX:

All three voices are treated with a slight echo. They begin to overlap each other. Echoes overlay, voices merge. The mixing of the three voices builds to a crescendo of sound. Lines may be repeated more than once if necessary.

Old man:

There should be another way, not this. Not this constant death, this never ending...

Woman:

I am in a grave, a pit of black water, I am in a hole, the water is rising, I am in a dream, a dream of silence, I am in a grave, a grave of thorns...

Young girl:

There was an old lady who swallowed an egg, she heard it beg, but she swallowed the egg. She swallowed the egg and it hatched inside her, and the thing in the egg tried to eat the spider...

Old man:

I’m too old for this, it’s too much for anyone to see, so lonely to be this age, to see so many others gone, gone...

Woman:

There are thorns all around, there are waves at my feet, there are roses above, blooms of lies and deceit. There are thorns all around...

Young girl:

The thing in her tummy was too hungry to hide, so it started to gnaw at the ladies’ inside. It bit and it tore and it scratched and it ate, the old lady did realise her mistake far too late...

Old man:

There must be some other way, something better than all this...

Woman:

Water is a grave, a grave for roses, water is a grave...

Young girl:

There was an old lady who swallowed an egg, but soon after hatching it did make her beg...

Old man:

If only I could...

Woman:

Water is a...

Young girl:

There was an old...

Old man:

...more people dead than there are...

Woman:

...all my laughs sound hollow...

Young girl:

...lady who swallowed a...

Old man:

...must be a...

Woman:

...for thorns...

Young girl:

...I don’t know why she...

 Old man:

...so much...

Woman:

...for roses...

Young girl:

...I think she’ll die.

SFX:

Voices and echoes stop. Silence for a moment. Earlier effects recommence - fierce wind, flapping material, wails, shuffling feet. Static introduced where appropriate to next speech.

Narrator:

Shot changes to one moving from rear of procession. Camera moves through crowd toward pallbearers. Shot focuses on faces of passing people. There is the sound of static, intermingled with voices. The sound is of someone flicking through channels on a radio. The frequency changes constantly. Camera shot zooms in upon coffin. Picture breaks up into static, white noise. The image is destroyed, torn apart. Nothing in its wake, it leaves only...

SFX:

Static overlaid on narrator’s voice, drowning it out. For a few moments, only the sound of static. It resolves into music, a dark sombre piece, which remains in the background.

Narrator 2:

The procession made its way slowly down the hill. It was a long line of people, all shuffling forward in silent sorrow, none of them speaking, as if somehow conscious that words might break the tenuous spell that drew them on. They all strode forward in regimental formation, none breaking ranks although a few cried noisily, their tears whipped from their cheeks by the strong winds that echoed throughout the group, their black clothes flapping noisily around them as if they resembled some hideous flock of birds who all nursed broken wings. The pallbearers at the front had little time for sorrow as they balanced the coffin on their shoulders and fought against the roaring wind. The road spiraled down again, and the dark mass followed it, making their way slowly, resolutely, toward the graveyard.

Mother:

It isn’t fair. He was so young... so very young....

Vicar:

There there Mrs. Andrews, it’s all for the best. You must accept the loss of your son and move on. There is no point in punishing yourself like this.

Mother:

Oh Reverend, if only I could believe that.... (continues sobbing)

SFX:

Mother’s sobbing grows louder, others in the crowd begin to wail too.

Narrator 2:

And it seemed that her outburst of sorrow had infected the group. The stony faces of solitude, the blank expressions and stoicism of the procession seemed to break down, to wash away in an instant, and an uncontrollable flood of human emotion flowed outward in a tidal wave of tears.

SFX:

Wailing fades into silence. Background music fades into silence. There is only the sound of the Vicar’s voice, spoken closer to the microphone to differentiate it from his other speeches.

Vicar:

There is the boy’s girlfriend, her thick make-up running in patchy streaks down her youthful face, her red rimmed eyes tinged with a look of silent madness as she fights to hold her emotions at bay. I can see it from here, the silent conflict raging constantly inside her, a sorrow so powerful it threatens to tear her limb from unhappy limb. Susan, that’s her name.     Susan with her dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Only seventeen years old. She’s known the boy half her life. They’ve been a couple for longer than anyone can remember, always together, loping through the town on one mischief or another, partners in crime. Only last week she was laughing with him as they danced their youthful lives together, so very happy, so very, very happy. But now she’s alone. It’s so unfair, so bitterly unfair.

And there’s his younger sister, uncertain of what’s really going on, bewildered by the strange dark ceremony taking place around her, knowing only that her brother is gone, and that she can never see him again. Ever. Such confusion twists and turns on her impish face, turning her porcelain features to stone. She is old enough to feel the pain, but too young to understand it, too young to do anything but cry and sob and wail. When I look into her pale slate eyes I can see no hope left in her frail being, no hope.

Then there’s Simon, his best friend. A quiet pensive boy whose only communication with a world he didn’t like and couldn’t understand had been through a companion now taken from his side. His head hangs low, his brow furrowed, and I see him retreating further into himself, away from the pain and sorrow, the bittersweet emotions of life which now threaten to consume his youthful countenance. After all it had taken for him to look out from his shell, now he is scurrying back in to barricade the door shut, to lurk in the shadows where no one can reach him, and nothing can hurt him. So sad, so sad.

SFX:

Sombre music and blowing gale in background.

Narrator 2:

The vicar cursed the ill fate that had led to this, wishing it had been someone else, not this boy, not him. He shook his head from side to side and comforted himself with the knowledge that everything would settle down, after the burial. Together the wailing mass strode forward, step by step, inch by inch. The rusting metal gates loomed tall before them.

SFX:

Rusted gates open - squeaky hinges. Shuffling feet.

Narrator 2:

The wind dropped, and they silently filed into the unkempt, lichen covered resting place, the age worn concrete and marble minefield of emotions known as the graveyard.

Vicar:

Mrs. Andrews, you may not understand why exactly, but accept my word that things must be like this, the lord moves in mysterious ways. And listen to me when I say to cry no more, why you still have so much to rejoice for, your daughter, your friends, your...

Mother:

And what about my husband? He was taken from me the same way, only last year. My husband, now my only son... (sobs)

Vicar:

Please, you must understand that his death is not in vain, his sacrifice is part of the grand scheme of things. We must simply accept that he is gone and get on with our lives.

SFX:

Shuffling feet stop. Music stops. Blowing gale continues. The Vicar’s solitary footsteps are heard at the beginning of the next speech, stopping when appropriate.

Narrator 2:

The Vicar strode away to the head of the group as they reached the newly dug grave, and the newly carved stone. He paused, staring at the dark opening, the gaping hole of death. It appeared to him as some hungry mouth waiting to be fed, embodying a hunger that could never be filled, poised now to feast once more, waiting for the coffin to be lowered into its black depths in silent finality. He glanced at the marble edifice marking the spot, the final reminder of all the boy had been. So empty, so hollow, devoid of meaning or emotion. He read words like ‘sadly missed’ and ‘dearly loved’ and turned away in disgust, just shallow words scratched on a slab of stone. Frowning, he turned to face the dark mass, the black congregation of false mourners. He would have turned in disgust also from their hideous facade, had he not been so integral a part of it himself. He sighed a deep and resolute sigh, and motioned for the coffin to be lowered into its final resting place. As it began its slow descent so he began to speak.

SFX:

The Vicar’s words below are split into two parts, those exteriorised, and those internalised. His internalised thoughts should, as with the previous section of his internal musings, be differentiated in some way from what he is saying out loud to the group. This can be achieved by altering the sound slightly from one line to the next. This gives a sense of contrast.

Vicar:

(exterior)

His is a great loss to us all.

(interior)

Dear God what has become of us?!

(exterior)

He will be sadly missed by all those who knew him.

(interior)

Have we no conscience, have we no humanity?!

(exterior)

It is a sad duty we perform this day, but a necessary one.

(interior)

How can I not rage at this? This shallow superficiality, this empty ceremony.

(exterior)

It is our task now to carry on the burden.

(interior)

How can I not scream at the eternally false facade that we are playing out yet again?

(exterior)

I’m sure he would have wanted it this way.

(interior)

Yet again!!

(exterior)

The lord moves in mysterious ways. I have been asked by the boy’s family to read one of his poems, in memory, and I’d like to share it with you all right now.

                          A mask for dawn, for shining knight.

                          A mask for dark, a mask for light.

                          Music proud; a banner broke;

                          a blowing gale and shattered kite.

                          A face once masked from hope and pain,

                          lost to love; a sand of grain.

                          A night of glass, a poison room,

                          the stifled cry of mind insane.

                          “All the world is but a stage”,

                          in the play another page.

                          Behind the mask the face is gone,

                          and serpents hide in earthly cage.

                          The puffy white of rabbit’s eyes.

                          The sound of burning children’s cries.

                          Crumbling, burning, roaring noise.

                          The masque of humans to despise.

Narrator 2:

He finished his requiem speech and motioned to the men to     begin the burial.

SFX:

The sound of dirt falling on the coffin lid. A series of thumps from inside the coffin, and a muffled cry. The wind rises.

Narrator 2:

As the sound came from within the coffin they all turned to look at each other, and the masks of sorrow slipped momentarily to reveal something that looked like embarrassment. There came another thump, but they all looked resolutely at their feet, staunchly ignoring the echoing screams for the sake of preserving the occasion. The dirt continued to fall, down into that dark chasm, falling at roughly the same speed as the single tear that coursed down the vicar’s cheek.

Vicar:

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Narrator 2:

And the crowd turned as one, their dark robes churning around them in a great sea of darkness, all pretence gone from their faces to display only blank expressions and meaningless stares as they made their way through the rusting gates, through the swirling tempest, moving resolutely back the way they had come. Moving slowly back up the hill.

SFX:

Shuffling feet, the thumping from the coffin, the fall of dirt on the coffin lid. These sounds are gradually drowned out by the rising wind. The wind, in turn, is drowned out by the rising sound of static. The static lasts for a few moments, then resolves into the first Narrator’s voice.

Narrator:

Camera pans across graveyard - desolation, empty and grey. Tight focus on tombstones. The carved words roll black across the lens. Shot lingers for a few moments. The still image is powerful in its stark simplicity. Image slowly fades to black. The sound of the wind echoes, then static comes up. It leaves us with a sense of suffocation, stark sound blotting out all else with its desperate sense of....

SFX:

Static once more obscures the voice. It lasts for a few moments more, then fades into silence.