up note.
JESUS stands up and walks out to the natives.
JESUS. Hold it. I am the boy god Jesus Christ and I demand you to stop singing.
JONATHAN. Who?
JESUS. You know me as Jesús but my full name is Jesus Christ. I am a messiah. And I’ve come to take back Christmas.
JONATHAN. I have never seen you in my life.
BYRNE (under his breath). Funny. He said he grew up here.
JESUS. Sure you’ve seen me. Around the village. Local lad.
JONATHAN. Hiwa?
HIWA. He’s not one of ours.
JESUS. Oh come on.
BYRNE (off stage, in cod-native accent). Sing ze song!
JONATHAN. Who was that? Was that Harley Byrne?
BYRNE joins them.
BYRNE. Got it in one, your so-called majesty.
JONATHAN. You have the cheek to show up here again? We’re going to eat you for sure.
BYRNE. Not so fast, my hungry friend. You see – it seems we’ve both been taken in by an imposter. If I’m right, you’ll find this is not Jesus Christ, nor one of your villagers. If I’m right…
JESUS removes his beard, lets down his hair and shakes off his grass skirt. He unbinds his breasts (I presume s/he is wearing a sports bra underneath). S/he is BEING in disguise.
BYRNE (surprised). Being!
BEING. Yes, it is I, Being, mysterious mistress of disguise, spirit of the living moment who haunts your every quest. I thought that’s what you were getting at with the imposter thing.
BYRNE. I had a different theory, but you were who I would’ve thought of next.
BEING. You will not record that song. However corrupt and deceitful its inventor, it belongs on this island, live each Christmas and not canned up as an MP3 download!
She assumes a martial arts pose. BYRNE likewise.
BYRNE. Barnard! Throw me the flaming tinsel!
BARNARD picks up a length of tinsel. The actor should make the flaming sounds himself. He throws it to BYRNE who takes over the flaming sounds, continuing in between sentences.
Here’s your fuse, Jesus! I’ve saved the bananas, and when I’ve dealt with you I’m going to record the most exotic Christmas song the music-buying public have never heard.
BEING. Nope.
BEING picks up an armful of baubles and throws one at BYRNE. The pair stalk round each other. The natives start to stomp and shout rhythmically. BARNARD and NADIA, sensing the fun, get up and join in.
Each time BYRNE lunges at BEING with the tinsel, BEING lobs a bauble at him. Finally she runs out.
BYRNE. Out of baubles, Being!
BEING. Well. You look ridiculous.
BYRNE ties her to a tree with the flaming tinsel. BEING takes over the flaming sounds. Everyone cheers.
BYRNE. Your majesty, are you still going to eat us?
BARNARD. I believed in you all along. I renounce Jesus and so does my girl.
NADIA. What?
JONATHAN. Harley Byrne, you have saved us from Jesus and for that my people owe you. I will grant you permission to record our Christmas song on the provision that you do not identify the island where you found it or my real name. As a recording artist I shall be known as – Jiving Prince Christmas.
BYRNE. It’s a deal. Jiving Prince Christmas. Are you sure?
JONATHAN. Please set up a secret bank account for my royalties and use them to send me a hamper of your culture’s finest foods every year. Specifically, we need brown sauce, lager, Marathon bars and toilet paper.
BYRNE. That’s not a food, your majesty. But yes.
JONATHAN. Right. Let’s do this thing. Are you ready? With your machine?
BYRNE (adjusting the Ear’s settings). Oh yes. All of this – the air disaster, all the fear and pain, Susan Batt’s death, the hotel rooms we paid for and never used – it will all be worth it when I record this unique song, never before heard by Western ears.
BYRNE takes aim.
JONATHAN. And a 1 – 2 – 3 – 4…
ALL. Ha’way in a sand dune
No bed for a bed
The mighty Lord Jonathan
Lay down his sweet head
The stars in the bright sky
Shone down where he lay
The mighty Lord Jonathan
Asleep on the beach.
We love you Jonathan, we do.
We love you Jonathan, we do.
We love you Jonathan, we do.
Oh Jonathan, we love you.
Ha’way Lord Jonathan.
BYRNE. Got it. So universal. Yet so exotic.
JONATHAN. And now, moving straight on to the Christmas sex.
BARNARD. The Christmas sex?
JONATHAN. This ritual is to appease my Uncle, the sky god Durex.
HIWA lays down, legs akimbo. JONATHAN starts to lower his grass skirt, then becomes self-conscious in front of the Westerners.
JONATHAN. Oh god. Maybe we’ll skip it this year. We’ll do it twice at Easter, alright pet?
BYRNE. This god is as bawdy as a Brit. Thank you, Jonathan, Jiving Prince Christmas, for all your hospitality. Now, there’s an old – metal cloud - in the jungle that you probably know nothing about. If we could fuel it with the bananas you have stashed under your gazebo, I think we’ll be able to fly it back to civilisation.
JONATHAN. With bananas? Are you mad?
BYRNE. Then what have you stashed them for?
JONATHAN. I like the smell. You can’t have them.
BYRNE. But –
JONATHAN snaps his teeth at BYRNE as if chewing.
BYRNE. Fine. I’ll think of something. What was Jesus going to do?
JONATHAN. I must away to open my presents. See you in a bit.
Exeunt JONATHAN and any NATIVES that are still standing about.
BARNARD. Why so distant, Harley Byrne? Are you thinking about Susan Batt?
BYRNE. Not really.
BARNARD. It’s a stressful time of year, and Batt’s death is a grim reminder of own fallibility and the fragility of human life.
BYRNE. She knew what she was getting into when she climbed the tree with all that tinsel.
NADIA. From now on, every Christmas we should put an effigy of Susan at the top of our tree.
BARNARD. That’s where the fairy goes.
NADIA. We’ll have to kind of – hang her from a spare branch. That’s more appropriate anyway.
BYRNE. It’s beautiful. Now please be quiet. I’m trying to think what a raft looks like.
BARNARD. Ugh. By the time we get back to civilisation, the sports results I’ve missed will be meaningless.
Scene Eight
Continuing from Scene One, with BYRNE, BARNARD, NADIA and BATT hanging, by parachutes, from the trees.
BYRNE. …and on our return to Manchester I bid you all goodbye and ate a hearty meal before falling into a coma. As I slept through the New Years celebrations, my brother Santiago zapped me back through time to the middle of last week and arranged a break for me, a journey with no mission, a holiday. And that’s how I came to be on that plane with you chaps, from which we have just bailed out.
BARNARD. Didn’t you realise you’d be flying straight back into the same crisis?
BYRNE. The day before the flight it occurred to me that my passport was out of date, so I had to go to Liverpool and get it renewed, and then they wanted paying in sterling and I only had doubloons on me, so I arranged to meet an old friend in the area to lend me the money, and of course we had to have a drink afterwards, and one thing led to another and the thought never crossed my mind.
BARNARD. And how do we get down from these trees? You said we’d find out in the story.
BYRNE. I meant in the next story.
BARNARD. The next story? I’ve got the measure of you, Harley Byrne.
BATT. So all that stuff’s going to happen?
BYRNE. Yes, Susan Batt, as soon as we get out of these trees.
Silence.
BATT. Is there any more of that chocolate?
N
ADIA. Your story doesn’t make sense.
BYRNE. Sometimes human nature doesn’t make sense. Especially when it’s natives.
NADIA. No, it doesn’t make logical sense. We get off the island and get on the same plane again and crash land on this island again. It’s an impossible loop, you have no way out but to do the same thing over and over again.
BARNARD. Leave Mr Byrne alone, Nadia. It’s just a story to help pass the time a bit more pleasantly while the weather’s bad. You shouldn’t take it too seriously.
Away In A Sand Dune fades up over SUSAN BATT’s desperate sobs.
The End.
Further adventures of Harley Byrne: alltheworldsmusicever.com/episodes
Free UNIVERSAL EAR ebook: Harley Byrne meets Alan Turing in Listlessness In Early Automated Composition Devices
The author
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The cover artist
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