Jane 23

Gravel bit sharply into her bare feet. Dirt, leaves and tiny bits of flora stuck to the blood that coated them. She did not notice. She felt no pain. They were talking inside her head again. She had run, then walked, then stumbled her way for miles, spending the previous day concealed in a hedgerow. When the sun had come out and warmed her hiding place, she had dozed a short time, only to wake with her fist stuffed in her mouth, holding back a scream.

Rain began to mist down. Where was she? Nothing looked familiar. Bushes and trees hunkered in the darkness by the road or lane or path she followed. A glimmer ahead. Lights? She hoped, yet she feared them.  A city or town would have a place to hide, she realized. Perhaps many places, a new one each day. Food, clothes, someone who could help. No, there was no one to help, no one to trust. After all, she was dead.

*

Despite the late hour, the stage remained brightly lit as the rehearsal continued. Actors not on stage spoke in small groups or practiced lines in a quiet corner. A woman with a cloth tape measure draped around her neck walked briskly by, muttering names and measurements to herself. The director, a well-muscled man in his mid-years, liberally decorated with tattoos and looking more suited to a motorcycle gang than a theater, stood in front of the stage, pondering a scene.

            “This scene…,” he said, addressing the actors on the stage, waiting expectantly. “Is the first verbal tussle between our main characters. Audiences love this scene and it sets the play off and running. So, keep that in mind and go for it. Flirt! Rage! Laura, as Katherine you can feel free to kick or throw something.” He looked around and pointed. “Let’s move that wooden stool nearer to Laura so she can kick it or throw it. What do you think, Laura?”

            “I like the idea. Let’s try it and see what happens,” she said, fanning herself with the script.

            The director nodded. “Tristan, after she throws the stool, or kicks it if she chooses, pick it up and cheerfully place it right.”

            Tristan nodded his understanding and turned to his co-star. “Feel free to go all out, but please don’t hit me with the stool,” Tristan said, smiling charmingly.

            “Then duck,” Laura replied, eyebrow raised imperiously.

            Tristan laughed as everyone within hearing distance clapped, whistled, or jeered. Laura gave a jaunty bow.

 “Ah! And they’re off! On that note, let’s begin!” Tristan said, waving his script above his head.

     “Places!” the director called. Hortensio staggers into the room where Baptista Minola, the troubled father, waits for news on his trying daughter’s first music lesson. Hortensio has a broken lute and pieces of it lay scattered about his head and shoulders. “Ready?”

The actors chorused their response.

“Action!”

Baptista Minola. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?

Hortensio. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

Baptista Minola. What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

Hortensio. I think she'll sooner prove a soldier: Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

Baptista Minola. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

Hortensio. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.

I did but tell her she mistook her frets,