The BREAKING of a WILLOW WAND
†
Bree-town. A darkened barbershop.
ROWAN rising from sleep.
HAZELWOOD (Off.)
Disturbance I do not intend to cause
If you are still asleep, or else, Ms. Rowan,
To be the bearer of some tidings dire,
But falling, I’ve sustained a painful wound—
If you are in tonight, I’d like your aid.
Ah, Hazelwood—come in.
Enter HAZELWOOD.
HAZELWOOD
I thank you, barber.
Had you been long asleep before I came?
The hour is awfully late, I realise.
ROWAN
Some business at all hours I will take.
You reek of drink. What was it that you did?
HAZELWOOD
Ah! I was drinking in the Training Hall
And was competing with some common boy,
A fighter from the Valley, Archet-taught.
I soundly trounced him with my waster’s blade—
But then deciding wrestling was to follow,
He cast me down and wounded my left side
’Pon sturdy floors of wood inflexible.
ROWAN
I rarely this advice would let be known,
But wiser would a duel be in some ways:
Most men think twice before they run their mouths
When fingers they have lost, an ear perhaps.
You landed on your side and not your head?
HAZELWOOD
Barber! you know I take great care protecting
The very best of features that I have.
ROWAN
Where do you feel the pain now, Hazelwood?
Would you take off your coat and shirt so I
Might any bruises see? For your own sake,
I hope you haven't broken any ribs.
That’s bruised, alright. But no, it doesn’t feel
Like anything is broken, merely bruised.
You would have been debilitated more
Were that the case. Take sips of this for pain,
(And smaller sips, lest illness void your stomach).
Another thing I’ll add will be to rest,
To keep for weeks from fisticuffs and trouble.
HAZELWOOD
For weeks!
I do suppose you know of wounds
And injuries far more things than I.
It’s funny—you each day encounter blood
More commonly than I, though in our hands,
I wield a sword, and you a meagre knife.
ROWAN
Excessive it may sound, I do admit,
But I desire to see you live to fight
Another day, and little use there is
For handsome heads on bodies bent and broken.
And on the latter point, ’twill e’er be true
That wounds outnumber barbers. From what I’ve seen,
That seems to be the common way of things.
HAZELWOOD
You’d need to cut a lot of hair and beards,
Were otherwise the case.
O Billy Bold.
It was a fortnight past, do you remember?
Now there was handsome head with body bent
And broken. Blood! And so much blood there was
Leaking from him. And still he haunts my thoughts—
How is it easily done, forgetting limbs
Your saw has severed, surgeries that failed,
Men’s innards torn and burst in bloody streets?
At bloody sights I do not easily blanch,
But why we fought, I can’t recall the reason,
Nor if his death was manful to have caused.
ROWAN
I’d hope that fashion turned its eye to see
A shaven head as handsomer than hair.
Of blood, I do not easily forget.
But ’tis like farms' familiarity with pests,
Manure, and greedy maws of awful wolves;
’Tis work. Thus why would barbers balk at blood?
My hand would tremble had I not conviction,
And hands unsteady make for fouled incisions.
HAZELWOOD
I too cut true and with utmost conviction.
But have you never missed a stroke before?
Do you that song of murder know, which goes
Something alike to this, concerning brothers
Fighting each other over something paltry:
The pointless cutting of a willow wand?
He sings.
“‘O, what did the fray begin about?
My son, tell it unto me!’
‘It began about the breaking of a willow wand—
That never would come to a tree.’”
I feel like that, insensible and cruel.
I do not have much fondness for that song.
ROWAN
I do believe that barbers who miss strokes
Are called in Bree-town evil ‘murderers.’
HAZELWOOD
‘Manslaughter,’ better barristers would say.
ROWAN
Regardless, burden not yourself with songs,
For what is done is done, and that is that.
HAZELWOOD
You talk as though you never missed a stroke,
Both as a barber-surgeon and a woman.
ROWAN
A surgeon who her knife-strokes lands askew
Find repeat customers a rarity.
HAZELWOOD
A fencer who does not cut first may soon
Be buried ‘neath a six-foot pile of dirt.
ROWAN
Indeed. But what are strokes that I would miss
As not a barber-surgeon but a woman?
’Tis only rough and wild ungentle women
Who dare to brandish swords of steel or iron.
HAZELWOOD
It would be rude for me to tell you that.
Forgive my bolder speech, Ms. Rowan, please—
For there is still some drink left in me yet.
ROWAN
’Twould not offend me greatly, Hazelwood.
A woman of my station hears her share
Of impropriety the live-long day.
HAZELWOOD
That sport I do like well enough, ’tis true,
But rare it is to find another woman
Who often has the privilege of her knife
Plunging itself into my skin and flesh.
ROWAN
Protect them, then. Could I assist you now,
To ease the pain of putting clothes back on?
HAZELWOOD
’Twould be appreciated. Thank you, Barber.
A man cannot be strictly fencer, no?
As you are made of more than your profession,
So likewise I am too. A fencer bold
Cannot have doubt in fighting, but a man
Most surely can be doubtful in his dealings.
But doubt young Billy cannot bring to life.
ROWAN
Aye, it cannot.
HAZELWOOD
’Tis little consolation!
I would that I were similar to you,
E’er doubtless, swift, unregretting, true.
ROWAN
To have the time and space to doubt indulge
Itself is fortunate. Here is your coat.
A lady never needs to work to live—
’Tis ladies who may always women be.
A lady may indulge in doubt, in wonder,
In melodrama e’en, if she desires.
And men pursue her and she never has
To think of paying for the roof above
Her head. I am a barber almost always.
HAZELWOOD
My maid no surgeon is, though she in truth
Is well adept at meagre tasks as these.
Apologize, I do, for the intrusion.
Ms. Rowan, know that I shall trouble not
Your barbershop when stars are out at night.
ROWAN
Trouble me always, Hazelwood, I say.
The nights too quiet are without your tales,
Your cares and stories in the night’s small hours.
I would not by your maid be soon replaced,
And if you bleeding find yourself, I say
I’d rather that you go to me than her.
If I no longer patronage enjoyed
From Hazelwood, ’twould not be possible
To change that which I am. I’d Morvyth be,
Humble, unchanged save lightness in the purse.
Though fierce with sword, a gentleman you are.
’Tis rare that I can have such company.
HAZELWOOD
You think too highly of my manner, Barber—
’Tis mere civility, the barest care,
The least that Men must for their lessers do.
ROWAN
Do let me fetch your hat before you go.
And Hazelwood, do travel safe tonight.
HAZELWOOD
Till next time I am wounded in a fight.
Exeunt.
Many thanks to the player of Morvyth, whose lovely prose in RP is the basis for all the character's metrical dialogue in the play. The song that Hazelwood sings a part of is likewise not my own, but rather is based on the traditional British ballad (Child 13) known under various names such as "Edward," "My Son David," or "Henry"—though the version I personally had on the mind was the Irish "Who Put the Blood?" as sung by Karan Casey.
