Jared the Strong

Copyright 2008 – Stephen Redgwell

This is a dramatic monologue. Or maybe it’s a soliloquy. Or maybe it’s both.

Someone, an English professor I think, said that monologues are spoken by characters who are alone on stage. That would make the audience voyeurs. Blimey!

Jared the Strong, returning from his hunt to destroy evil. Standing alone in the great hall of his castle, he speaks to his dead father. He confesses that he has failed to kill the evil that plagues the people of his estate. He no longer has the will to fight on, is tired, and has lost his holy purpose.

Le Monologue Commence

Oh father, how pernicious was the hunt! Empty frolic!
Only a stupid man goes to slay that which cannot die!
A wisp upon the rye that teased my senses yon.
Evil permutations!

Tis rarely spoken of, the foul things that prowl beyond these castle walls.
Things, not of holy creation, would I chase.
Their end, not to be delivered by my blade!
And yet, with an ebbing lust of pursuit and broad excursion, I went notwithstanding.
Knowing I would fail!

My subjects cried out like old women in a storm, and didst sway my affections.
I thought, no sloth today! Emboldened by their fawning, a supererogation.
Then, standing ready at the gate of our fortress, a voice didst speak to me.

Behold the fool who wouldst wield the healing sword!
Oh mighty hunter!
The day begins with a demonstration of your insolvency.
No regal action can rend what waits beyond.

This inimical specter didst strike me, and deliver a stinging blow.

I was cut!
Not struck by a sword, but rather, by the knowledge that the Evil waited for me.
It taunted me.
It laughed, telling me I would fail!

And in the days that followed, no joy.
The Evil would continue to taunt me.
Its fetid stench violating the forest.
Still, I walked, but began to tire.
Oh father, I tried!
But how does a man steel himself against the devil?
Upon the day that I could pursue it no longer, the Evil laughed.

My spirit died that morn.

So now, dear father, I return to you a broken man.
No excitement of the chase.
No feast in celebration of victory.
Mocked as a man, my will gone, and dead in spirit, my end will not come in glorious service.
I shall meet the Angel of Death as an old, wrinkled man of failing mind.
Empty and withered.

Alea iacta est.