The Meat Tree by Gwyneth Lewis Page A

Wrecks
    This’ll be interesting. The first time we’ve seen the siblings away from the court. Perhaps we’ll learn some more of their secrets.

    Apprentice
    Her world is dark. As if I’ve put on indigo lenses that cut out the sun and yet make everything much more focused. You wouldn’t believe the detail I can see. The boy’s complexion, the shadows in his suede jerkin, darts in his undershirt.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    She was a bit like that when I played her yesterday. But I don’t remember the eyesight thing.

    Apprentice
    I feel she’s been brooding, all on her own in her fortress and is ready to wage war against her brothers. At this point she has nothing to lose. She doesn’t know who the young boy is, and asks Gwydion.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    Look how the décor reflects the nature of the interaction between the characters. That’s very sophisticated for an early programme. We’re on a beautiful chequered marble floor, like a chessboard. Perhaps we’re about to play a power game. That’s a lovely perspective effect, a visual logic. First move, Gwydion: ‘This boy is a son of yours.’

    Apprentice
    This part of the game is formal, courtly. Aranrhod replies, ‘Alas man, what has come over you, putting me to shame, and pursuing my shame by keeping him as long as this?’

    Inspector of Wrecks
    If I were a literary critic, I’d note the repetition of the word shame here. And underline the gesture of covering up, both in Aranrhod’s words (what is shame’s gesture but a covering of the blushing face?) and in Gwydion’s action in hiding the little something in his clothes and in his chest until it grew up into this boy.

    Apprentice
    You did tell me at the beginning not to be afraid of noting my reactions, however subjective. Does that still hold?

    Inspector of Wrecks
    More than ever. You might as well, as we’re no closer to knowing what’s going on.

    Apprentice
    Well this reminds me of being a very young child, with my brother. You know, before you can really tell each other apart.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    As if the characters weren’t wholly differentiated from each other. That happens in the dreamlike early human myths and in this one. Think of it – men turn into animals, siblings are lovers, wild animals are princes. All the categories bleed.

    Apprentice
    I’m looking at Gwydion with a creative hatred, waiting for a chance to get back at him.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    More flowery language now, as if rage required elaborate courtesy from Gwydion: ‘By my confession to God, you are a wicked woman. It is because of him you are angry, since you are no longer called a virgin. Never again will you be called a virgin.’

    Apprentice
    Infuriating man! I used to be his favourite, all those loving words in secret corners, the flattery I was stupid enough to believe and now I’ve lost everything. He trumped me in public.
    This is Nona talking now, not Aranrhod. Isn’t it just typical that Gwydion doesn’t think at all about his role in this shame? He’s only concerned about how things look on the surface.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    That’s a magician for you. Impression is all in the confidence trick of illusion.

    Apprentice
    Well, as a mother I still have some power left. The power to withhold.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    You wouldn’t dare.

    Apprentice
    I would. If you’re not going to acknowledge your part in this, then I refuse to be mother. I’ll go further, I’ll be our son’s worst enemy. Just watch me.
    â€˜Gwydion. What is your boy’s name?’

    Inspector of Wrecks
    â€˜God knows. He has no name yet.’

    Apprentice
    â€˜Well. I will swear a destiny that he shall not get a name until he gets one from me.’
    I condemn him to limbo. To be blotted out in the pixel dust. To be nothing.

    Inspector of Wrecks
    I wish you wouldn’t do this.

    Apprentice
    To have no