THE cROSSING

gALLOWS HUMOUR • A SECOND CHANCE • ABSURDITY & HOPE

A fable, a fairytale, a manuscript from The Theatre of the Absurd. This story goes straight to the point, plainly asking the deepest-rooted, yet urgently relevant and at the same time often ignored questions like: “Would someone please tell me what’s happening? (…) “Who are we? Where are we heading?”

With a unique sense of gallows humour, this story will take you by surprise and leave you reflecting on the truth in a pig’s statement, wondering what you would choose if you got a second round.  

The Crossing takes place at night out at sea close to Elsinore, 1658.

INFO:

Read it or listen to it (10 minutes), then consider the questions at the bottom of this page:)

Relevance: Yes! All-round and absolute relevance. Better read it today. And take your time :)

Prefer listening? We’ve prepared a recording of The Crossing for you. You can hear the full story below. Remember to check out the exercise and questions at the bottom of this page.

First comes the noise, like the sky cracking in halves, and then silence. Time passes, and out comes the stars, blurry and milky through the smoke from burning houses. Children cry, dogs bark, orders are shouted from distant towers. The Swedes have conquered the castle of Kronborg and pointed their canons towards the provincial town of Elsinore. Church bells are chiming, fire lights the sky. All sounds travel over the waves and grow cold on the way; they drift on the surface and sink towards the bottom as so much else has done over time: fishing nets and wedding rings, an ivory dagger, the library of an exiled prince, lucky coins, an elephant skull, the detailed drawing of a time machine, a dowry for a cancelled wedding.

And far out, where the larger ships pass from the northern waters in more peaceful times, a young merchant floats on the surface. We don’t know his name, and of his origins we can only guess. He speaks in a foreign accent and has an odd habit of searching for words even though his sentences come across with clarity and precision. Is he a trickster? We don’t know. He has been lodging quietly in Elsinore for a month while searching for respectable business partners. He has not been involved in fights, nor has he acted in any way that would taint the reputation of his landlord.

We’re still trying to understand what has brought him into the dark waters of Øresund on this starlit September night. He has been in the water for a while but does not feel cold. He wears a ragged coat made of wolfskin and a pair of heavy boots. He can’t swim, but here he is, floating on his back as a boat approaches, its oars parting the waves in uneven strokes. The merchant calls out for help but then realizes that the boat is already heading towards him. He waits.

“Where have you been?” the oarsman yells. “I’ve been searching for you all night. I had understood that you would be on the Swedish side.”

A rope is lowered from the boat, and the merchant drags himself on board. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m out here. I can’t swim. I was running for shelter in Elsinore, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of the sound.”

“Not exactly the middle,” the oarsman grunts. “Had you been in the middle, I wouldn’t be so damn sweaty by now. Nice coat. Dog?”

“No,” the merchant replies and searches for a place to sit. “It’s wolf. Polish.”

The oarsman whistles approvingly. “Just sit anywhere. It’s a busy night.”

The merchant crouches in the bottom of the boat. The coast has fallen silent. Can it be that the cunning people of Elsinore have already surrendered to save their homes?

“I don’t understand any of this, “the merchant says. “Why am I here? How did you know where to find me? Where are we heading?”

The oarsman is busy rowing again. He has a long, braided beard and a scar across his left cheek. He hums as he rows, the left arm crooked and shorter than the right.

A movement catches the merchant’s eye. What was it? A seal breaking the surface? A nightly creature from the cold depths? A hand waving? “Look out,” the merchant yells. “There’s someone out there. To the left.”

The oarsman turns around. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What left? Starboard?”

“I don’t know,” the merchant answers. He spots a second movement. “Out there. It seems that somebody’s waving at us.”

The oarsman spits. “Bloody Hell! Why can’t people just be where they’re supposed to be?” He rows and curses, and soon after two soldiers climb onboard. The oarsman scolds them and tells them to sit. The soldiers sit and look miserable. One misses an ear and an arm, the other has a hole through his stomach the size of a fist. They moan and bicker in Swedish until the oarsman tells them to shut up and stop messing up his boat.

The oarsman continues his journey. The boat quickly fills up with new arrivals. A lutist plays songs of love and loss; a group of nuns takes turns telling dirty jokes; a cabbage farmer discusses the war with his pig, and the oarsman agrees with the pig; a band of thieves with broken necks and empty eye sockets shares tales of the stupidity of the king’s men.

“It’s all about greed,” the pig squeals. “The greed of the Swedes, the greed of the king, the greed of Elsinore.”

The oarsman spits and nods. The moon turns from yellow to pale white.

More arrivals are dragged from the sea: an old woman riding on a goat, a fair maiden, a drunkard with a knife in his chest. “Ironic,” the pig says. The drunkard rolls over and falls asleep.

Night is fading. A rooster crows among the charred houses of Elsinore.

“Would someone please tell me what’s happening?” the young merchant asks. “Who are we? Where are we heading?”

The company falls silent. For a moment there are no other sounds than the oars hitting the water.

“I’m rowing you to Elsinore,” the oarsman says. “That’s all I know.”

“And then what?” the merchant asks. “Who are we to become? What are we to do?”

The oarsman shrugs.

“Will we receive a second chance?” the lutist asks. “Is that why we’re heading towards Elsinore?”

The drunkard raises his head. “Will we live among the living?” he asks with a raspy voice. He coughs and falls asleep again.

“Listen,” the oarsman says. “I get these questions every night, and they’re not my concern. All I have are rumors.”

“And what are the rumors?” the old woman on the goat asks. “Are we returning to settle scores?”

The oarsman leans back and sighs. “As far as I understand, you’re all getting a second round. Don’t ask me why. And don’t ask me why they’re sending you to Elsinore. It’s a shithole.”

“A second round,“ the merchant whispers. “I have so much to do.”

“Only one thing,” the oarsman says. “You will not be returning as yourselves. Again, don’t ask me why. Administration, I guess. You will all be shifting shapes.”

“Shifting shapes?” the merchant asks. “Will we become new people?”

“Not exactly,” the oarsman answers. “You will have to completely reinvent yourselves. If you’re human, then human is off the list. If you’re a pig, there are certain barriers. Pigs are obviously off-limits. Boars will be a grey zone. Better play it safe and choose something completely different.”

“I’d like to be a horse,” the lutist yells.

“I’m going for an apple tree,” the old woman says.

“I’ll be a banker,” the pig squeals.

“And a pretty banker you’ll be,” the farmer says, and they all laugh. Then the boat falls silent as the oarsman heads towards the shores of Elsinore.

“What’s the meaning behind this?” the merchant asks. “Why are we getting a second round? And why do we have to shift shape?”

The oarsman shrugs. “It’s all decided on a higher level. Don’t ask me what they’ve been smoking.”

“We’ll be pebbles on the beach,” the soldiers sing, and soon everyone but the merchant has made a choice.

“Well?” the oarsman asks. “What will it be?”

“I don’t know,” the merchant answers. “Life is beautiful. I have so much to do and see.”  

“Choose something beautiful, then. A ring on a lady’s finger or a feather of a pheasant.”

The merchant sighs. “I’d like to be a lullaby,” he says. “Gently sung at the end of day. Will that do?”

The oarsman sits silently, an oar in each rugged hand. The town of Elsinore is not far away. The rooster crows again, but the canons are silent. Will this be a day of peace?

The oarsman clears his throat. “It’s an excellent choice,” he answers. “A lullaby will do.”

Credits:
Written and produced by The Empty Square
Illustration: Samuel Toi
Voice artist: Lena Fiszman