Mr. Plusoe’s Revelation

Act 1 - Introductions

Private Douglas was cool; it was an inevitable result of the spite and pride that burned within him. Bound as he was, facing the stoic and restless crowd, he appeared as the least concerned of those gathered, the only face devoid of shame. The sergeant stared at him passively, unwilling to admit, for the time being, that the gathering was anything other than what it literally appeared; a standing group of men. He ascribed no purpose to their gathering; they were standing, not waiting, the distinction was important. The men did not speak.

Davey rolled back to sit on his crossed ankles, surveying the lead soldiers with satisfaction. Pvt. Douglas was nearly surrounded; really, there was no hope of escape.

The firelight from the hearth cast gruesome shadows across the soldiers, heightening the sense of desperation and setting the mood for an execution – one man killed by many. Davey rubbed his little palms together, savoring the hot, tingling sensation that tickled his body from without and within.

Across the dark room, illuminated by a single desk lamp set between them, Uncle Tyson and Mr. Plusoe were speaking,

“But Ploosey, women, in their propensity toward suffering, embrace the helpless ennui of the text and ignore the entire moral context.”

“But Lodgo,” Mr. Plusoe said, a bit exasperated, “the moral context is the whole point of the text, it’s quite difficult to miss it, even if one is trying. Do you take all women to be idiots?”

“My friend, a woman’s nature has absolutely no relevance to the distinction of intelligence and stupidity; she is as rational as the insane. In regards to your point concerning the text, one should never underestimate the feminine art of self deception. Whereas a man is desperately enamoured with reality, as unappealing as it may sometimes be, a woman casually embraces every convenient fantasy to cross her mind. I’ve known a woman to deny the very existence of a mole upon the tip of her nose. A very hideous black thing, this mole. She flat out denied the existence of this very apparent disfigurement – publicly even, and had the support of her fellow females, who – afforded full frontal views should not have failed to spot it.”

“Curious” Mr. Plusoe conceded, “very curious, now that you have mentioned it, I too have witnessed similar activity in my wife and her friends.” But that is while social, do you suppose the behavior to be consistent whilst the female is alone and at her leisure, with nothing but a copy of Dorian Grey on her lap?”

“Oh, but Ploosey, that is when she is at her weakest, when she is most prone to doubt and fear. I sometimes think their self deluding tendencies are a means for women to transfer their hysteria onto men. Even for the educated and most magnanimous man, such behavior can be simply frustrating.”

Mr. Plusoe chuckled heartily, recalling some peccadillo of his wife’s.

“Attention! The sergeant shouted, when he saw the Corporal approaching. The men stood rigid, guns at their shoulders. Corporal Hap strode slowly into the semi-circle of men.

Private Douglas glanced casually in his direction. The condemned private already stood rigidly out of painful respect. Respect not for any man before him; respect for the gravity, the greater life, of the moment.

Firelight crackled in Davey’s eyes as the chief officer came to stand before the condemned.

“Despite the obvious validity of your points, “Mr. Plusoe was saying, “I believe that Mr. Wilde’s words were, in fact, written with the woman in mind and that his genius would certainly have accounted for the feminine interpretation, however ironically.”

“Do expound.”

“I am of the opinion that Dorian Grey himself is representative of the female plight; he is robbed of opportunity at toil and the chance for accomplishment by his very beauty and position. He is not representative of any man. Dorian struggles to remain moral in the face of the feminine pitfall of prodigy.”

Uncle Tyson smiled broadly at his friend’s aptitude in conversation. He was interrupted by the den door, which swung softly open.

Davey looked up.

A graceful figure entered the room cautiously.

“Ah, Sophia,” Uncle Tyson said; he and Mr. Plusoe stared at her with wonder and a hint of trepidation. A moment of quiet discomfit passed. Mr. Plusoe picked at his finger nail.

“I was wondering,” Sophia began, “if either of you gentlemen would like to accompany Agatha and myself on a walk?”

“Oh no, we’re quite alright, my sweet,” Uncle Tyson said dismissively and Sophia left the room.

“You are here now to answer to crimes you have committed,” Corporal Hap shouted, leaning forward menacingly over Pvt. Douglas.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Go to hell,” Douglas grated between his teeth and, although the words were spoken only in his head, Davey self consciously glanced in Uncle Tyson’s direction before continuing.

“Very well then, prepare to die, private Douglas!”

Uncle Tyson seemed to search the air, seeking the trailing end of the conversation. A relaxed smile crossed his lips as he found it and began again, “Perhaps one has to decide; are morals a masculine or feminine concern?” he proposed and leaned back in his seat with an air of contentment.

“Masculine certainly, what need women to worry of morals?” Mr. Plusoe returned.

“Then shouldn’t one assume the story, a parable on morals, to be written for a man; it was, after all, written by a man.”

Mr. Plusoe looked concerned, then he brightened. “Ah, Mr. Wilde is very clever indeed, to address both the man and the woman simultaneously, very clever.”

The ring of soldiers had repositioned in a line. Eight men, with guns raised, sighted private Douglas along the lengths of their barrels. Corporal Hap and the sergeant stood behind them. The sergeant held his shirtsleeves in apprehension, the corporal bit on his pipe with constrained excitement.

Davey shifted onto his knees, holding Douglas in one hand, the sergeant and corporal in the other; the moment was building.

“Aim!” corporal Hap instructed, drawing out the word for dramatic effect.

Mr. Plusoe and Uncle Tyson both began to speak at once, Mr. Plusoe catching his throat on a wad of phlegm and obscuring his comment in a hacking cough. And then something strange happened. The sound of their combined utterances, which was very strange, enough so that Davey paused in his play and looked up, seemed to create a magical, incantationous, effect. Time appeared to stand still and no sounds were heard. The fire held its flickering. Mr. Plusoe was gaping, mouth open and eyes wide, while the hair on his head rose to stand on end.

“Fascinating,” Uncle Tyson whispered loudly in the electric silence.

And then, in a horrendous thunderclap of a noise, Mr. Plusoe’s head erupted and unleashed a swirling vortex of black matter. The room was instantly consumed and all light was swept away in the raging torrent.

Davey came to the realization that something was tickling his cheek. His eyes flashed open, revealing soft yellow light filtering through a broad green leaf hanging above his face. The foliage appeared tropical, which was confusing to Davey; earlier in the morning it had been a typically cold English mid February day and there was still snow falling outside.

His cheek was tickled again and Davey rolled over, feeling the grit of rough dirt against his back as he did so. A fuzzy gray animal, with erect tail and an inquisitive nose bristling with white whiskers, stared at him from olive green eyes. Davey observed it for a minute in quiet contemplation. The animal sat back gracefully to observe him, unhurriedly, patient; intelligent eyes considered him with confidence. He reached out and softly rubbed the fur on its back. The animal arched, to heighten the experience, to increase the pleasure of his pressing fingers. The coat was dense and soft, and Davey considered that it might well have been the nicest thing he could ever remember touching. The animal looked into him lovingly and pressed against him further.

“A puss,” Uncle Tyson’s voice intoned from the darkness of Davey’s observation. On hands and knees, Uncle Tyson crawled up beside Davey and carefully, with cupped hands, scooped the animal up. “Quite the cute little blighter, isn’t she? Would make a damn fine hat, eh? Uncle Tyson smiled at Davey before suggestively rubbing the animal against his face, “soft and water resistant.” Finally he set her back on the ground and gave her a little push on her way.

Uncle Tyson sat back on his haunches and set his hands on his thighs. “My goodness Davey, but I think we’ve dozed off. Silly, but I don’t recall bringing you to the botanical gardens. Must really not have wanted to go.” He pondered this point for a moment and then, with eyebrow arched, scrutinized the boy. “Come to be the little diplomat, have you Davey? Convinced your old uncle to take you to the botanical gardens, even though he was quite enjoying himself in conversation with Ploosey.”

Uncle Tyson froze. “Ploosey!” Man and boy met eyes. “What in the blazes happened?”

Further cogitation was interrupted by a gunshot. Davey and Uncle Tyson leaped to their feet and raced toward the noise. Uncle Tyson swatted at hanging banana bunches and tripped over a ground cover of African Violets. Moments later they reached a red clay path cutting through the verdancy.

Two men stood on the path grappling over a sword, a third man lay to the side, motionless and specked with blood. The men wore uniforms characteristic of the Napoleonic wars.

Uncle Tyson swung about his hand and swept Davey behind the protective cover of his leg. After a moment of fumbling behind the creased fabric of Uncle Tyson’s trousers, Davey peered around the other leg to catch a glimpse of the action.

One soldier, wearing the uniform of an enlisted man, was gaining the upper hand. With a swift motion of purposeful physical imposition, he thrust the other, an officer, to the ground and, twirling the sword about, plunged it down into the center of his adversary’s chest.

Uncle Tyson and Davey distinctly heard a crunch as the sternum resisted ineffectually. The man on the ground convulsed and grabbed at the blade, splitting his fingers before he died.

The standing soldier was breathing heavily. He pulled at his collar cholericly, snapping free a pair of buttons. He contemplated removing the shirt entirely and then came to the startling realization that he was being watched.

“Who’re you?” he barked, spinning about to face Uncle Tyson and Davey.

“Tyson Lodges, at your service,” Uncle Tyson responded, bowing slightly. “And you?”

“Private Douglas,” Davey and the man replied simultaneously. Uncle Tyson twisted about to look Davey in the eyes. Davey looked up into the upside down face and smiled sheepishly.

“Really, this is getting to be rather peculiar,” Uncle Tyson said to no one in particular.

Private Douglas, perhaps in response to hearing his own name, began to grow self aware – began to reflect on how he must appear to the distinguished gentleman and the young boy standing before him. He looked about helplessly for a means of tidying up while the two bodies, one prostrate, the other supine, languished importunately.

“Ah,” he began, “Ahhh, something curious happened; these men were going to kill me, then a blackness seemed to sweep over…” Private Douglas mentally reviewed his words and concluded that he must sound like an ass.

“Yes, yes there it is, the blackness, I was afraid that would crop up again,” said Uncle Tyson. “Inescapable, really… trying to avoid it… and after I had just discussed the topic with Ploosey; quite disgraceful. Oh Ploosey.”

Uncle Tyson was shaking his head, then he remembered the soldier and stopped, “Anyway, yes this blackness seems to have effected us all; the common link between us. Aside, of course, from the myriad of links between Davey here and myself; the vacation in Devon comes to mind in particular…” Uncle Tyson smiled and then frowned and then smiled again. “I suppose this means that we might not be in the botanical gardens after all,” he breathed profoundly.

The three very slowly began to take a greater observational interest in their surroundings; dense foliage reached thirty feet to nearly touch long heat lamps lining the dull gray ceiling.

Davey felt a droplet of sweat wind its way along the inner edge of his nose, skirting the depression of his eye socket. He felt a certain affinity to the little bead of water, lonely and descending, descending toward uncertainty.

“Sugar cane,” Uncle Tyson was saying, “for rum or candy, I wonder? Or maybe both, hmmm, it’s difficult not to like sugar cane. Although I suppose if it was one’s job to harvest it with scythe day in and day out, one might develop certain grudges.”

Davey considered this fact and wiped his face contemplatively.

“South America,” Uncle Tyson said, “is it feasible that we could be in South America? Very unscientific, if we are, vast distances are not something to be trifled with. You familiar with South America?” he asked private Douglas.

“Ah, no.”

“A pity. I too, know next to nothing in regards to the continent.”

Davey heard something, a buzzing sound, high off the ground and beyond the cover of the luxuriance. Douglas slipped off of the path instinctually. Uncle Tyson looked up.

A polished metal object, humming contentedly, brushed between the hanging branches of a banana tree. Internal propellers seemed to be the source of the sound and, pushing down a twirling breeze, accounted for its casual suspension in the humid air. Glass lenses observed them impassively.

“A bionic dragonfly!” Uncle Tyson ejaculated. “Do wonders never cease?”

Davey heard a sudden whisking noise and the shoe box sized metal creature flustered itself in a little spasm. A tiny projectile slugged Davey on the forehead wetly. The kinetic surprise softly transitioned to drugged bewilderment and in another moment Davey was settling down for a nap as he faintly heard Uncle Tyson speaking with slurred words,

“Careful everyone, it spits!”

~//~

Davey climbed through clouds of darkness. He was enveloped by a sublime peace, a comforting protection unparalleled by anything fabricated by man in his material world. Stronger even than simple love, it was consuming; a complete abandonment of worry, weariness and trouble. He sighed, contentment swelling from his child’s heart, empty of concern; empty save for peace, comfort, faith – faith in humanity, faith in life. The sensation, the peace, was drawn into a hand, a hand that gently stroked his cheek. Soft, delicate fingers touched his skin, ran through his hair. Gentle words slowly broke his reverie. Davey opened his eyes.

A tender face looked down upon him. Beautiful smooth skin, dark lashes, inquisitive attentive eyes stared into his. Lustrous hair flowed and fell about as a halo to the angelic face. Flushed lips were slightly agape; at the cue of his awakening, they pressed into a smile.

Davey sighed. He saw the hand as it reached out now to touch him. It softly caressed his neck.

“I thought you were awake,” she said, “you’re such an angel.”

Davey was flooded with comfort, spilling forth from his heart, bursting out his pores. He could lay there for an eternity, gazing into her face, bathing of her love.

A door opened.

“Dianne, what are you doing?”

The beautiful woman looked up, away beyond the top of Davey’s resting head, worried. Davey was lost in the majestic flow of her hair, the agreeable smell of her skin.

“I, uh,” she said.

“Don’t touch him,” responded the voice. “Haven’t you learned? Have we taught you nothing?” A sigh. “Sometimes I worry all we have worked for will be lost. Now please, Dianne…”

Dianne stepped back. A heavy pulse pumped Davey’s heart. Desperation stretched his eyes. His finger tips tingled with apprehension.

An older woman’s head appeared above him. Her hair was graying and pulled back severely in a bun. Her skin was soft but folded and spotted with brown. Her expression was filled with disgust. She stared at Davey until she could no longer and turned away sharply, eyebrows erect, lips pursed firmly. She stood where Davey could still see the side of her head. She looked away at the wall for a long moment and then turned to Dianne,

“A boy.”

I continued the story much further but I gradually began to run out of speed as it increasingly turned into a soap opera and I lost interest.

I began this story after writing an over 100 page science fiction story about a young man coming to terms with the human situation. I set out in Mr. Plusoe’s Revelation to explore male female relations and what they would be like when men became ‘unnecessary’. The three male characters (two of them diametrically opposite when it comes to their relating to women) are thrust into a purely female society. I wanted to immerse the males in a world created completely within the female psyche. The interesting thing about this is that my own male psyche quickly lost interest once I began forcing myself into the feminine paradigm. Even though it was through the perspective of the males and involved the uber male Douglas there were just too many female characters to write for. I was quickly overwhelmed by the prospect of developing all of them sufficiently (most of them containing many more subtleties than the two extremes introduced above) which is no wonder considering I find developing just one female character to be challenging.

After I gave this up I started a children’s fantasy story with no women at all which was fun but ultimately too juvenile to maintain my interest. Now I’m writing a semi surreal story involving only four characters, one of them female and this seems to be a good balance for me.