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Chapters (27)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. Acknowledgments
  6. Dedication
  7. Cast
  8. Prologue
  9. Act One
  10. Scene 2
  11. Scene 3
  12. Scene 4
  13. Scene 5
  14. Scene 6
  15. Scene 7
  16. Scene 8
  17. Act Two
  18. Scene 2
  19. Scene 3
  20. Scene 4
  21. Scene 5
  22. Scene 6
  23. Scene 7
  24. Scene 8
  25. An Interview with Rita Dove
  26. Biographical Note
  27. Back Cover
SCYLLA I do what the spirits tell me.
PHEBE

Then those slaves in Haiti

must have known some better spirits.
SCYLLA

Some nigger comes in here with

a few pretty stories,

and you think he’s the Savior!
ALEXANDER Dear Lord!
PHEBE

The Savior was never

to your liking, Scylla.

He took too much attention

away from you.
ALEXANDER Have mercy!
SCYLLA

(Drawing herself into her full “conjurer” posture.)

There’s a vine in the woods

with a leaf like a saw blade.

One side of the leaf is shiny dark

and pocked like skin;

the other side is dusty gray.

Touch the gray side to a wound,

the sore will shut and heal.

But touch it with the shiny side,

and the wound will boil up

and burst open.
PHEBE

Always talking in riddles!

Why don’t you come right out and

say what you mean for a change?

Agreeing murmurs; SCYLLA looks darkly around until everyone grows silent.

SCYLLA

Alright, I’ll tell you direct.

Your Augustus is pretty clever—

been lots of places and knows

the meanings of words and things like that.

But something’s foul in his blood,

and what’s festering inside him

nothing this side of the living

can heal. A body hurting that bad

will do anything to get relief—anything.

Looking around at all of them.

So keep talking about Haiti

and sharpening your sticks!
SCYLLA

But know one thing:

that nigger’s headed for destruction,

and you’re all headed there with him.

They stare at her as the lights dim to blackout.

Scene 4

SCENE 4

The swamp.

Night: mottled light. Strangely twisted branches, replete with Spanish moss and vines; huge gnarled roots slick with wet. The whole resembles abstract gargoyles in a gothic cathedral. There’s a gigantic tree trunk. At some remove—in front of the proscenium, or silhouetted against the backdrop—the SLAVES pantomine the motions of evening chores: mending tools, shelling beans, stirring the stew.

When the lights come up, HECTOR is puttering around the perimeter of the swamp, muttering to himself; he finds a snake and lifts it up triumphantly before whacking off the head.

HECTOR

Hah! So many—under rocks, ’twixt reeds,

they lie and breed, breed, breed.

The wicked never rest.

Stops, listens.

What’s that? Someone coming!

He scrambles for cover as HENRY and AUGUSTUS enter, stop, and shake hands.

HENRY

Good night, friend.

We will be victorious.
AUGUSTUS May Fate be with us, brother.
HENRY

Oh she is, brother, she is.

It was a golden day

when Fate brought you to us.

They exchange the secret handshake; HENRY exits. AUGUSTUS looks after him; then, as soon as he thinks he’s alone, he sinks down on a fallen log, burying his face in his hands. HECTOR—well hidden from AUGUSTUS but visible to the audience—looks on with keen interest; he recognizes this kind of despair. AUGUSTUS’s soliloquy is more an agitated outpouring than a reflective speech.