Thyestes’ Feast is a Greek myth in which, through the terrible trickery of his brother Atreus, Thyestes eats his two young sons, who have been murdered and cooked into a delicious stew. Many versions of the tale are known to have existed in ancient literature, although none but a late Roman version have survived.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Atreus, hereditary king of the state
Thyestes, brother of Atreus
Aerope, wife of Thyestes, formerly of Atreus
Cliopea, friend of Aerope, later high priestess
Staevinus, chief advisor to Thyestes
Polypanthus, son of Staevinus
Agamemnon, son of Atreus and Aerope
Anaxacractus, courtier
Monaphibia, wife of Anaxacractus
Calista, young woman, later the black-lipped sibyl
Pelops and Plianthus, young sons of Thyestes by Aerope
Chorus: Secret Service Men, Daughters of the Queen,
     Homeless Citizens, Rich Cronies
The Sun/Messenger

PROLOGUE

THE SUN: Oh don’t we all hate faux. Faux not
Lest you be fooled. Faux tows us unto
Shadows dark in musty climes
Where artsy folk whine and opine
Of times gone by. You’d banish clutter.
Simple, modern, clean technicians
You’d much prefer a play with issues:
Immigrants with stolen cats, or children
Of satanic cults, deadly viral
Mutant spores on bathroom doors
The do’s and don’t’s of homosexual
Marriage oaths. Issues, issues
On and on. It’s all important.
But a play, I’ve always thought, should rise
Somehow above the evening news.
This tale is from one thousand, maybe
Two or three, BC and yet
I get a chill and can’t help feel
It jells around our current hells.
Realize - the curse upon the house
Of Atreus was a pillar of the
Ancient world. They all wrote plays
About it. Aeschylus and Sophocles
Euripides and not just plays, but trilogies.
Yet, they’ve all, but one, been lost.
So here’s a version, new and simple
Clean and modern, of the ancient
Tale, Thyestes’ Feast, it’s called, or
Atreus: The Crime. I play the sun.
I mean the Sun, high in the sky.
The ancients, you will see, believed
Before the crime of Atreus, that I
Was free to wander in the sky - a
Celestial child at play who slipped
Each night into my cloud-puff bed.
I catered, they believed, to human need.
Attuned to every sprouting seed and
Sunburned neck, to smiles and frowns
To ups and downs, I blush to think
How sweet I was before the . . . but there.
No more. It’s all explained, it’s all
Contained within the cosmic, tragic
Morbid, magic, planet-bending
Not exactly appetizing tale
Of Atreus and Thyestes.

ACT ONE
SCENE ONE: Outside the palace. Enter Chorus of Secret Service Men.

CHORUS: Before
The tribe would always camp in a circle.
A line bisected the circle, you know,
A diameter, slanting across exactly
Dividing in two the one people;
The right the Sky Side, the left the Earth
Sea, mud, swamp, forest-
Filled-with-darting-game side. Well
One side was more complicated
Always. But divided into
Clans was each side. Each had many
Names. The Boar and Bear, the Elk
And Rabbit, Spider, Ibis, Ash Tree
Oh, you know that sort of thing.
We can’t remember all the names
That was before. Now the circle’s
Gone. Mighty houses of stone
Villas, set in parks, with hangings
Priceless woven scenes with gold
And purple fluttering in reception
Rooms with vaulted ceilings filled
With chattering diplomats plucking sweets
From beaten copper trays replace the
Thatch and mud-brick huts. The feast will
Soon begin. Look sharp. We are the
Secret Service. Whomsoever
Is in power we protect.
Not ours to judge. Tomorrow one side
Today the other. Two brothers
Vie to rule here: Atreus and
Thyestes. From the Earth-side comes
Thyestes, handsome, blond, beloved.
He rules now. Under house arrest
Is Atreus, proper, Sky-side, dark
Relentless. You’ll see. Just wait. He’ll strike
Could be any day. You’ll see.

YOUNG GUARD: I don’t understand. You say
They’re brothers. But from different sides.
How’s that?

CHORUS: Before, I said. Before
Was long ago. So long the ancient
Circle can’t be traced. The city
Houses many tribes today.
Man against man they pit themselves: harsh
Unyielding, unforgiving. The clear-drawn line
Cannot be traced that once divided
Sky-side, Earth-side. Still the blood
Remembers. The two sides coalesce.
The line becomes a crack dividing
Not the city but the heart.
Families are torn apart.
Like games with balls two sides form up
And violence, in time, erupts.
(Chorus exits. Enter Aerope and Cliopea.)

AEROPE: I can’t abide these crowds. A breath
Of air. Come with me, Cliopea.

CLIOPEA: You shouldn’t leave the court, you know
You are the queen. Your duties lie in
Slender woven ties you make from
This one here to that one there
A nod, a smile, a fact remembered
A fragile web.

AEROPE: My hair is wrong.
Something’s crawling on me.

CLIOPEA: You are
The kind and graceful princess queen
Your hair is hair and you are you
Aerope. Remember? Born to rigid
Wealth. Promised early to the
Heir presumptive Atreus, the King.
You wore his crown, then kicked him down.
You are a walking revolution.

AEROPE: I am corrupted, soiled and polluted.

CLIOPEA: Not that again. Sit here. I’ll move
This pin and rearrange the coil.
At twelve, the bride of Atreus, you watched
His crimes unfold. The day he took
The Golden Ram, the Magic Ram
The Gods’ untiring Gift: The Ram
In pasture waited for the heir
To come with gleaming sickle, bent
It’s neck prepared to die for State
And City, knowing its role. The blood
Poured out to feed the Goddess would
Ensure a future free from evil,
The Fleece of Gold hung from the life-tree
Glowing wealth for every member
Of our State. The stern instructions
Of the God inscribed in stone
Were heritage. In cradle, from your nurse’s lips
You heard the promise: Blood for the Goddess.
Eternal Golden Wool for all,
Over and over. "The Blood. The Wool."
Went the mantra. You knew it. You know it.
But on that day, Atreus took
No course of duty. Crimes he preferred.
With silent hands the Ram he strangled.
No Blood he poured. No Wool he shared.
But hoarded in an oaken chest
Hidden, private, secret, guarded
He kept the future and the wealth
Of all the State and people hostage
To his whims. He bullied you
Who served him. Errand girl. Aristocrat. You kept
The key and scurried to the chest
At his request to gather Gold
And drops of Blood, his wealth, his health
Alone important. The people starved.
They came in grim application bowing
Weeping - hoping for a crumb.
Eyebrows raised at each request
He parsed them only just enough
To live. He manufactured scarcity.
He saw the Golden Wool as finite
Limited, rare, against the stern
Instruction of the God . . .

AEROPE: He never
Trusted in the God. He couldn’t
Heed the stern instruction. He was
Blind to life in all it’s gushing
Surplus.

CLIOPEA: Was it then Thyestes
In dark passageways awaited your coming?
Brushed your back with feather fingers
Breathed his youth-breath hot on your neck
His tawny chest your tear-stained pillow
"Love and duty‚" he preached; beseeched
"Release the key and come with me
Free the people. Free yourself."

AEROPE: Not a moment too soon. Another year, another month

CLIOPEA: Another day, another hour you would have hardened

AEROPE: Hardened.
Like the skulls of children, soft, unformed
My mind was open. Atreus worked
As at a lump of clay. "Scarcity
Must be maintained‚" he’d say, "without it
Chaos rules the people’s way
Debauched and reckless, lazy, rude
And proud. Then wealth is worthless. Without
Poverty to gild it, opulence is dirt."

CLIOPEA: The hardened you would never stoop
To pet a cat, but soft the you
Who went that night alone to give
Your husband’s brother all he asked
The key, the chest, the Golden Ram
Your hand, your heart, your body. Future
Plans were mute. "Whoever holds
The Golden Ram is King‚" the rule goes.
"The ten long years of Atreus‚ reign
You ended with a simple step
Fleeing the House of Atreus that night
Escaping enraptured from dark to light
Your footfalls were sure . . . "

AEROPE: Sure footfalls fail
As time wears on. The dark you fled
Returns to feed on what it fed.

(A Messenger enters.)

MESSENGER: My Lady Aerope, a letter’s
Come for you, an urgent message.

AEROPE: Oh God . . .

CLIOPEA: What’s this? She reads then faints.
What news could be so bad. Let me:
"My wife, before I dash your brain
To pieces on the rocks, I’ll strip
The skin from every inch, then pincers
Hot I’ll insert deep." Oh God.
Destroy this filth. Delete. Forget.
Be gone and never importune
My lady with such trash again.

(Messenger exits.)

AEROPE: How come these men to monger, in their
Minds, atrocity? What mechanical
Device of nature is served by torture?
And how came I to be the empath?
I hear their thoughts before they say them.
I feel their deeds before they do them.
I am guarded, royal, followed yet
Letters from this madman reach me.
Sleeping, waking, I am poisoned
By his dreams. We are connected.
I feel the swelling of his plans
As clearly as a baby’s kick
That pounds the staggered womb and rages
Down the path to birth.

CLIOPEA: We all know
That brooding in his house the tyrant
Atreus invents unholy, graphic
Torments for his enemies. Aerope
Let not this missive make you mope.
Some people pull the wings off butterflies
And others don’t. That’s life. Buck up.
Be like the sun who daily toils
As weeding in a garden. He pulls
The clouds from under his chariot wheels
To keep his warming rays revealed
On field and face and neck. When rain
We need he artfully arranges
Refreshing showers, downpours, storms
In stunning patterns, wrenching dramas
In the sky. But when we quail
Or hearts grow dark, he darts to open
Sky and rainbows us with love.
He cares for us as you should care
For you. Come, cast aside this shroud
That dims your beauty. You were twelve
When Atreus espoused you, twenty-two
When you became Thyestes’ Queen
Now ten years later, thirty-two
Respected mother. Stand tall and stride
Into this banquet hall with pride.SCENE TWO: Throne Tableau: two thrones side by side. Behind them, on a dais, stands a tree, from which the Golden Ram hangs. Its eyes glow, its gold wool grows long, flowing over into a large basket under the tree. Enter the Messenger.

MESSENGER: Men and Women of the City
I present the famed battalion
Plucked from every region, graceful
Bright, high-minded, gentle, fierce
The Daughters of the Queen. Behold!

(Enter The Daughters of the Queen.)

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE QUEEN:
Oh Golden Ram, oh Golden Ram
We come to you. We come to you.
Alive in death, in death alive
We take your wool. It grows again.
We spend it out. It springs anew.
We comb the fleece and spin the thread
Eternal Golden Wool for all
Flowing forever no matter with only
One caution - that we must continue to harvest.
Harvest and spin, harvest and spin
And give unto each one his share. Golden Ram!

A DAUGHTER: Look sisters, how the basket is full.
When only this morning we emptied it. Wonderful.

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE QUEEN:
Be not amazed.
The stern instruction
Of the God has been fulfilled
Except the blood that should have fed
The Goddess never flowed into
The Earth, as should have been. I fear
Each day will bring the judgment of
The bargain unfulfilled. I tremble
To think of the evil poised to devour us.
Beseech the future to unfold
In justice!

MESSENGER: Lovely Daughters, sink not
Into gloom. The King approaches
And would speak. Arise with joy!

(Enter Thyestes with Aerope, flanked by Cliopea and Staevinus. The Chorus of Secret Service Men file in behind them. Thyestes and Aerope sit on the thrones.)

THYESTES: My people, Royal counselors
Regional chiefs and envoys, foreign
Diplomats and every noble member
Of our State; I here salute you.
Listen to what I have to say.
These modern times bring complications
Unimagined to our forebears
You find the leeks and lambchops, bread
And linen, firewood and water
In your houses every day
You walk through cities paved with marble
Fountains, music, restaurants and instant
Transportation await you
At every turn. This is no accident.
For every leek, a thousand minds
Have labored to unravel problems
Locusts, soldiers, hail stones, drought
And fierce diseases militate
Against our lives. We are ingenious.
We work together, pool our talents
To support a world our tribal kin
Could only dream of in their squalid
Huts. Don’t be misled. We need
Each other. A small solution may
Have cost a lifetime. Now it’s ours.
We can’t be bothered to imagine
That a problem will arise
For which we have no instant cure.
But it will. It has. No human
Culture ever has been able to
Unravel why there’s wealth for some
And none for others. Like a curse
It sits upon our history brooding
Seething, waiting to erupt
A dread volcano doomed to blow.
We know. We know. But how to appease it?
To every member of our State
I’ve given wealth. The Golden Wool
Is daily doled to each and every
Such that want and hunger never
Haunt our days. The roads are safe
The cities clean, the schools are famous
The sciences and arts adorn
Our lives with beauty, wit and safety.
Every crumb of talent gets a
Chance to grow, perhaps enhance
The common lot. And yet! Complaints!
I hear complaints. It’s not enough
That you should live like kings. No! More!
You clamor for it. Greedy dogs
Insatiable demons that you are.
Take heed! Not only food and cities
Comfort, growth and culture - Liberty!
Does that ring a bell? All sexual
And moral freedom usually suppressed
I am sworn to guard. You can’t
Imagine what your lives would be
Without it. Yet you still complain.
So let’s hear it. Anaxacractus
Come before us now and state
Your case.

(Enter Anaxacractus and Monaphibia, dressed in frumpy splendor.)

ANAXACRACTUS: Oh powerful and great
Thyestes, be not displeased. It’s just that
We can’t get the plumbers to come to our house.
We call and wait. They don’t arrive.
A room is flooded. The floor is ruined.
They just don’t need to work. That’s it.
They have the Golden Wool. Why bother
To get up and ply their trade?
It’s true that we are wealthy, that our
Drafty mansion needs a staff
Of sixty just to run it. We’ll pay.
We’re glad to but they’ve got to come.
You must revoke the plumbers‚ rations.
Only poverty and fear will make them
Work. And they’re not the only ones. Listen
To my wife, Monaphibia.

MONAPHIBIA: Oh you can’t get anything done.
Oh my. Oh no. Not a thing.
Not one single thing is ever right.
I spend my days in constant pain
The pain of spotted tunics
The pain of late and smirking grooms
Of dusty floors and cracking ceilings
Broken windows, ruined cakes
Shoddy manners, tarnished plates
And, and, and oh just everything.

ANAXACRACTUS: Like, for example, the dinner tonight . . .

MONAPHIBIA: My point exactly.
Outside, the lamb
Was overcooked but inside raw
The lentils salty, the sauces bland
The leeks gritty, the wine sour
The service cheeky, the music loud
The apples mealy, the honey cloying
The cheeses smelly, the wheat cakes dry.

ANAXACRACTUS: And the room . . .

MONAPHBIA: Let me finish!
. . . was cluttered and dark.
Oh it’s too much to bear when I think
How it was back when Atreus reigned. Perfection
Is too faint a term to describe how expertly
Each detail was handled. The servants were silent
They knew that their lives were at stake. A wrong move
And off with their heads. I’m sorry. It works.
Nothing polishes silver better than blood.

ANAXACRACTUS: What she means is, there was more respect.
Don’t you, dear? And furthermore
There are too many rules now. Just try to get started
In business. You can’t. You can’t afford workers
They’re rich. You can’t fire workers. They have rights!
Rights! Who ever heard of rights?
In my day, we had alarm clocks, not rights. Back then
We had floggings and stonings and worse. Not rights!.
You had to look sharp then. Or else!

THYESTES: Yes . . . yes.
This argument is as old as time and just
As tired. It simply isn’t, wasn’t true.

ANAXACRACTUS: Well that may be,
I’m sure you’re right
My Lord, but sexual freedom can’t be
Tolerated. It’s too disgusting. Just . . .

MONAPHIBIA: Oh dear . . . oh no . . . you can’t imagine
How disgusting. They put things in places
I can’t say it. They smear . . . oh no . . . I can’t
I lay awake all night obsessing
On the architecture of perversion
Where beams should fit in grooves and bolts
Should snugly slide in holes that hold
The roof of life aloft, there’s a
Chaos of mismatchings such that
Soon the sky will fall. Oh no!
They must be killed or placed in camps
And girls must be protected, hidden
Veiled.

PETER WING HEALEY is founder and artistic director of The Mesopotamian
Opera Company, Inc. His previous works, including The Mummy, Jane
Heir, The Norma, Sunset Salome, The Spell of Tradition: A Benjamin Franklin Opera, Grand Central (a movie script), and The Death of Isadora (a solo dance concert), have been presented at P.S. 122, The Judson Church, The Vineyard Theater, H.E.R.E, The RAPP Arts Theater, Highways and The Los Angeles Theater Center.