Th’ Vapur Ower th’ Scottish Moors

Characters:

• Cyrus Rueben Batterbee

• Clementine Isla Batterbee

• Crouton Lainie Batterbee

• Ambrose Louise Ettie

• Verne Gus Flint

*Verne: Sits on a bar stood alongside Cyrus*

*Cyrus: Sits on a bar stood alongside Verne* 

*Clementine: Leans on the bar wall*

*Crouton: Hugs legs, rocking underneath the bar table* 

*Ambrose: is not yet in the scene*

Verne: I’ve got thes internal gift. It’s th' twitch in mah beak, th' sudden magnetic force 'at locks me knees together an' th' ache in me heed 'at tells me whenever a warship is comin' in. A' fowk else knows by th' purr ay th' propellers an' th' sudden crackin' ay metal as th' bottom opens up an' let’s oot th' bamb. Fowk aye ask me; “What’s Verne’s Verdict?” Ah teel em what’s comin' an' they say mah senses an' th' buzzin' blimps waur jist coincidences. Coincidental actions 'at jist happen tae hae happened a scuttle times priur, ay coorse. They dae believe when th' bamb draps, I’m sure. Ah don’t stick aroond tae fin' it. Honestly, I’m wabbit ay tis feelin', these ships ur comin' fur every city oan th' map, it seems. Auld mammy Auld Reekie seems tae be sendin' those flyin' clootie kettles a' place tat isn’t filled wi' picts loch Lothian. Reit noo I’m in Glasgee. Ah, a prood gael, am reduced tae scamperin' aw ben th' Britons in Strathclyde in hiner 'at ance th' Duke ay Montrose, James Graham, an' Laird Succoth, Sairrr Archibald Campbeel, ur dain wi' those heelain islands, they’ll continue their northern campaign tae Grampian an' I’ll be snug in Strathclyde fur lae ay mah still-beaked, free-kneed, clear-headed life.
I’ve got this internal gift. It’s the twitch in my nose, the sudden magnetic force that locks me knees together and the ache in my head that tells me whenever a warship is coming in. Everyone else knows by the purr of the propellers and the sudden cracking of metal as the bottom opens up and lets out the bomb. People always ask me; “What’s Verne’s Verdict?” I tell em what’s coming and they say my feelings and the buzzing blimps were just coincidences. Coincidental actions that just happen to have happened six times prior, of course. They believe when the bomb drops, I’m sure. I don’t stick around to find out. Honestly, I’m tired of this feeling, these ships are coming for every city on the map it seems. Old mother Edinburgh seems to be sending those flying cloth kettles everywhere tat isn’t filled with picts like Lothian. Right now I’m in Glasgow. I, a proud Gael, am reduced to scampering all through the Britons in Strathclyde in hope that once the Duke of Montrose, James Graham, and Lord Succoth, Sir Archibald Campbell, are done with those highland islands, they’ll continue their northern campaign to Grampian and I’ll be snug in Strathclyde for the rest of my still nosed, free-kneed, clear-headed life.

Cyrus: That’s quite th' story, sairrr. Ah won’t doobt it, besides, I’ve got a fowk looney enaw tae come wit me hae ye ever got yer twitchy-nosed, clampy-kneed, achy-headed sickness tae ye. Nae parents tie us doon, ye see.
That’s quite the story, sir. I won’t doubt it, besides, I’ve got a family looney enough to come wit me have you ever got your twitchy-nosed, clampy-kneed, achy-headed sickness to ya. No parents tie us down, you see.

Verne: Aren’t ye a wee yoong tae be at th' bar 'en, laddy? Is 'at a Jack Daniels in yer hain? Is 'at yer sister gurglin' Auld Norway?
Aren’t you a little young to be at the bar then, laddy? Is that a Jack Daniels in your hand? Is that your sister gurgling Old Norway?

Cyrus: Och aye, we ur. It’s alrecht, nae harm, nae fool, jist a wee bit ay kergo.
Yes, we are. It’s alright, no harm, no foul, just a little bit of alcohol.

Verne: Ah suppose it’s braw. Sae, whit kin' ay things dae ye dae haur in Glasgee?
I suppose it’s fine. So, what kind of things do you do here in Glasgow?

Cyrus: Normally, fowk fa hae jist gotten haur gang tae th' pawnshop an' trade their gadgets fur some skitin' bunsens. Lots ay inventors come haur. There’s also th' steam- train. A lot ay toorists tak' it fur a ride, provided they can gie their hans oan a tickit. Normally, people who have just gotten here go to the pawnshop and trade their gadgets for some drinking money. Lots of inventors come here. There’s also the steam-train. A lot of tourists take it for a ride, provided they can get their hands on a ticket.

Verne: Ah see. Whit kin' ay inventors come haur? As in, whit ur they efter?
I see. What kind of inventors come here? As in, what are they after?

Cyrus: It’s a stoatin city fur findin' aw sort ay mad-hatters wi' their minds filled wi' mercury, folk daein' hack-jobs, radge men makin' bunsens cuttin' gear wi' hobs, back alley cracked-cogs makin' black-markit undergroond roads wi' their tarmac, wisecracks wi' knapsacks takin' sidetracks, th' trail-robin' whack-jobs, an' th' tense gents tryin' tae fallback an' hijack th' system tae extend their greenback oan th' racetrack. These ur fowk fa need tae play grottie tae gie their li'es back together. Most fowk haur ur in shambles. That’s wa thes bar is a' th' gang.
It’s a great city for finding all sort of mad-hatters with their minds filled with mercury, folk doing hack-jobs, mad men making money cutting gear with hobs, back alley cracked-cogs making black-market underground roads with their tarmac, wisecracks with knapsacks taking sidetracks, the trail-robing whack-jobs, and the tense gents trying to fallback and hijack the system to extend their greenback on the racetrack. These are people who need to play dirty to get their lives back together. Most people here are in shambles. That’s why this bar is popular.

Verne: Ah expect naethin' less frae th' Brits.
I expect nothing less from the British.

Cyrus: It is an impressife empire, ye main admit. Thocht th' colonists slipped awa', they’ve still got a stronghauld oan th' warld. Suin th' pesky French ur dain fur.
It is an impressive empire, you must admit. Though the colonists slipped away, they’ve still got a stronghold on the world. Soon the pesky French are done for.

Verne: 'At is if th' Duke an' Laird ay Auld Reekie gonnae-no wi' their bambs. Thes internal war ower th' coontry has tae gonnae-no.
That is if the Duke and Lord of Edinburgh stop with their bombs. This internal war over the country has to stop.

Crouton: Whispers: Why are they all Scottish? We’re in a classroom. Bambs, hatters? What are they talking about? What’s wrong with these people?

*Crouton: Continually mutters to self about being trapped in a play, being fed lines from a script, and tosses around the phrase ‘poor performance’*

Verne: That’s a a bampot a body, innit?
That’s a crazy one, isn’t it?

Cyrus: That’s mah other, yoonger sister, Crooton. She’s a bit odd, och aye. we’ve aw got c’s in uir names. Uir mammy did it tae commemorate uir Stoatin Aunt Cecile. I’m Cyrus, there’s Crooton, an' mah older sister is named Clementine.
That’s my other, younger sister, Crouton. She’s a bit odd, yes. We’ve all got c’s in our names. Our mother did it to commemorate our Great Aunt Cecile. I’m Cyrus, there’s Crouton, and my older sister is named Clementine.

*Clementine: Drunkenly raises a hand in acknowledgement*

Clementine: Who’s 'at?
Who’s that?

Cyrus: Thes haur is Verne. He’s uir private bamb-sniffin' dug. As suin as ye see heem twitchin', we’re aff tae Borders whaur th' Angles ur.
This here is Verne. He’s our private bomb-sniffing dog. As soon as you see him twitching, we’re off to Borders where the Angles are.

*Clementine: Hiccups*

Clementine: Vern? Dug, is he?
Verne? Dog, is he?

Verne: Dug? I’m nobody’s dug. Swatch, i’ll teel ye if there’s somethin' comin', loon, but don’t hink 'at i’m yer anythin’. Bide, what’s 'at soond?
Dog? I’m nobody’s dog. Look, I’ll tell you if there’s something coming, boy, but don’t think that I’m your anything. Wait, what’s that sound?

*Ambrose: Bursts in*

Ambrose: A bamb! Ah saw th' aircraft in th' lift, jusnoo! It was huge!
A bomb! I saw the aircraft in the sky, just now! It was huge!

Verne: Ah hink yer bums' hingin' it th' windae, lassie.
I think you’re lying, miss.

Ambrose: Nae, it’s true! I’m nae kiddin', ah swear!
No, it’s true! I’m not kidding, I swear!

Cyrus: Anither a bampot a body. Thes toon is filled wi' them, sae i’d watch yer back, maister.
Another crazy one. This town is filled with them, so I’d watch your back, mister.

Verne: Yoo’re reit, but i’m gonnae hae a look-see ootwith. whaur is th' bamber, lass?
You’re right, but I’m going to have a look-see outside. Where is the bomber, mam?

Ambrose: Nae lass, thenk ye kindly. I’m named ambrose, sae caa me th' likeness. An' th' bamber is jist ootwith th' windae, swatch at it!
No mam, thank you kindly. I’m named Ambrose, so call me the likeness. And the bamber is just outside the window, look at it!

*Ambrose: Points out window*

Verne: I’ll gie 'er a chance, Ah ken th' other side ay bein' a loon yammerin' abit a bamb.
I’ll give her a chance, I know the other side of being a loon yammering about a bomb.

*Verne: Goes to look out window*

Verne: Whit dae ye pure techt? There’s naethin' thaur.
What do you mean? There’s nothing there.

Cyrus: Yit anither hen in mah life wi' tay much swally in their hans.
Yet another woman in my life with too much beer in their hands.

Clementine: Thaur is ne'er tay much... *hicc* When it comes tae swally. There’s never too much... *hicc* When it comes to beer.

Cyrus: Ever heard ay bluid poisonin'?
Ever heard of blood poisoning?

Clementine: Weel yoo’re skitin', aren’t ye?
Well you’re drinking, aren’t you?

Cyrus: Och aye, I’m sippin' it. That’s a whole lot different than guzzlin' it loch those hulkin' inner-city engines guzzle doon oil.
Yes, I’m sipping it. That’s a whole lot different than guzzling it like those hulking inner- city engines guzzle down oil.

Verne: Alrecht, miss, I’m afraid yoo’re gonnae hae tae settle doon, yoo’re scarin' a' fowk.
Alright, miss, I’m afraid you’re going to have to settle down, you’re scaring everyone.

Ambrose: Yoo’re reit, it’s tay much. Jist anither illusion, but ah can’t gonnae-no havin' them. Mah son was taken by a bamb while he was up in th' highlands. I’m aye paranoid, aye.
You’re right, it’s too much. Just another illusion, but I can’t stop having them. My son was taken by a bomb while he was up in the highlands. I’m always paranoid, always.

Verne: Don’t fash yerse, Ambr, Ah can teel ye if there’s ever a bamb.
Don’t worry, Ambr, I can tell you if there’s ever a bomb.

Ambrose: Hoo can ye dae 'at?
How can you do that?

Cyrus: He says 'at he’s got twitches an' his beak when th' bamb comes, jist loch a body ay those bamb-dugs. Mebbe it’s somethin' genetic.
He says that he’s got twitches and his nose when the bomb comes, just like one of those bomb-dogs. Maybe it’s something genetic.

Verne: Ur ye implyin' 'at I’ve got hoond in mah bluid? Mah kin aren’t keen tae bestiality, I’ll hae ye ken!
Are you implying that I’ve got hound in my blood? My kin aren’t keen to bestiality, I’ll have you know!

Cyrus: Ah don’t ken, it soonds loch a logical theory tae me.
I don’t know, it sounds like a logical theory to me.

Clemetine: Whit if it’s magic. It coods be magic. Thes a body time, ah foond a possessed cabre an' it whacked me wi' its branch. Anither time ah foond thes auld cheil jiggin in circles roon an' roon again doon in an auld boiler, a gaskit feel an' th' fram popped aff. Ah swear it was a fairy rin'.
What if it’s magic. It could be magic. This one time, I found a possessed tree and it whacked me with its branch. Another time I found this old man dancing in circles round and round again down in an old boiler, a gasket fell and the frame popped off. I swear it was a fairy ring.

Ambrose: Yoo’re a fairy, 'en, Verne?
You’re a fairy, then, Verne?

Verne: Ah am most certainly nae a fairy.
I am most certainly not a fairy.

Cyrus: Verne, whit ur ye gonnae dae haur? Dae ye e'en hae a job besides bamb- sniffin'?
Verne, what are you going to do here? Do you even have a job besides bomb-sniffing?

Verne: Ah am nae a bamb-sniffer, nur a dug, thenk ye. I’m a mechanic an' knowin' 'at there’s a lot ay inventors haur, Ah can deduce 'at they micht need their steamed machines fixed up. Ah ken th' reit internal temp, external. I’ve got th' workings weel enaw an' ah can make mah livin' as an assistant ur a one-timer willin' tae tak' onie job 'at comes mah way, some braw an' some 'at lae me oil-soaked, grime-streaked an' clase pressed an' wrinkled frae loongin' aroond by th' soot-clogged edges ay th' gears. Whit abit ye, cyrus?
I am not a bomb-sniffer, nor a dog, thank you. I’m a mechanic and knowing that there’s a lot of inventors here, I can deduce that they might need their steamed machines fixed up. I know the right internal temp, external. I’ve got the workings well enough and I can make my living as an assistant or a one-timer willing to take any job that comes my way, some fine and some that leave me oil-soaked, grime-streaked and clothes pressed and wrinkled from lounging around by the soot-clogged edges of the gears. What about you, Cyrus?

Cyrus: Bartender, I’ll gie it th' braw bucky an' th' occasional odd-margarita 'at leaves me drooched in olive-oil an' nose-wrinkled. Whit is it, th' grottie olife? Clementine will help me wi' business an' Crooton, well...
Bartender, I’ll give out the fine wine and the occasional odd-margarita that leaves me soaked in olive-oil and nose-wrinkled. What is it, the dirty olive? Clementine will help me with business and Crouton, well...

Crouton: Life is a lie, the time-frame is an illusion and the world is a stage. And Scotland is the wrong country, I mean, your accents are terrible!

Cyrus: She’ll... become a preacher. They’re guid fur blabbin' pish, jist loch faither tells me. Ur he did, at leest.
She’ll... become a preacher. They’re good for blabbing nonsense, just like father tells me. Or he did, at least.

Verne: Don’t ye want tae be mair than a bartender, ah pure techt, if th' bambs don’t rain doon frae th' north?
Don’t you want to be more than a bartender, I mean, if the bombs don’t rain down from the north?

Cyrus: Nae pure, Ah loch th' bar. It’s foo ay messed-up whack jobs an' bamb-sniffin' dugs. Sam hin', those, pure.
Not really, I like the bar. It’s full of messed-up whack jobs and bomb-sniffing dogs. Same thing, those, really.

Verne: Sam hin'? I’m nae a messed-up whack-job!
Same thing? I’m not a messed-up whack-job!

Cyrus: I’m sorry, but I’ll believe ye when ye knees join together an' a steamin' bamber blimp strolls alang, I’ll acknowledge ye waur reit, provided I’m nae deid. Thocht, It’s better tae be alife an' a bampot than deid an' reit.
I’m sorry, but I’ll believe you when you knees join together and a steaming bomber blimp strolls along, I’ll acknowledge you were right, provided I’m not dead. Though, it’s better to be alive and crazy than dead and right.

Clementine: Ye ken, Ah hink mah heed doesn’t agree wi' me. It’s achin' sae much it micht explode, jist loch a bamb.
You know, I think my head doesn’t agree with me. It’s aching so much it might explode, just like a bomb.

Cyrus: Weel, It’s nae loch ye hud a huir uv a braw a body atop yer neck tae begin wi'. Magic, indeed...
Well, it’s not like you had a very good one atop your neck to begin with. Magic, indeed...

Ambrose: Weel, Ah don’t ken if yoo’re a fairy ur a magic mechanic, but if a blimp is comin', yoo’ve got tae rin intae th' plaza ay Glasgee an' yeel loch a lunatic.
Well, I don’t know if you’re a fairy or a magic mechanic, but if a blimp is coming, you’ve got to run into the plaza of Glasgow and yell like a lunatic.

Verne: Ah suppose ah coods, fur yer sake, lass, ah pure techt, Ambrose.
I suppose I could, for your sake, miss, I mean, Ambrose.

Ambrose: Sairrr, they main caa ye a bampot, these kids main doobt ye, but it takes a bampot tae ken a bampot an' Ah don’t see onie ay myself in ye, besides hiner. Mah son was tint, an' ah don’t ken abit me, myself, but ah shoods gang oan in his place, barnie th' barnie 'at life offers - against th' Duke an' Laird ay Edinburg!
Sir, they may call you crazy, these kids may doubt you, but it takes crazy to know crazy and I don’t see any of myself in you, besides hope. My son was lost, and I don’t know about me, myself, but I should go on in his place, fight the fight that life offers - against the Duke and Lord of Edinburg!

*Verne, Cyrus and Clementine: Raise their glass*

Together: Tae heel wi' th' Duke!
To hell with the Duke!