All My Avatars: The Pagan Soap Opera

(which appears, episode by episode, in each issue of Enchanté, and is performed at Pagan gatherings all over the country, if I get there)

Episode 1: Ashe’s Dreadful Secret; Mistletoe’s Wedding 

Our Cast:

Enok Hawkhauser, founder and president of WorldWort, Corp., currently married to
Bauble Upshaw, coo of WorldWort and High Priestess of Unmarked Grove
Bangle Upshaw, her sister, a truckstop Tarot reader under the name Granny Smith
Bede Upshaw, their brother, chaplain of Miskatonic U.
Baldur Upshaw, Bangle’s son, raised by Bauble, a rune-weaving cowboy
Oake Hawkhauser, Enok’s eldest son by Agate
Ashe Hawkhauser, Enok’s second son by Agate
Thorne Hawkhauser, Enok’s third son by Agate
Holly Hawkhauser Wormwood, Enok’s daughter by Agate
Lugh and Rhiannon Hawkhauser, Ashe’s children
Damiana Rapscallion, Ashe’s second ex-wife, mother of his children
Sweetbriar, a milkmaid, secretly Asphodel Allspice, Ashe’s fourth ex-wife
Agate Blackshadow, Enok’s ex-wife, mother of his four children, High Priestess of Tangled Web
Mistletoe, Enok’s … um … accidental daughter
Dr. Galen Wormwood, of the St. Aesculapius house staff, Holly’s husband
Myrtle and Mithridates Wormwood, Galen and Holly’s children
J. Sinister Wormwood, Galen’s father, ceo of Interplane Inc., WorldWort’s chief industrial rival
Deirdre Whitesavage, Ph. D., society anthropologist, Oake’s current flame
Orchidia Brujez, Inca wisewoman, fiancée of Thorne
Sir Aleister Crowley III, bart., Thelemitic playboy, lover of Holly Hawkhauser
H.S.H. Princess Olympia of Graustark, engaged to Thorne but in love with Baldur
Mirabella Dictu, ace reporter for Witchcrap magazine
Hiram T. Berdache, professor of Comparative Mythology, University of Nineveh
Little Dog Who Runs In The Woods, major d’omo at the Hawkhauser yurt
wedding guests, truckers, et al.

Our Story:
All My Avatars concerns the fortunes of WorldWort, a multinational herb and crystal purveyor, headed by handsome, distinguished Enok Hawkhauser and his adorable second wife, Bauble Upshaw, High Priestess of Unmarked Grove. They live with their enormous family in the world’s most luxurious yurt in ritzy Oval Corners, but as the opening credits sound, the camera wheels over the yurt to the skyline of betowered Nineveh, Eldorado, a western metropolis on the make. Front and center is the WorldWort office tower, a steel and glass monolith so designed that on each of the daylight extremes of the year, its shadow falls on a different cocktail lounge.

But life is not all rose hips and goose down for Bauble and Enok. The children of his first marriage are a caution. There are four of them: Oake, Ashe, Thorne and Holly.

Oake, strong and thick with a fabulous build (he’s often shown emerging from a sweat lodge), is uncertain of his ability to take a man’s place in corporate herbdom, but his quest for a convincing rite of passage has only got him into the toils of Deirdre Whitesavage, society anthropologist, who hopes to use his money to fund her researches into supply-side tantra.

Ashe’s similar doubts of his masculinity have led him through four broken marriages, most notably to itinerant sexpot Damiana Rapscallion, mother of his two small adorable children, Lugh and Rhiannon. Damiana still hangs around the yurt, complicating plots and vamping stray husbands. Unbeknown to Ashe, moreover, his last ex-wife, Asphodel Allspice, is also still around, disguised as a milkmaid named Sweetbriar, still infatuated with gentle, neurotic Ashe.

Thorne is always off in the jungle researching rain forest herbal derivatives to spice up the family line, but his truelove, an Inca wisewoman named Orchidia Brujez, is installed in the family guest hut, ever awaiting his return.

Holly, Enok’s daughter, has decided to dump her boring and unfaithful husband, young Dr. Galen Wormwood, in order to achieve the pinnacle of social success as the bride of Sir Aleister Crowley III, caballistic playboy and head of the International Order of Thelemites. But love under Al (vel legis) may not turn out to be in Holly’s cards after all....

The plot thickens, and scalds occasionally, with the return of Enok’s ex-wife and the mother of his children, evil Agate Blackshadow, who has already attracted the attention of Enok’s chief business rival (and Dr. Galen’s father) J. Sinister Wormwood of Interplane Inc. with her own herb and crystal shoppe, What Notions!, and a rival coven, Tangled Web.

Agate will stop at nothing to ruin Enok and undermine WorldWort. For her own purposes, she has decided to marry one of her sons – which one doesn’t much matter – to Princess Olympia of Graustark, cream of European high society, who has been lured to Nineveh primarily by the attractions of Bauble’s cowboy nephew, beautiful Baldur Upshaw, foreman of the Hawkhauser research ranch, the Rocking Futhark. Needless to say, Agate has no intention of allowing Olympia to waste herself on Baldur.

Baldur, by the way, was left on Bauble’s doorstep by her sister, Bangle. Bangle, who has pretended to be off gallivanting through Europe for 22 years, has really been telling fortunes at the truckstop in nearby Baghdad, Eldorado, disguised as a gypsy named Granny Smith. Bangle never revealed to Bauble that the father of her child was none other than their own brother, Bede, the venerable but defrocked vicar of Arkham, Massachusetts, now the chaplain of Miskatonic University.

OPENING SCENE: We find wicked Agate Blackshadow in her tiny shop, What Notions! She sashays by in a drop-dead gown of baby seal fur, her ears and neck a-swath with pear-shaped quartz, doing little businesslike things: checking invoices, dialing Port-au-Prince to order fresh supplies of bufo toad, sticking jeweled hatpins into little statues of Enok and Bauble.

Enter a sinister figure – Sinister Wormwood, in fact.

AGATE: I – I wasn’t expecting you, Sin. I have a lunch-date with Her Highness.

SINISTER: Olympia won’t be able to make it, I’m afraid, Agate. Baldur Upshaw has taken her for a spin on his Harley Broomstick.

AGATE (to herself): Baldur, eh? I think I know how to handle him.

SINISTER: Aggie, we have to talk. There’s a common bond between us. It’s more than a mutual contempt for Enok Hawkhauser. Let’s face it – we’re both rotten. We can use that energy! Black magic exists, for those fearless and unsentimental enough to use it.

AGATE: What are you proposing, Sin – magic? Or merger?

SINISTER: Frankly, marriage. I’m crazy about you, Ags, but I don’t trust you farther than I can throw a dolmen. I want a legal and a physical and a magical bond between us before I can believe you won’t have a boline between my ribs the moment I turn my back.

AGATE: You’re too flattering, Sin. I’ll take it under advisement.

SINISTER: Don’t keep me on a string too long, Aggie.

AGATE: Oh, Sin – my cord magic is famous!

CHANGE OF SCENE: A room in the fabulous Hawkhauser yurt in Oval Corners, Eldorado. The camera focuses on the serene but troubled face of lovely Bauble Upshaw:

BAUBLE: Enok – who is this – Mistletoe person?

ENOK: I’m sorry I never told you, Bauble. I’m not proud of it. Mistletoe – happened. Shortly after I left Agate and years before I met you. Her mother was a gypsy fortune-teller I picked up at a truckstop. I’ve had her educated privately, in southern California, because I had the corporate image to think of. I’m afraid she’s turned out rather a hellion. Breaking arms by incantation at the age of 8. Casting spells on professors who refused to reveal what was going to be on the final exam. Rained out the homecoming game when the quarterback refused to date her. A handful. I’m sorry she’s decided to come to visit. Apparently she met Baldur at a drumming convention and recognized his address.

BAUBLE: Enok, I love you and I’m determined to make a home here for everyone dear to you, but I wish I’d known at the beginning just how many there were. Oake – Holly – now Mistletoe. It’s getting hard to see the forest for the trees! But, Enok – Baldur’s so dreamy, so sensitive. Something tells me Mistletoe won’t be at all good for him.

(The situation is enlivened by the entrance of Enok’s second son, Ashe, who enters pursued by the milkmaid, Sweetbriar, who is secretly Ashe’s fourth ex-wife.)

ASHE: I’m sorry, Dad. I just can’t be the he-man you’ve always seemed to expect me to be. The failure of all four of my marriages plus the rough and tumble of life in the boardrooms of corporate herb lore is too much for me. I’m not a real man at all. I’ve decided to end it all. Only Sweetbriar here saved me just now when I threw myself in front of Europa, your prize pet yak.

SWEETBRIAR: It’s true, Mr. Hawkhauser. I was about to milk the yak for breakfast, and there it all was.

BAUBLE: Oh, Enok, you can’t make Ashe go on torturing himself this way. You’ve got to tell him – the truth!

(If this were an old-time daytime soap opera, we’d have crashing chords on the organ about now. Fortunately, this is an ultra-modern serial, with none of that old-fashioned melodramatic nonsense.)

ENOK: Very well, Bauble – perhaps you’re right. Ashe, all your problems stem from a family secret – a secret I’ve never been able to tell you.

ASHE: A secret? What secret?

ENOK: Ashe – you’re not my son.

ASHE: Then whose son am I?

ENOK: You’re not anybody’s son. You’re my daughter. Your mother, Agate, concealed the news at your birth in order to lay hands on the inheritance of a misogynist uncle, old Malachite Wormwood. By the time I learned the truth – that you weren’t a sissy but a tomboy – the doctors told me it would warp your entire development to disrupt your adolescence with the news. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was a coward. Maybe I thought you’d figure it out for yourself, or grow out of it in time! You were so popular with the football team, even though you couldn’t tackle worth a damn. Anyway, can you forgive me, son?

ASHE: Don’t call me son, Dad.

BAUBLE (tragically): Ashe, you can’t disown your own father!

ASHE: I’m not disowning him, Bauble. I just wish he wouldn’t call me son if I’m his daughter. Gosh, this explains why all four of my marriages failed! Now I don’t have to feel so uneasy about my unusual responsiveness to Baldur’s good looks!

SWEETBRIAR (aside): But what does it make me – a Dianic separatist?

ASHE: But wait a moment – if I’ve been a girl all this time, where did my two adorable children, Lugh and Rhiannon, come from? I have a couple of questions to ask Damiana.

CHANGE OF SCENE. Close-up on the sensual, whorish good looks of Ashe’s second ex-wife, Damiana Rapscallion.

DAMIANA: Oh, Ashe, how should I know where the children came from. I was young. It was dark. I assumed it was you.

ASHE: I couldn’t have fathered the children, Damiana. I’m a woman.

DAMIANA: Maybe I had them by parthenogenesis. Goddesses do that all the time.

ASHE: That doesn’t sound too likely. Can’t you recall any possible – alternative explanations? Any little tell-tale grunt or groan?

DAMIANA: Well, now that you speak of it, there was a night – Dark Moon – you know how dim this place gets at that time of month. There was a night when you were – very unusual.

ASHE: Was it – better – that time, Damiana?

DAMIANA: Honestly, Ashe! What a male thing to worry about! Now that I think of it, you seemed, if anything, unusually – abrupt – that night. Should have been my tip-off that it was really a man.

ASHE: But who?

DAMIANA: Honestly, Ashe, what on earth does it matter?

ASHE: Don’t you recall anything specific about that intruder, Damiana? Any little tell-tale grunt or groan?

DAMIANA: Ashe, this is not the sort of third degree I trained for. And I see my course plain before me: I must reclaim you for your true sex! It takes more than balls to be a father. You’ve been a terrific father – I’ll stand up to anybody and say that!

(Thoroughly confused, Ashe departs. Enter Holly’s husband, young Doctor Galen Wormwood.)

GALEN WORMWOOD: Can I talk to you for a minute, Damiana?

DAMIANA: Not a good moment for a consultation, Doctor.

GALEN: But there’s no one else I can confide in, in the whole yurt. It’s Holly. I’m worried about her long absence in Ireland.

DAMIANA: Are you worried about your marriage or just your share of the Hawkhauser millions? I understand your daddy keeps you on a very short leash.

GALEN: How can you be so cruel, Damiana? We used to be friends – and more than friends – once upon a time.

DAMIANA: I think we should all outgrow the "once upon a time" stage, don’t you, Doctor? Or are you one of those childhood regression types?

GALEN: If you’d just listen to me –

DAMIANA: No time, at present, Galen. In fact, it might be a good idea if we avoided each other entirely, at least while in the yurt, for a while. Ashe may be beginning to – suspect – some of the subtext behind those old folk tales that begin "Once upon a time."

GALEN: He’s never suspected anything before.

DAMIANA: No, but there are reasons that may be changing. I can’t go into them – but I think a period of non-recognition is in order entre nous. (She departs in an air of mystery that becomes her as well as her erotic, slightly poisonous perfume. Galen, with clenched fists, watches her go.)

GALEN (melodramatically pounds the wall – which, being made of yak skin, does not provide much of an effect): Where are you, Holly? What are you doing to me? Holly, Holly, Holly!

CHANGE OF SCENE: Holly’s dressing room in the magnificent baronial fairy mound occupied by Sir Aleister Crowley III, baronet and Grand Master of the International Order of Thelemites. Holly sits in front of a mirror, focusing on her features in a tinier hand mirror, convex, of Venetian glass, with the word VERITAS engraved on the frame. The effect is to see multiple images of Holly – a prospect that troubles her not in the least.

HOLLY: Ally, darling – there’s something downright weird about this lookingglass. I seem to have green skin. Green skin, no ears, and – warts!

Only then does Thelemitic playboy Sir Aleister III appear from his own adjoining dressing room. He is attaching monogrammed fetishes to his cummerbund and tying his ceremonial knout in a Windsor knot.

SIR ALEISTER CROWLEY III: What lookingglass do you refer to, loveykins? Oh, blimy! Don’t use that one, Hols! It only shows past lives.

HOLLY: Oh dear – who on earth was doing my make-up back then? Well, I’m almost ready for the ceremony. I don’t suppose I have to look too formal?

ALLY: For a Wiccan annulment? I shouldn’t think so. Mumsy taught me to toss off an annulment in five minutes flat. I’ve timed it. And your husband isn’t even here to interrupt.

HOLLY: Poor Galen. I suppose we should notify him or something. Not that he’s ever given any sign of giving a damn what I do.

ALLY: I’ve taken care of that, actually. A chill wind will travel up his spine and howl your name in his ear. It’s bloody effective, I can tell you. He’ll get the message. It’s another of Mumsy’s little ways.

HOLLY: Dear Lady Winifred! She’s been so sweet to me – and yet she’s such an exalted sorceress! She just radiates power. My own mother, Agate, for all her dark dabblings, has never had half her savoir enchanter.

ALLY: Well, Mumsy is a Duke’s daughter, you know, Hols. And her grandfather was a bishop, and her uncle Peter was the most famous detective in England.

HOLLY: Family traditions are so fascinating, Allie. And yours over here go on for so long – not like America, where no one knows who his great-grandmother was. Which reminds me, Allieboo – how did your grandfather, Allie 2^nd, get a baronetcy? I thought your – what was he? – great-granduncle – alienated everyone in the ruling classes.

ALLY: Too right you are, my preciousest. But my grandfather, who inherited his uncle’s spiritual authority, was made a baronet for his weather workings during the Blitz. It’s only thanks to him that Bournemouth survived the War.

HOLLY: How extraordinary!

ALLY: But don’t be too impressed, Hollsie-Wollsie. I like to think I’m marrying a fresh, unspoiled flower of the American frontier – not an impressionable girl with a yen for a title!

HOLLY: Oh, Allie! I’d adore you if you worked in a munitions factory and played rugger with a Satanic bottle club on weekends!

ALLIE: I was certain of it, my loveliest! Oh, Holls, you make me want to jump up and down and romp about the room. Join me?

HOLLY: Why not?

BOTH [to the tune of Irving Berlin’s "It Only Happens When I Dance With You" from Easter Parade]:

It only happens drawing down with you –
The Goddess comes and then the God does, too!
I sense with ineffably just spontaneity
Immanent deity
Only with you.
Two kindred souls work magic opposite,
Our blade and chalice make a perfect fit!
I’ve drummed with dozens of witches the whole night through
But when on certain nights
The satellite’s
Descending
That happy ending’s
With you!
(They go into an Astaire/Rogers dance routine, ending in a reprise.)

ALLIE: Now, hurry along, sweetums. Let’s not keep the divinities of divorce on pins and needles.

HOLLY: In a nanosecond, my Lochinvar! (He goes. She blows him a sigil and, when he’s out of sight, returns to the mirror, preening:) Your ladyship! Queen of high magick! (A sudden circling fly attracts her attention. She follows it closely, hypnotically. Suddenly her tongue leaps out, snares it, and back into her mouth.)

CHANGE OF SCENE: A western landscape. A cloud of dust, and Baldur and Princess Olympia enter on a Harley broomstick. Baldur wears rhinestone cowboy drag: ornamental shirt, hat, bolo tie, Olympia a riding habit, her diamond and pearl tiara affixed to the brim of her top hat.

OLYMPIA: That was utterly thrilling, Baldur! You negotiate curves on that contraption with such confidence. I can’t think when I’ve had such fun. Life at court in Graustark is so formal, so stultified – cutting ribbons, limp handshakes, public invocations of only the most politically correct divinities. Of course, I hope to make some changes now that I’ve come to the throne.

BALDUR (who speaks in a cowpoke drawl): Glad you enjoyed it, yer highness. Aunt Bauble and Uncle Enok had me up on a broomstick almost before I could walk.

OLYMPIA: You’re such a part of this wild, huge, overwhelming country, Baldur. I’ve come to care so much for it this trip – and for everything associated with it. I’d like to – to take a keepsake home with me – to remind me of – Eldorado – and – everything. Tell me – do you think you could be as pleased with East Central Europe? We have plains and mountains and forests, too, you know – if on a somewhat less grandiose scale.

BALDUR: I’ve never thought about Europe, yer highness. (Endearingly, he pronounces it Yurp.)

OLYMPIA: Call me Olympia, Baldur – no formalities between us, I hope? Except in ceremonial circumstances, of course. And please – do think about – Yurp. Think about the sense of history, and mystery, and tradition, and the blood of your Celtic, Teutonic, Latin and Slavonic ancestors. And think about the ancient throne of Graustark. And think about me. Don’t hurry – take your time.

BALDUR: Yer highness – Olympia – I just don’t think I could bring myself to leave this country.

OLYMPIA: Not even – for love? I’m not asking if you feel for me as I do about you – I know the answer – but I’d grow on you in time – like Spanish moss, or a self-replicating crystal.

BALDUR: I’m right sorry, Olympia. I – I somehow know it wouldn’t be right. My spirit guides just aren’t running any continental tours.

OLYMPIA: Are you sure, Baldur? Think – you’re turning your back on a family tradition that extends for a thousand years. One of my ancestors was a lady-in-waiting to Zoe of Macedonia, the alchemist Empress of Byzantium, in the eleventh century. I’ve inherited some pretty arcane bric-a-brac, passed down by word of mouth for generations.

BALDUR: That’s real impressive, ma’m. I’m just a country boy, but I can tell you’re the goods. You’d make just about any man happy. But – I’m afraid I’m in love with someone else.

OLYMPIA: Baldur! I had no idea! (to herself) That Mistletoe, I bet.

BALDUR: I’ve – I’ve never told a living soul. It’s drivin’ me nuts, but I just can’t tell this person. There are reasons – my feelin’s would be – unwelcome.

OLYMPIA: I can hardly believe that, Baldur. And I think you’re foolish to keep it to yourself. Claim your power! Even if you can never be mine, I want you to be happy.

BALDUR: Much obliged, yer highness. Maybe it is time I – did somethin’ about it!

CHANGE OF SCENE: Oake’s astonished face above his eye-catching shirtless torso.

OAKE: Gosh, Baldur – that was the most amazing oriental massage technique I’ve ever experienced.

BALDUR: You – you liked it, then, Oake?

OAKE: Terrific. Where’d you pick it up?

BALDUR: In the Orient, Oake. It’s a real ancient tradition in some of them countries. So mysterious you’re not supposed to dare to speak it’s name. Supposed to be great for – um – the lower chakras.

OAKE (rubbing his rump): I’ll say!

BALDUR: Well, Oake – you ever want another massage like that, you just call me now, y’hear?

CHANGE OF SCENE: The humble 14-room hovel of Inca wisewoman Orchidia Brujez,, back behind the yurt. Orchidia, every inch the unprepossessing peasant despite a majestic six-inch high hairdo, serves caviar, yerba maté and sautéed quinhoa to Agate, who reclines on a sofa made from a complete stuffed llama – Peruvian, not Tibetan.

AGATE: Actually, Orchidia darling, I didn’t come here to discuss my son Thorne at all. I have an – ah – intellectual interest in Inca magic. I was wondering if you could help me with a little project involving my nephew Baldur. Nothing nasty, of course. It’s more in the line of a practical joke.

ORCHIDIA: Please, Mrs! I am new to your country, a humble peasant. I do not understand all these conspiracies. I wish only to be left alone.

AGATE: But my dear, who on earth would want to hurt you? And how could they? Your papers are in order, aren’t they? Or were you waiting until you married Thorne to tidy things up with Immigration? And do they know you’re practicing herb magic out here – and possibly putting American herbalists out of work?

ORCHIDIA: Please, Mrs! I do nothing to hurt anybody – especially Thorne!

AGATE: But who spoke of hurting anyone? Nothing I’ve read about zombies mentioned pain. I just want a little spell that couldn’t be traced to me – that’s all I ask. Is it so very much?

ORCHIDIA: But, Mrs. – I no dabble in the evil arts! I am a good witch!

AGATE: Well, we all like to be proud of what we do, Orchidia. I’m sure I only have the best intentions at heart. Baldur simply wouldn’t be happy in Graustark – Mistletoe’s much more his type. You just work that spell for me and everything will be all right. In fact, it would change my feelings entirely about having you for a daughter-in-law if I found you a responsive – ah – helpmate.

ORCHIDIA: But remember, Mrs. – everything we do come back to us threefold.

AGATE (with a silvery laugh): Three fold, Orchidia? I’m used to a considerably better return on my investments!

CHANGE OF SCENE: Enok’s study in the yurt, Oval Corners.

ENOK: Come in! Why, Baldur, my boy – what’s up?

BALDUR (in a deep, sepulchral voice, quite unlike his normal tone): Uncle Enok? I’ve come to ask for Mistletoe’s hand in marriage.

ENOK: Why, Baldur! This is so sudden. I thought you and Princess Olympia were an item.

BALDUR: I’ve come to ask for Mistletoe’s hand in marriage.

ENOK: Well, certainly, my boy. She’s an armful – but if anyone can tame her, I’m sure it will be you.

BALDUR: Thank-you very much, sir.

ENOK: Baldur, you’re not ill, are you? Your voice sounds funny.

BALDUR: I’m fine thanks.

ENOK: And your movements are all jerky and bumpy.

BALDUR: I’m fine thanks.

ENOK: You’ll have to be in better shape to dance at your own wedding.

BALDUR: I’m fine thanks.

ENOK: Have you thought about a date yet? Or does Mistletoe just want to spend some time being engaged? Girls are silly about these things. The glitter attracts them. The ritual. Scattering sugar over the couple. Burning sage above the bridal bed. Feathers in the hair. Carried off on a rampaging steed while the bride’s relatives hurl javelins. Well, we all have to go through it, my boy. Ritual is an important part of life, even in these little personal moments.

BALDUR: I’m fine, thanks.

ENOK: I can’t wait to see your aunt’s face when she hears the news!

CHANGE OF SCENE: A Truckstop. Roar of 18-wheelers gunning engines.

TRUCKER: We-yell, thanks, old woman. Last time you read my cards you picked out every state trooper between here and El Paso.

GRANNY SMITH (a scruffy gypsy woman, prematurely old): Don’t mention it, sonny. Just remember old Granny Smith next time you’re in a healing circle. My rheumatics have been acting up something fierce. Where you bound for this time, by the way?

TRUCKER: The Hawkhauser place in Oval Corners, Granny. Their nephew Baldur is gettin’ married.

GRANNY (to herself): Baldur! My own Baldur! Married – and me not there! (aloud) Hoist me up, sonny! No wedding’s complete without a gypsy fortune teller!

CHANGE OF SCENE: Gala reception at the yurt. Bauble, in a hooded blue silk robe (Carolina Herrera) and star sapphires in the form of Isis, addresses her major d’omo, Little Dog Who Runs In The Night, who wears full dress regalia of a Plains Indian chief.

BAUBLE: How are things going, Little Dog Who Runs In the Forest? Have all the guests been served their kvass?

LITTLE DOG: Ugh, ma’m. And the quartet of musicians has arrived.

BAUBLE: Oh, good. Have them set up their drums and gongs over there near the canopy. I hope they don’t drown out Bede.

LITTLE DOG: So mote it be, ma’m. (Exit)

BAUBLE: Why, Deirdre Whitesavage! What are you doing here? I thought you loathed these shrill social occasions.

DEIRDRE: Not at all, Mrs. H. I had Oake sneak me in, sub rosa. I hope that’s all right? I’m fascinated by the ways old rituals have lingered and adapted themselves to civilized times. What are the happy couple’s immediate future plans?

BAUBLE: Well, they’re spending the wedding night here – in a thrice-plowed field in the backyard. We spent last night slinging mud and insults at the bride, and today she sat in a sweat lodge for three hours for further purification. And tomorrow, it’s off to the Orinoco for the snake-hunting season!

DEIRDRE: Fascinating. Oh, and by the way, I do hope you won’t mind, I brought along a colleague of mine – Hiram T. Berdache, visiting professor of Applied Mythology at the University of Nineveh.

BAUBLE: Professor Berdache! I’m overwhelmed. I loved your PBS mini-series: Hero With a Thousand Faces and Fourteen Shades of Lip Gloss. Is this a Native American cross-gendered beaded costume you’re wearing?

BERDACHE: Too kind, Mrs. Hawkhauser. Actually, it’s a Balenciaga tea gown. I had the shoulders widened and a few flounces added to the hem. But we mustn’t distract you – this is the priest, I think?

BAUBLE: Yes, my brother, Bede. What is it, dear?

BEDE: Bauble, something’s come up and I hope you can handle it, because I can’t. It’s that da – the bride, I mean.

BAUBLE: Mistletoe? Oh, dear. What now?

BEDE (gravely): She says she hates the traditional wedding service I got from a Mad Arab when I was vicar of Arkham, Massachusetts. Says it’s too sentimental. She wants to read Baldur something of her own composition instead – a binding spell. It’s most irregular.

BERDACHE: Bless my trines, it’s Bede Upshaw! How long has it been?

BEDE: Hy Berdache! You used to play wide receiver for Miskatonic! How long has it been? I haven’t seen you since the night we spent howling at the moon on flying ointment after the Homecoming Game! Whatcha been up to, big fella? Still a snappy dresser, I see.

(But before the conversation can continue, a dimbek strikes up the Wedding March (Wagner’s) and Mistletoe enters the room, exquisitely veiled, carrying a bouquet of St. John’s Wort and crowned with a wreath of verbena, a dab of chicken’s blood on her deceptively innocent brow. The others all take their places – Baldur, looking wooden, wears silk cowboy shirt and bolo tie, everyone else formal, Agate looks on cynically, Princess Olympia, in mauve with a diamond and pearl tiara, is barely able to restrain sobs. Orchidia in terror, shakes some white powder out of a hound’s tooth amulet in back of the altar. Behind her, through the french doors in the billiard room, the ragged figure of Granny Smith appears, eyes wide at the grandeur of it all.

Bede clears his throat and opens his Book of Shadows to the appropriate page, and Mistletoe removes her veil to hear better, only to be met by –)

A BLOOD-CURDLING SHRIEK

GRANNY SMITH: Mistletoe! My daughter! Stop! (She totters into the yurt.)

ENOK: Who is this woman?

GRANNY: Enok, don’t you recognize me? I’m Bauble’s sister, Bangle! And not only am I Mistletoe’s mother by you, I’m also Baldur’s mother by Bede!

A shocked silence is broken by

OAKE: You must be very proud to see both your children married the same day.

AGATE: Shove that floozy out the window and get on with it!

BEDE: I’m afraid that’s out of the question. There are laws against incest in this state. Of course, if you can get a change of venue to Melanesia or Ancient Egypt –

MISTLETOE: But I’ve got to marry Baldur – I’ve got to! (Tearful but elegant, trailed by several train-bearers and ushers, she flees the room.)

AGATE: Well, just so you won’t be deprived of a wedding, folks, I may as well tell you now – I’m going to marry Sinister Wormwood! Open that Book, padre, and let’s hop a few broomsticks.

BEDE: I’m afraid not.

AGATE: What’s the matter this time?

BEDE: Well, in your case, the groom appears not to be here. Of course, I could marry you by proxy if you could get somebody to channel him.

(The camera drifts through the turbulent crowd to an alcove where a shadowy figure is glued to a phone)

MIRABELLA DICTU: Hello, sweetheart. Get me rewrite. Mac? Mirabella Dictu here, out at the Hawkhauser place. Don’t ask any questions, just kill the society page. What? What’s that? Yeah, she’s here. Ya don’t say? I’ll break the news to her, all right. This’ll be an exclusive.

(Camera pans back to the altar, Agate and Bauble fighting for custody of the bridal bouquet, as Mirabella marches between them and gongs a silver salver to get attention.)

MIRABELLA: Quiet everybody! This is Mirabella Dictu from Witchcrap magazine, and I’ve just received astounding news over the astral wire services. Princess Olympia – your highness – the monarchy of Graustark has just been overthrown by a Christian Fundamentalist Republic.

(Cries of horror on all sides.)

OLYMPIA: Don’t worry about me, everyone. This is not entirely unexpected and doesn’t find me entirely unprepared. (She strips off her gown and is found to be wearing fatigues and carrying an uzi. She keeps her tiara on, though.) From now on, no more caviar and champagne for me. Farewell, all of you – you’ve been swell. Good-bye, Baldur. Perhaps some other time – in another life, perhaps – we can be – all we haven’t been here!

BALDUR: I’m fine, thanks.

OLYMPIA: And now I’m off to save my country from the Fundamentalist barbarians! (Uzi on shoulder, and to the strains of martial music – Mozart’s Non piú andrai perhaps – she marches out.)

Tune in again next time for another spell-binding episode of ALL MY AVATARS: The Pagan Soap Opera.

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