Checked for continuity, grammar, and spelling: May 2, 2011.
Chapter Two: Small Steps Forward
"Let the ball of light drift up to your neck, warming each muscle and melting all the tension away." In a low, mellow voice, Mr. Teadle guided his students through a relaxation exercise. The lights in the theatre were low and the fourteen students were scattered throughout. More than half of them were sprawled out on the stage, three in the aisles, one across four seats, and one was up in the light booth taking a nap. But that last was a TA and, as Mr. Teadle did not have any extra projects, naps were allowed now and again. He was well aware that it was likely some of the other students had fallen asleep as well. It happened every time he went through these exercises.
Mr. Teadle wound up the exercise in his normal manner. "When you are ready, come back to center stage and form a circle." He was glad the school board voted for longer class periods. Though it made things confusing for the new students, having alternating daily schedules of three courses per day was a fine exchange for having the students for nearly two consecutive hours. It meant he was able to work more things into the class routine, which was just as well considering warm-ups such as this one ended up taking at least half an hour before the class could move on to more productive activities.
Today's schedule, for example, held final presentations of monologues. The students had been working on them all semester. This was the third set of monologue presentations. The next level in the set of Drama courses would move on to Duologues and other, more complicated scene work. Even though he taught nearly every Drama course, Mr. Teadle was always sad to see this particular one end. The freshness brought in with each new bunch would slowly fade away as their eagerness wore away and they settled into the idea that to act meant to work. Indeed, that eagerness had already begun to dissipate. Two students dropped the course within the first week. The rest had become disillusioned with the hopes of an 'easy A' and settled into 'the grind'. All except one. This one had caught Mr. Teadle's eye and this one, he knew, would go far.
On the first day of class, Mr. Teadle had each student speak for three minutes about their aspirations for the course as a sort of semi-improvisational workshop. Of all the students enrolled, this one had stood out. Most of the others waxed poetic about their goals for becoming actors or increasing their abilities for public speaking. But not this one. Instead, she spoke of an experience she had once when she went to see a play years ago. She recalled for the class with vivid memory the excitement she felt, the thrill of being drawn in, the roller coaster of emotions felt when presented with the trials and triumphs of each character. She stood on stage, eyes alight and intensely capturing every body in the audience at the same time as being rapt in a far away moment. She spoke of the magic of great theatre, and in doing so wove a spell around all who listened. Mr. Treadle included. He knew then and there that she was destined for great things.
By the same token, he felt for some reason that those things would not be shown through characters on a stage. And, while that brought him some grief to know he had lost his protégé before he even had her, he felt privileged to have her under his tutelage. He knew, by some instinct he did not realize he had, that the things she would learn in these courses could very likely aid her in some way wherever her footsteps took her. And he would not fail her.
Sarah Williams had no idea what sorts of thoughts were playing in the mind of her teacher. If she had, she might have thought he was every bit as demented as the students at her school who did not take any Drama courses thought he was. Those who had, of course, knew better. As a Drama teacher, it was perfectly within his right to not realize he had mismatched socks, assuming he remembered to put them on, or to wear his obnoxious colored, knit vests inside out. No, she knew he was simply a bit eccentric, as every true creative genius should be.
She was a bit nervous for today's final presentation. She knew she would do just as well as the other students, but for some reason she always felt as though Mr. Treadle's expectations for her were different than for those of the others. She knew that to think such a thing was completely ridiculous. She had no reason to think so. He certainly treated her no differently. Agnes, one of her best friends, teased her that it was because she was developing a healthy, if rather over-inflated, sense of self-importance.
Regardless, Sarah knew that she just had to get it over with. The semester ended today, this being the last class and her last final. On top of that, it was her fifteenth birthday. Not all that momentous compared to sixteen, or eighteen, or twenty-one, she supposed. But a birthday was a birthday, and a party was a party, and she would be having her first one in years. The last birthday party she had was when her father was still married to her real mother, and a clown gave away goodie bags containing coloring books. This one would be different.
First, however, she would have to perform her monologue.
"Sarah Williams." Mr. Treadle called her name. Thanks to alphabetical order, she usually went last and today was no exception. She steadily made her way up the steps to the stage. "Whenever you are ready, Sarah, begin."
"Yes, sir." Sarah closed her eyes for a moment to center herself, then took a deep breath, and after introducing the text, she launched into the lines.
"Is this the love thou bear'st Horatio? Is this the kindness that thou counterfeits? Are these the fruits of thine incessant tears? Hieronimo, are these thy passions, Thy protestations and thy deep laments, That thou wert wont to weary men withal? O unkind father! O deceitful world! With what excuses canst thou show thyself From this dishonour and the hate of men, Thus to neglect the loss and life of him Whom both my letters and thine own belief Assures thee to be causeless slaughteréd? Hieronimo, for shame, Hieronimo, Be not a history to aftertimes Of such ingratitude unto thy son: Unhappy mothers of such children then - But monstrous fathers to forget so soon The death of those whom they with care and cost Have tendered so, thus careless should be lost. Myself, a stranger in respect of thee, So loved his life, as still I wish their deaths. Nor shall his death be unrevenged by me, Although I bear it out for fashion's sake: For here I swear, in sight of heaven and earth, Shouldst thou neglect the love thou shouldst retain, And give it over and devise no more, Myself should send their hateful souls to hell That wrought his downfall with extremest death."++
Jareth raised an eyebrow at her choice of text. It seemed a rather brutal and harsh selection, though her delivery was impeccable for someone of her age and inexperience. He only half listened to the comments her teacher was giving to the class, something about the difficulties of applying Stanislavski's methods to Elizabethan drama due to their contextual relationship. Jareth did not know what the man was talking about, and frankly he did not care.
Instead, he studied the girl he had met face to face only a few months before. He had been sitting in his throne room relaxing and, as he often did, began spinning some crystals haphazardly in one hand. Without thinking about it, he called up her image within them, curious as to what she was doing. He had not intended to do so, it simply happened, and now he found he did not want to look away.
A bell rang and she and the other students jumped out of their seats and ran toward the door. A few people yelled goodbye to her, and a redheaded girl snagged her outside the door and whispered something in her ear. Whatever was said caused her to stop and, looking scandalized, she gently smacked her friend on the shoulder. Her friend laughed, grabbed her arm, and dragged Sarah at a half-run down the corridor.
Jareth shook himself out of his reverie and made the crystals vanish with a flick of his wrist. He really had better things to do than spy on a teenage Mortal. Today, for example, he planned to go over the plan of taxes and tributes, something he had never bothered with before. It had been set up years before he came took the throne. In truth, he had not really been aware that there was a plan until he was dealing with the aftermath of the destruction of the Goblin City.
It had been months and there were still things to be done, repairs to be made, improvements to be scheduled. Things that should have been done long ago but he never bothered about before. As he muddled through it all, he realized how little he actually knew about running a kingdom properly. For some reason, all these centuries, he just assumed it could take care of itself. To an extent, it did. But there were many details in dire need of revision. It was a strenuous process, learning it all while appearing to already know it all. He was not sure if he could afford to make many mistakes, so he endeavored to make sure none were made. And he was on his own with it for the most part. Jareth was exhausted, but there was little time for rest or solitude as much still needed to be done. He had not even begun to take the damage done to the Castle into account. However, he had to ensure the well being of his people first. With that in mind, Jareth straightened his shoulders and went off to his study.
++Text taken from Act IV, Scene i, Lines 1-28 of: Kyd, Thomas (1998) Cordner, Michael (ed.) The Spanish Tragedy, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
