by Harley Byrne
deposit us back in the very trees we fell from. And there’s precious little sports coverage.
A tornado spins onto the stage, knocks over a tree which lands on the snake, and spins off again.
BARNARD. It’s Sunday, isn’t it?
BYRNE looks around at their surroundings.
BYRNE. Nope.
BARNARD. I hate this feeling.
BARNARD falls to his knees in the sand.
I don’t need live coverage. I can live without blow-by-blow analysis. Gods of this island, if you will grant me just two minutes with a teletext results service, you can have my soul.
BARNARD beats the sand with his fists, on the verge of tears.
BYRNE sits down next to him and starts to whittle. BARNARD sits back and pretends not to be intrigued. Eventually:
BARNARD. What’s that?
BYRNE. Blowpipe. And poisoned darts that kill instantly.
BARNARD. Byrne, nothing lives on this island. There was just that snake, which I’m pretty sure must’ve fallen out the plane like the rest of us. There is nothing to kill.
BYRNE. I don’t know if it’s the heat or the boredom or my higher than average libido, but I’ve started having sexual thoughts about Susan Batt. If I should for even a moment consider acting dishonourably, I intend to do myself in.
BYRNE mimes shooting himself in the head with a gun.
BARNARD. You’re going to shoot yourself in the head with a blowdart?
BYRNE tries to mime this with the blowpipe and realises it is impossible.
BYRNE. I’m going to shoot myself in the toe.
BATT and NADIA stir. They walk over and sit with BYRNE and BARNARD.
BARNARD. Here come the women.
BATT. Morning chaps!
BYRNE and BARNARD grunt.
Have I interrupted something? What have you boys been talking about?
BARNARD. Sports.
BYRNE. Sex.
BARNARD. Killing.
BYRNE. Suicide, really.
NADIA. Cool.
BATT. Have you worked out how we’re going to survive on and/or escape from this island?
BARNARD. We’re working on it.
BYRNE. Don’t worry.
BATT. Because I had an idea.
BYRNE. It’s alright, I’ve done this a thousand times before.
BATT. What’s first?
BYRNE. I have to – I just like to think at this time of morning.
BATT. Okay. While you’re doing that, it occurred to me that we all come from vastly different backgrounds and might each bring our own special skills to bear from our day-to-day lives.
BARNARD. It wouldn’t work.
BATT. Shall we start with you, Nadia? What do you like to do at school?
NADIA. I got a B-minus in Home Economics. Food safety and preparation, a bit of First Aid, general resourcefulness.
BARNARD. Daddy’s very proud of you darling, but we’re not at ‘home’ now.
BATT. And what business is it that you’re in, Mr Barnard?
BARNARD. Please, call me Barnard. Actually, my wife and I are in the iron and steel industry.
BATT. Oh yes? I think I know how this one goes.
BARNARD. Yes, we own a foundry on the Chesapeake Bay.
He hands her a business card.
BATT. Mm, of course.
BARNARD. Not much use here unless anyone’s got a cheap and expendable labour force for me to exploit, I’m afraid. How about you, Byrne? You said something about… something or another that you do?
BYRNE. Well: I’m a record producer of sorts.
BARNARD. Ah.
BYRNE. And I used to be a postman.
NADIA. Shit.
BARNARD. That’s right, Nadia. No use to us here. Well, what about you, Batt?
BATT. Actually, I’m long-term unemployed at the moment.
NADIA. Shit.
BARNARD. (sarcastic) No, no, Nadia. That’s something Miss Batt will be able to continue most fruitfully on the island.
BYRNE strikes BARNARD across the jaw.
BATT. Thank you, Mr Byrne.
BYRNE. (to BARNARD) I’m a record producer and don’t you forget it.
BARNARD stands and grabs NADIA’s hand.
BARNARD. Come on, darling.
He drags her off across the beach.
NADIA. Where are we going, Daddy?
BARNARD. Somewhere I can be in charge.
Exit BARNARD and NADIA.
BATT. You’re more than a record producer, Harley Byrne.
BYRNE. Mine’s a complex vocation, certainly.
BATT. You’re a man.
BYRNE. There is that, yes.
BATT. And we’re out here all alone on this little old beach.
BYRNE. We’re a team. We rely on each other. It’s important we stay strong.
There is a long, long silence. BATT lunges for BYRNE.
BYRNE. What are you doing?
BATT. I’m a woman!
BYRNE. You are weak.
BATT. I have breasts!
BYRNE. I don’t understand you!
BYRNE fires a blowdart at his toe. He misses and a NATIVE falls out of the underbrush, dead. BATT and BYRNE stop tussling.
BATT approaches the corpse and nudges it with her toe.
BATT. You killed a native!
BYRNE. I had fantastic aim til I got caught in this terrible paradise.
BATT. Aren’t you sorry?
BYRNE. I’m sorry for him. I’m not apologising.
BYRNE methodically fires another four darts off into the underbrush.
BATT. What are you doing?
BYRNE. There might be others.
BATT. Some people live alone.
BYRNE. You’re right – there might be others.
BARNARD and NADIA run across the sand to them.
BARNARD. What happened? We heard killing.
BYRNE indicates the corpse.
BYRNE. It seems the welcome party started a little late.
NADIA. He’s unarmed!
BYRNE looks at the corpse.
BYRNE. Right. Come on.
BATT. Where are we going? I like it on the beach.
BYRNE. There’s a trail. Someone’s going to have to explain this to his mother.
BYRNE leads them off-stage in single file.
Scene Three
Our heroes enter in single file, sweeping the thick foliage from their paths with their arms.
Their path leads them off stage.
They re-enter, carving their way through the foliage wordlessly.
Their path leads them off stage.
This happens a number of times.
On their nth crossing of the stage:
BATT. How did you lose your little finger, Harley Byrne?
BYRNE draws up suddenly.
BYRNE. Shhh! I hear voices
The faint sound of a small choir singing what might, just might, be “Away In A Manger”.
BYRNE unholsters the Universal Ear and holds it aloft, ready to fire.
NADIA. Is that a gun?
BYRNE. It is my Universal Ear. A machine for recording the sound and the spirit of any music at any place in any time.
NADIA (disappointed). Oh.
BYRNE. It can do other things too.
NADIA. Like when you used it as a flashlight?
BYRNE. And it’s the only device in the world with metaphonic recording capabilities.
NADIA. Does anyone have a gun?
BARNARD. Too late!
A native, HIWA, approaches them holding a spear.
BYRNE/BATT/NADIA. Take us to your leader.
They giggle together at having shared the same thought.
NADIA. Jinx.
BARNARD (slowly, as to a foreigner). Take – them – to – your – leader. Take – me – to – a – sports – bar.
HIWA. Move it, fatso.
HIWA drives them from the stage at spear-point.
Scene Four
JONATHAN, the king of the island, sits in a clearing on
a wicker chair, wrapping Christmas presents. The area around him is in the midst of being decorated with tinsel, baubles etc., and various indigenous party foods are cooking on the open fires.
JONATHAN. Greetings, strangers! I am Jonathan, the king of this island! Kind of a cross between a king and a god. You’d better know, I’m a bit supernatural. So don’t try anything stupid.
HIWA. It’s true.
BATT. There’s something very familiar about the way he’s dressed.
JONATHAN. I doubt it. We are an undiscovered culture and know nothing of the world beyond this island. In fact, is there even a world beyond this island? Or is it just us, a tea tray of paradise balanced on a giant turtle’s shell, floating through space? Whoooooosh!
JONATHAN mimes a tea tray of paradise balanced on a giant turtle’s shell floating through space with his hand.
BYRNE. The first thing, actually.
BARNARD. There’s over ten different countries, all with cars and buildings and the internet. So don’t go thinking you’re special.
JONATHAN. Silence! Would you like a cup of tea?
BYRNE. Yes please, lord. We have been –
JONATHAN. Hiwa! Get the palefaces some tea.
HIWA. Should I not continue to point my spear at them, your majesty?
JONATHAN weighs up the visitors.
JONATHAN. No. If they try anything, I’ll zap them.
HIWA hesitates, unsure, before exiting.
BYRNE. We have suffered a terrible hardship. Our boat of the sky was damaged in a terrible storm –
JONATHAN. Wait – boat of the - ?
NADIA. He means aeroplane.
JONATHAN. Ah! The metal cloud!
BYRNE. Er-
NADIA. He means aeroplane.
JONATHAN. We saw the metal cloud fall from the sky and explode on the horizon. We thought it was a sign that the sky gods were angry.
BATT. No. It was just us.
JONATHAN. Call me ‘Your Majesty’.
BATT. Sorry. I like your Christmas decorations.
JONATHAN. Christmas? What is this Earth thing you call – Christmas?
BARNARD. Baubles.
BATT. Reindeers and that.
BYRNE. It is a season for sending.
NADIA. It is a season for receiving.
BARNARD. A lot of coming and going, really.
JONATHAN. I see. We too have a seasonal festival with all your baubles and your tinsel and what have you. Every year, on what for ease of translation I shall call December 25th, we celebrate (the actor may here insert an ex tempore ejaculation of something exotic and festive sounding), or what for ease of translation I call shall something English sounding - Christmas,
