Act 1

Scene 1

Vortmund: If your cries are to be heard by the king, you shall have to shout louder for mercy. Tax is due, and like every man in France you shall pay in the name of the king.

Peasant: But I cannot pay what I do not have anymore than I can eat air or drink sand. Such tax strips the meat from the bone and sucks the marrow form the core. I have but a hollow skeleton to sustain me, and the bones of a dead thing make for poor nourishment.

Vortmund: So many tie I have heard these laments yet always they produce the coppers when the Bastille's doors are open to them. You shall sell your sow or a skeleton will be your only companion. Fare thee well to find the fare and be well. I shall return in two days for your dues.

Peasant: A curse on you and your king, for I know by your shoes my tax will reach him half as light again as I give it to thee.

Vortmund: Have a care, sir. Words once spoken can be sharper than blades drawn.

Peasant: As clear as the sky is blue, I have no money like the fish has no feathers.

Vortmund: Your insolence tries me. I have authority to take from you good to cover your dept and aid the king in his most righteous war. These taxes exist for your own benefit, and to forgo payment is a slight on the nation of France. Therefor, in the name of King Louis, I shall remove goods now to settle your tax.

Peasant: I have given France my son, and more than that no man can ask. Make a step and it will be your last, I warn you!

A brawl ensues, Vortmund is driven off.

Scene 2.

William: Do you know wish to be sailing away with those men on the great ships? It is an adventure of a like no man has seen yet, and I wish to go. To escape from France is a blessing, but to go from there to a place with no King, that indeed would be strange.

Humbold: My uncle, who owns a shipping lane to the New World, said they have savages there, Will. Your quill would be of no use against them. Stay here, at least then you can try and sell what you scribble in that pad of yours.

William. I cannot stay. Like the river in summer my mind is stagnant in this place, and poor water yeilds no life. I cannot write anything to be read while it is so. I will leave shortly, I have heard of a ship departing in two days time. I shall gain myself passage on it.

Humbold: How can this be? No passage will be granted unless you can pay for it, and you cannot. In this world you onw little above your paper.

William: That is why, dear Humbold, I shall pen such a tale of heroic proportions that I shall be paid by the king himself to have it told in the court of the land. On this money I shall leave.

Humbold: Is this true? Where then is the tale of which you speak, for two days is scant time to sell it to the king when to the king you are but a face in a crowd of faces?

William: It has yet to break free. I have it, in here. Like the torrent, it shall flow forth after a drought.

Humbold: Surly your belly tells of a drought, Will. We have eaten little in days past, and your pocket is empty.

William: As is your Humbold, as is yours. We are lucky men who own the very air we breathe. No more do we need, is that not so?

Humbold: No it is not so. Food, Will, and drink. These things are the stuff of life and not poetry.

William: What is life without poetry? A string of events, nothing more. To gaze when all around look is a gift.

Humbold: By look or by gaze, I spy the black of a tax collector yonder. Let us make haste to a tavern and stay out his round.

William: A fare proposal. I shall tell a tale and gain us favour.

Humbold: Favour and drink?

William: Ay, drink too. Hence!