The Bee & the Butterfly - Scene 3 of 7**

Scene 3: An Outdoor Theater in Ruins Hill -

Enter Conqueror Worm with a Chorus of Small Ghouls;

He Addresses a Formal Assembly of Ruins Hill Elders;

The Sibyl Mantis Observes from a Balcony)

 

CHORUS

 

Let the Elders of Ruins Hill hear this pronouncement,

Made with a view to enlightening all those who would

Ignorantly or maliciously blame Death for everything.

 

THE CONQUEROR WORM

 

I am not, nor have I ever been a partisan

In the conflict between God and the devil.

I am singularly a condition of physical reality,

A phenomenon that must be until it is no more.

 

 

Though I cannot be moved by tearful pleas for mercy,

I take no pleasure in disposing of a rat, a raccoon, or you;

And I am incapable of judging the relative value of any life.

I do not care too much whether you fear or welcome me,

Write thoughtful prose about me or conceptualize me

In nightmarish or obnoxiously cartoonish ways.

 

Perhaps I am fair or unfair every single time,

But I am content to be either, neither, or both.

 

Therefore, I pray you, put away your whining

About your inability to know anything important

Because there is no knowing, only believing.

 

I do what I do every day without positive feedback,

Even though many would privately concede

That my job performance is excellent!

 

And every day is a bad hair day �"

Not just for the doomed, but also, for me!

 

(Overwhelmed with Emotion, The Conqueror Worm Turns

From the Audience, Gathers Himself, and Then, Continues)

 

Please bear in mind that the curtain

Comes down on everyone,

Including me

 

Because eventually,

Everything will be dead.

But complaining is unseemly

And, of course, utterly pointless.

The nervous laughter, I sort of get,

But the lugubrious melodrama

Seems unserious and stupid

 

 

Because existential fear necessarily devolves

Into the comical and the pathetically vain �"

 

Everyone is made to look foolish.

 

Thank you for your time.

I am, and shall remain,

Your bugaboo,

 

The Worm.

 

Exit the Conqueror Worm and Chorus to Thunderous Applause,

While Forlorn & a Chorus of Cherubim Enter to a Smattering of Boos.[1]

 

FORLORN:

 

Why me! I am not that deep,

Just nimble in explaining simple things,

And I fear to ponder any thought that hurts.

 

It seems to me that a wiser creature

Like our Rose Immaculate would be

A better player in this gigantic role.

 

Her keen and cogent wit would make

A palmier of this harsh medicine.

 

And bitter pills are heaven’s manna,

When offered in a trusted hand.

I was born to charm a willing mind,

Not make a tentative guest uneasy

In an awkward conversation.

 

Allow for that, and I will speak

But from a gentleness of heart �"

Yet I will say what things I will.

 

I have today received a missive from my love,

A creature to whom my heart was given,

In trust and all that I believe in -

 

My looks, my words, my wit, my tender ways,

But also, my deep faith in love’s transcendent good -

Now, taken for a graceless flight of imperious vanity!

 

I say again, ‘Why me!’

 

Why has she let me go,

Knowing that I cannot live

Without her tenderness?

 

CHORUS:

 

How can sweet faith in love endure,

When it is so deceived?

 

FORLORN:

 

Her words were curt and careless

Like a strike upon love’s darling face,

Or like the sleet that ices o’er a hyacinth

That grows impatient in the flux of March.

 

And in the gaudy loops of her correction,

I note love’s pride and pompousness,

 

For her cursive swirls with censure,

And it flares like a tyrant’s will.

 

Oh, to me, life is a pilgrimage,

And love is our great faith,

For love and faith are one

And cannot be dissevered.

 

I believe in love’s transcendent good

With all my great and broken heart!

 

But because I came to love

Only inside a poet’s silver head

And then, only from time to time,

 

I cannot know that my belief in love descends

From more than my desire for something

More substantial than me to exist.

 

I still recall the nescience

I knew inside the honeycomb,

And it is that state I long for now

And wish I could this day regain.

For I cannot help but wonder

Whether my faith in love

Is only the weak armor

That I dawn because

There is no other!

 

Now, does the good seem something like

The peace I knew inside the hive

Even before I knew my love.

But I do not know;

I cannot know.

 

I only know that I have faith in love

And see God’s grace in every aspect of it.

Yet, logic smirks like a triumphant villain!

And therein lies my deep despair,

As reasoning suggests that

Every faith is false �"

 

CHORUS:

 

Not just the faith in love that lovers have

But every faith in how or why things happen.

 

FORLORN:

 

For it is not just the lover but every tender heart

That suffers in protracted doubt and fear,

As reason makes all equal in that way.

 

But the lover knows but love’s bemusement,

As he cannot know if he is truly loved,

Nor even if there is the thing

That he calls love.

 

And like a comely grifter, love becharms his dreams

With hope and fancy till he tumbles to the floor,

 

A helpless victim, quite undone,

But still singing of love’s charms!

 

Oh, love is said to be the “gold of life!”

Why then is love, in every form,

So full of heartbreak,

Fear, and doubt?

 

Should not good be good?

 

Some are blessed with love, and some are not,

Some must love, while others would not;

Love makes some men better than

What might have been expected,

While others curse the world

And like their lives the less.

 

Therefore, if the Gardener is love,

Is she not these things, too?

And if she is, is she both

Good and evil?

 

CHORUS:

 

Pain and pleasure?

 

FORLORN:

 

(He Rises and Begins to Pace.)

 

Love seems to be an unjust partisan,

Favoring some and hurting the others,

Much like God favors angels over us!

For they are blessed with the surety

Of their Creator’s abiding presence

And are not subject to the illness,

Pain, and misery that we know.

They get to see the Gardener,

And they get to know her.

 

Why not us? No!

We must wait and guess!

 

Oh, I have no more to say, as every mind

That delves into these complex things

Will be reduced to similar despair

 

Because we stand beneath the pillars of our logic,

And logic is a thing comprised of certain steps

That must be taken in the here and now,

While love is not segmented,

Nor is it time’s prisoner.

 

(He Moves Closer to the Audience.)

 

Yet, I swear to you, my friend,

There is a truth so rich and sweet

The mind may faint to know it -

 

What you say goes within your universe,

And nothing can prevail against your will.

No being holds a scepter there, but you.

 

CHORUS:

 

You decide where each star keeps its place

And whether others shine within it or nearby.

 

FORLORN:

 

You determine every possibility,

Likelihood, and certainty of your realm,

Not worms nor even those bright angels.

You are the Gardener of your universe!

In you and of you do the planets turn

Or break into pieces on a whim �"

 

Through you alone does faith

Engender truth or nothing.

(He Slowly Crosses Himself.)

 

Most bitter pill, I am the lover, Forlorn,

And you are my most dear salvation!

 

From this day forward shall my papillon be

The flickering star that leads me into morning.

 

I take to wing!

A new queen emerges

With the rising of the sun.

I shall return unto my universe,

And there, in-flight give up my life

For love without regret or knowing.

 

Exit Forlorn with Chorus in Silence

 

SIBYL MANTIS:

 

(Rising and Extending Her Arms to the Heavens)

 

Now, the lesser god upbraids rebellious Earth

And wakes its lovers to the scourge of day;

 

A doe steps through the tangled brush alone;

And sudden swirls of fright form on the lake.

 

(Falling to Her Knees)

 

See there, the fragile hand of faith!

It trembles like a wounded lamb,

Outstretched upon the thorns.

 

Night abandons all that she has done,

And we are left to wonder and to wait.

 

Exit Sibyl Mantis

---

[1] Here, Paris hoped to elicit the “feel” of the soliloquy in Hamlet Act IV Scene IV. Whether he even comes close to achieving that objective is for the reader to decide. But it should be borne in mind that Osowski’s Andre De Foi (Forlorn) is an anti-Hamlet, who, unlike Shakespeare’s protagonist, is all parts hero and no part coward. Moreover, Andre is a character in a fantastical melodrama and not a complicated personality in an Elizabethan tragedy. He is not agonizing over the difficulties of a particular romantic relationship but addressing the general mystery of love, a highly personalized concept that may exist only in an individual’s imagination.