THE BRONZE WEAVER'S DEBT.part 2

ACT FIVE, SCENE TWO: THE AFTERMATH(The Market Square. The sun is now a harsh, unforgiving disc. IFE’s body remains at the center, a fallen monument. WATKINS stands frozen, his colonial pith helmet held awkwardly at his side. The MARKET WOMEN have formed a circle of salt and ash around the scene. The silence is broken only by the rhythmic, metallic clinking of OLOWE’s tools, which he has laid out on the ground.)WATKINS:(Stammering) This… this was not the arrangement. The boy was supposed to be the bridge. He was educated! He spoke the King’s English! Musa, tell them... tell them this is a tragedy of their own making!SERGEANT MUSA:(He removes his uniform cap, exposing a head shaved in the traditional mourning style of his village) The bridge is broken, Collector. The boy found that he could not walk on two shores at once. To save the father’s breath, he had to give the ancestors his own. The English he spoke has died in his throat; now, he speaks only the language of the soil.OLOWE:(Picking up a small bronze bell, ringing it softly) Do not stutter, white man. Your "logic" is a blunt chisel. You thought you were stopping a death, but you were only interrupting a birth. My son, who you dressed in the starch of your own vanity, has finally found a garment that fits.IYALODE:(Stepping forward, her eyes fixed on Watkins) You came with a net to catch a butterfly, but you have ensnared a leopard. Look at your hands, Collector. They are clean of Olowe’s blood, yes. But they are stained with the ink of a son’s despair. Is this the "Civilization" you promised? A world where fathers bury their sons because the law is too blind to see the spirit?OLOWE:(Standing up, towering despite his grief) Modernity? Is that what you call this void? (He gestures to the silent town). The King’s horse is riderless. The Weaver’s loom is smashed. You have created a vacuum, and you call it "Order." But the winds will rush in to fill it, Watkins. The winds will howl through your residency until the walls crumble.OLOWE:For whom then, Iyalode?IYALODE:For the unborn. So they may look upon the bronze and remember: there was a time when men knew how to die for a world that was larger than themselves.(The WOMEN begin a low, guttural dirge. They lift IFE’s body with a terrifying, synchronized grace. As they move off-stage, OLOWE follows, his tools clashing like funeral bells. WATKINS is left alone in the center of the square. He looks at the spot where the body lay, then up at the sky. He tries to speak, but no sound comes out. He winds his pocket watch, but the ticking seems deafeningly loud in the sudden, absolute silence of the village.)WATKINS:(A whisper to himself) It was just a ritual... It was supposed to be just a ritual.(The stage lights fade to a deep, bruised purple. The last sound heard is the rhythmic 'clink-clink' of the bronze-smith’s hammer hitting the anvil, echoing into the darkness.)[FINAL CURTAIN]Would you like to explore a prologue that explains the original blood-oath, or should we develop a musical score description for the final dirge?WATKINS:(Defensive, his voice rising) I acted for the sake of humanity! I cannot be held responsible for the superstitions of a boy who couldn't handle the pressure of… of modernity!IYALODE:(To the women) Lead the Master Weaver away. The forge must be lit one last time. Not for the King, and not for the Crown