The Empire: A Trilogy of Modern Epics

By Susanna Fournier, ted witzel, Leora Morris and Alison Wong

• The Empire Trilogy was produced by PARADIGM productions, with all three plays premiering in Toronto: The Philosopher’s Wife in December 2018 at the Aki Studio, The Scavenger’s Daughter in January 2019 at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre, and Four Sisters in June 2019 at the Luminato Festival.
• Susanna wrote The Empire ten years ago and has since seen the world attacked by a plague similar to the one she created in the Four Sisters.
• The Empire will feature illustrations by Sam Hudecki, who has done storyboard artwork for films such as Blade Runner 2049, Arrival, Sicario, Dune, and Enemy.
• The Empire exists in many forms besides theatrical productions and a book—it’s also a podcast, mini graphic novel, and interactive website (empiretrilogy.com). The book will feature exclusive new content that further connects the narratives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Playwrights Canada Press
• Release date: Mar 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9780369102775

Susanna Fournier

Susanna Fournier is an award-winning writer, theatre maker, actor, and educator based in Toronto. She is most known for writing texts for live performance, visioning interdisciplinary productions, and that gig she had in that X-Men movie. She is the artistic producer of PARADIGM productions, an indie company she started in 2013 to produce rowdy, joyous, contentious, and “impossible” theatrical works. Her work has played in Toronto, Dublin, London, Berlin, and Munich, and is known for its formal experimentation and wild spirit. She is currently the playwright-in-residence at Canadian Stage.

Book preview

Cover: The Empire by Susanna Fournier. A stylized logo of a swan inside a circle sits overtop of an apocalyptic landscape.

"You will be bound

to the rise and fall

of many empires

until the heart

is free."

The Birth of a New Age

North & South

Right now.

Feudalism.

In an unknown country in the North lies the estate of an exiled Philosopher. It’s a very large house on many acres of land. Some of the land is farmed by commoners, but most of it is made up of the wild Northern Woods.

A village lies half a day’s walk away. There you’ll find a small parish, a well, a butcher, a baker, a blacksmith, a place for the post to come and go, and a long winding road that eventually takes you back to the Royal City. From there, the road can take you further still, across miles of rocks, hills, and through woods and rivers until finally reaching the Lower Plains and Southern Border where the massacres have been raging for many years now.

But no one’s heading South these days.

Rather, countless Southerners are crossing rivers and spilling into the Lower Plains seeking refuge from the latest burnings: three monasteries, one temple, and a town all torched by horsemen bearing the crests of the White Flame, the holy symbol of the Fervour.

The Southern Priests, a Northern King

Can anyone escape a war over purity?

What began as a clash of interpretation quickly became a religious purge, as the entire Holy Order splintered into warring factions devouring the South. The Fervour, a faction dedicated to a return to the Holy Edicts, soon saw their crests flying high in Southern skies and so their eyes gazed northward . . .

For what do borders mean in a battle of beliefs?

As the purges in the South crept ever more northerly, advisors to the king urged His Majesty to initiate his own tribunals to dispel accusations of Northern secularism and moral decadence. The king, quite used to being accused of tolerance by the Fervour, got into the habit of assuring his critics and advisors alike that the North was upholding every aspect of the Holy Edicts. He often answered their concerns with a slight chuckle before brushing the whole matter off, The North need not worry itself over Southern troubles . . . 

But what are words against fire and blade?

And what about the endless flow of Southerners spilling into Northern lands fleeing the Fervour? Or the armed altercations erupting between local townsfolk and refugees? What about the Guard raids on refugee camps, or the growing concern over illegal migrant labour? What about the sixteen undocumented women who were just sentenced to hang for importing contraband goods across the Northern border to sell off-market? What about the children stealing food in the market stalls? What about the barns overflowing with families on the run? What about all this growing talk of the North’s independence?

Where does all that fit in a battle over god?

And what about that house—that estate of that exiled Philosopher—hidden deep in the farthest reaches of the Northern Woods?

That house where that man suspected of heresy is pushing his atheist agenda . . .

That house where that man (who the Fervour wants dead and who the king refuses to comment on) lives . . .

That house where that man (who used to be in charge of the crown prince’s education) possibly worships the devil . . .

That house that only keeps a cook and a maid that no one’s seen in months . . .

That house that no one goes to . . .

That house where a sister and a brother stand after days on the road, waiting to meet the man who disappeared before the whole world caught fire.

Colour photo: A woman in robes sits in a chair, holding the head of a young woman, who is sitting on the floor at the feet of the woman. There is thick robe strewn about the floor, with furs and animal bones sitting on a pedestal.

The

Philosopher's

Wife

Logo: The Empire Swan logo.

Part One

How to Read The Philosopher’s Wife

Dialogue with a slash ( / ) in it means the next person starts speaking overtop the current speaker and their voices are overlapping.

An ellipsis ( . . . ) indicates someone is having a response but they’re not choosing to say it out loud, or it hasn’t taken the form of language.

Narration is always italicized (and sometimes in brackets). This is where your imagination will have to come in to create the world of this story. Sometimes we’ll go deep into a single character’s mind or heart. Sometimes we’ll see images, hear sounds, or feel touch. Other times we’ll need to capture the passing of time and how the story moves from one scene to the next.

This world is how you perceive it.

Let’s begin.

The Play

It’s night.

The

Philosopher

sits writing a letter to the crown prince.

He is alone except for the darkness around him.

Which sometimes growls.

Philosopher:

The first battlefield is our language. It begins with words, with thought. Until there is no separation between what we think, what we say, what we do, and what we are . . .

I have borne my exile well. I have written pages and pages, chapter after chapter. It’s a strange thing to punish a thinker with isolation and time . . . I am dedicating a chapter to you. I am going to call it, On How a Young Prince Should Govern. Or maybe I’ll call it, On Liberation.

This is a dark age calling itself golden.

In ten months I will join you in the city. My work, our work, is meaningless if it only exists in living rooms, at the dinner table, exiled in our heads.

We are caught in a history that offers us no future. And this is how the corruption of power sustains itself; it takes the present hostage.

We hear the sound of snarling dogs attacking.

But no, it’s just the wind—surely—just branches in the night, just a chain swaying against a metal post outside.

It’s just the front room with shadows on the wall and a clock ticking.

It’s late.

Tereza

, a sister, stands while

Thomas

, a brother, paces.

Thomas:

But why are we in the house? Why can’t his man just show us the dogs?

Tereza:

His letter said we would only speak with him—

Thomas:

I don’t like it, this is / weird.

Tereza:

Stop fidgeting.

Thomas:

And the villagers, you saw their faces when we asked the way, you saw their faces—

Tereza:

Just do what we always do, get us to the dogs—

Thomas:

I don’t speak to landowners, what am I supposed to / say to a landowner—

Tereza:

Say what you always say!

Approaching footsteps. Quick. Hushed.

Thomas:

What do I always say?!

Tereza:

It’ll be fine, just pretend / he’s a farmer, just get us to the dogs—relax—

Thomas:

Shit shit / shit I don’t like it—

Tereza:

Just—

The

Philosopher

enters.

Thomas

bows.

Tereza

does too.

Philosopher:

You were not waiting long, I hope?

Thomas:

No.

Philosopher:

(seeing

Tereza

) Oh. Who is this?

Thomas:

My sister.

Silence.

Tereza:

Tereza.

Thomas:

We got your letter. If you’ll just show us to the dogs we can start.

Philosopher:

I didn’t prepare for two.

Thomas:

Prepare?

Philosopher:

Rooms. I didn’t prepare two rooms.

Thomas:

Rooms? Oh no, we’ll sleep with the dogs.

Philosopher:

Certainly not.

Thomas:

It’s no trouble. We’re used to it.

Philosopher:

You will stay in the house.

Thomas:

In the house?

Philosopher:

Of course. (to

Tereza

) You may wait in the hall.

Thomas:

I—no—she—should stay.

Philosopher:

I would prefer our conversation remain private.

Thomas:

Ah . . .

Tereza:

I’m very discreet, sir—

Philosopher:

Discreet at what?

Tereza:

. . .

Philosopher:

Does she assist you?

Thomas:

No.

Tereza:

Not really.

Philosopher:

. . . So she assists you.

Thomas:

Yes.

Philosopher:

Oh.

Thomas:

It’s—

Tereza:

Uh—when the dog sees me obey Thomas, it reinforces him as the leader, but really I just keep house.

A moment. The

Philosopher

studies this odd pair.

Philosopher:

Well I have people who do that.

Thomas:

Good. I’m sure they can show us to the dogs then. We can get out of your hair. It’s late isn’t it? So cold, I’m sure everyone should like to go to bed—

Philosopher:

No, I should like to speak with you. Have a seat.

Thomas

hasn’t sat on many chairs. Certainly not ones with upholstery.

He nervously lowers himself onto the very edge of a chair.

Tereza

remains standing.

The interview begins.

Philosopher:

Your work. I’d like to know more about it. What is your method?

Thomas:

My method?

Philosopher:

Yes, the butcher in the village, I converse with him sometimes, he said you helped his cousin with a hound that would not stop attacking the newborn calves. That was you, yes?

Thomas:

Yes.

Philosopher:

How did you do it?

Thomas:

Mastered the dog.

Philosopher:

Yes, but how?

Silence.

Philosopher:

There must be pedagogy for such things.

Thomas:

Yes . . .

Philosopher:

What is it?

Thomas:

. . .

Philosopher:

This is a very specific situation.

Thomas:

Then I should see the dog so you can tell me the problem.

Philosopher:

Did you train for this profession?

Thomas:

No.

Philosopher:

Then how did you come to have this expertise?

Thomas:

Forgive me, I don’t usually have to explain myself.

Philosopher:

It’s important you be the right man for the job before we proceed.

Thomas:

Yes, sir.

Philosopher:

So how did you come to this expertise?

Thomas:

Been around dogs.

Tereza:

Thomas learned to wrangle dogs from our uncle. As a child.

Thomas:

Farm dogs.

Tereza:

And guard dogs.

Philosopher:

Yes, but if the dog is vicious and unapproachable, how is it that you can work on it without being attacked when it attacks others? This seems unlikely.

Thomas:

It’s a kind of . . . well . . . (looking to

Tereza

) . . . how would you say I do that?

Tereza:

He appeals to the structure of a pack and assumes higher status.

Philosopher:

What does that mean?

Thomas:

Tackle it.

Philosopher:

You use violence?

Thomas:

Kinda.

Philosopher:

Yes, but for what purpose.

Thomas:

Master the dog.

Tereza:

It’s sometimes necessary to put the dog into a submissive posture.

Thick silence.

Philosopher:

What is this.

Thomas:

What.

Philosopher:

This. You.

Thomas:

I’m sorry?

Philosopher:

You are not a dog trainer.

Thomas:

I have your letter here right here!

Philosopher:

You may have my letter but you are not a dog trainer.

Thicker silence.

The

Philosopher

eyes them.

Philosopher:

So what is this? Who are you?

Tereza:

Please, sir, we mean no offence. I can promise you, / we’re very good at what we do.

Philosopher:

Who are you?

Tereza:

I’m just, we travel, we’re nobody—we got your letter, we’ll cause no trouble.

Thickest silence.

Philosopher:

You got my letter.

They produce the letter. The

Philosopher

studies

Tereza

’s face.

Philosopher:

You train the dogs.

Tereza:

Yes, sir.

Philosopher:

(to

Thomas

) And you?

Thomas:

Carry the bags . . .

Tereza:

He is always with me, sir, it’s— / no trouble.

Philosopher:

I don’t like deception.

Tereza:

Apologies.

Philosopher:

. . . What exactly did you hear about me?

Tereza:

Nothing, sir. I mean—you are a philosopher? . . . You were at court for a time?

Philosopher:

That’s all you heard, even in the village?

Tereza:

I take no stock in gossip, sir.

Philosopher:

But they did gossip, what did they say?

Tereza

would rather not say, but isn’t sure how to proceed otherwise.

Tereza:

. . .

 

That you’re an atheist . . . uh . . . who shelters demons in your home.

Philosopher:

. . .

 

Ah . . . That’s all?

Tereza:

I care only for the work, sir. People’s business is their own.

Philosopher:

Where do you come from?

Tereza:

The South.

Philosopher:

When?

Tereza:

After the massacres started.

Philosopher:

Did you work there illegally too?

Tereza:

It was easier before the Fervour, sir. Less people cared what women did.

Philosopher:

And now?

Tereza:

Northern farmers assume Thomas does the work or they don’t care who does it, as long as it gets done. If they know we’re Southerners they don’t bring it up. We don’t stay anywhere too long.

Philosopher:

The North, the North, the tolerant North. We’re just lazier. Break whatever laws you want, pray to whatever god you want, just don’t be stupid, don’t get caught. So are you stupid or do you think I’m stupid?

Tereza:

We have to work to live.

Philosopher:

Am I supposed to keep you safe now if the law comes knocking?

Tereza:

We won’t sleep in the house, we’ll work in the barn. I work quickly and invisibly.

Philosopher:

I’m an exiled atheist. I don’t believe in invisible things.

He walks to the window. She watches him.

The clock ticks.

Philosopher:

How long since you were home?

Tereza:

Long time.

Philosopher:

How is the road?

Tereza:

Hard.

Philosopher:

Must be cold.

Tereza:

We manage.

Silence.

Everybody waits for power to decide.

Philosopher:

(to

Thomas

) You may wait in the hall.

Tereza:

Wait for me outside the door. Stay there, yes?

Thomas

bows and exits. He’s still not convinced he won’t die tonight, but is eager to be out of that room. The interview begins again, but this time with more scrutiny.

Philosopher:

You’re not the first person I’ve brought here. I’ve had experts come.

Tereza:

What experts?

Philosopher:

Men at the top of their field.

Tereza:

Other trainers?

Philosopher:

You say you put the dog into a calm submissive posture . . . what does this mean?

Tereza:

I pin it.

Philosopher:

What does that mean?

Tereza:

Hold it down. With my body.

Philosopher:

How are you strong enough to do this?

Tereza:

I am quite strong, sir. I know how to hold a creature . . . The animal is very violent?

Philosopher:

Yes.

Tereza:

I’m not afraid. I’ve seen dogs very vicious. I’ve seen dogs mutilate and kill each other. It can get very ugly, yes?

Philosopher:

. . .

Tereza:

How many dogs do you have, sir?

Philosopher:

Ten? A dozen?

Tereza:

Who wrangles the dogs presently?

Philosopher:

Nobody.

The phrase, You idiot, rings through

Tereza

’s mind . . . but her face remains stoic.

Tereza:

. . . Well that is likely your problem right there.

Philosopher:

You know nothing of my problem.

Tereza:

. . .

Philosopher:

My wife . . .

Tereza:

Is she very attached to the dogs?

Philosopher:

Yes.

Tereza:

Perhaps she babies them—women often do this. The dogs get it in their heads that they are in charge of the people and not the other way around.

Philosopher:

What do you do when they go wild?

Tereza:

Are these your dogs or wild dogs?

Philosopher:

. . .

 

I was not expecting this.

Tereza:

No one expects to have problems with dogs.

Philosopher:

No, I was not expecting you . . . It’s . . . violent. She . . . can’t be approached. Try to keep her quiet, in darkness, keep her calm, but she howls.

Tereza:

Okay.

Philosopher:

Her wrists bleed from the shackles / can’t even get in to change the straw.

Tereza:

What?

Philosopher:

The smell is her doing / I can’t drug her anymore.

Tereza:

Her wrists? / What?

Philosopher:

She almost killed one of the maids, tried to bite through her neck. Physicians refuse to treat her, surgeons won’t see her, druggists say she is too far gone.

Tereza:

I’m sorry, who is it that you want me to treat?

Philosopher:

My wife.

Tereza:

But I work with dogs.

Philosopher:

She barks, she growls, she sniffs—will you treat my wife?

Tereza:

. . . No. I don’t—what?

Before she can wrap her head around any of this,

Tereza

is shown down a long hallway, lantern in hand, to an old staircase leading into the lonely belly of the house.

A damp room. A shadow in the corner. A form lying in a heap.

It’s a woman in a shit-smeared smock. A woman staring at

Tereza

and the

Philosopher

who hold handkerchiefs to their noses. A woman who holds her gaze like that of a hound about to snap . . .

Tereza:

How long has she been down here?

Philosopher:

Five months. She was attacking everyone.

Tereza:

Where are the other dogs?

Philosopher:

I don’t allow her to see them.

Tereza:

Why not?

Philosopher:

She was sneaking out at night. There were rumours. Saying my wife lay with dogs . . .

In a thousand years villagers will still be gossiping about who is sleeping with who. But rather than discuss the timeless nature of people needing to speculate on other people’s private lives,

Tereza

takes a few steps towards this woman, this woman we’ll call the

Wife

. The

Wife

begins to growl as

Tereza

crosses an invisible boundary known only to this snarling woman.

Tereza

stops, acknowledging she’s crossed a line. The growling reduces slightly.

Tereza

takes another step closer and the

Wife

’s body tenses. The growling returns with more force.

Tereza

turns her back to the

Wife

and walks back to the

Philosopher

. The growling ceases.

Tereza:

So what do you want me to do?

Philosopher:

Whatever it is you do.

Tereza:

But this is not a dog.

Philosopher:

Yes, thank you, you have wonderfully stated the obvious. I’ve tried everything else. If you can help her, I will pay you.

Tereza:

Where does she come from?

Philosopher:

Her father farmed on my land.

Tereza:

She’s common?

Philosopher:

Yes.

Tereza:

Temperament is dependent on one’s stock. Her bloodline is very far beneath yours.

Philosopher:

So is yours, what’s your point?

Tereza:

Apologies, I’ve just never heard of a nobleman marrying a peasant.

Philosopher:

And I’ve never heard of a woman who trains dogs.

Tereza:

When you married, had she started bleeding?

Philosopher:

No. I sent her back to live with her father until she began.

Tereza:

How long was that?

Philosopher:

Three months. She was returned to me the day she turned fourteen.

Tereza:

To switch masters so quickly and then switch back, she should have remained here.

Philosopher:

She was fine until her first pregnancy.

Tereza:

Which was?

Philosopher:

The next year.

Tereza:

And the baby?

Philosopher:

Bled it out early on. She was horrified by the blood, kept asking about the baby, crying about the blood—

Tereza:

Did no one explain?

Philosopher:

Of course I did, but she just kept waiting for the baby, working herself into a panic, she would have these fits—

Tereza:

What did the doctors do?

Philosopher:

Opium. But she would vomit for days, which only distressed her more. I began crafting a compound without opium that after some adjustments proved successful for almost two years. Until the second pregnancy.

Tereza:

Did she make it to the birth?

Philosopher:

Unfortunately. The infant was deformed. The doctors took it—there was no way . . . She kept looking for it, pulling apart rooms searching for the baby. We had to increase her dosage. When the next child was born it had no feet. At least she never saw that one. When the fourth child was born without arms, it occurred to me perhaps the drug was doing it. The physicians say it is the madness in her mind that misshapes the babies but that is nonsense. Our current science is so mixed-up in superstition we cannot trust it.

Tereza:

So she’s not drugged now?

Philosopher:

I took her off it.

Tereza:

Why?

Philosopher:

I want a healthy child.

Tereza:

With all due respect, sir, send her back.

Philosopher:

What?

Tereza:

You say you want a healthy child, find a healthy woman.

Philosopher:

My wife is healthy. She was healthy.

Tereza:

Not all dogs are meant to herd or ride in the hunt. Some are meant to rat, some are meant to calm goats, and some are meant to breed. Send her back.

Philosopher:

You cannot conceive of knowledge this way. She has some illness and we must treat it.

Tereza:

Approach her.

Philosopher:

No.

Tereza:

Why not?

Philosopher:

Because she will attack me.

Tereza:

So what do you want me to do?

Philosopher:

Whatever it is you do!

In the heat of the moment it’s hard to know what any of us do, which is why habit is such a powerful force in our lives, propelling

Tereza

to take steps towards the

Wife

in order to test her boundaries.

Tereza

approaches steadily, noting how close she can get before the growling turns to barking.

Tereza:

What does she eat?

Philosopher:

Food? I don’t know—

Tereza:

Who feeds her?

Philosopher:

The cook slides a tray in.

Tereza:

Where’s her water?

Philosopher:

She threw all the buckets over. A wineskin with the tray. Sometimes she destroys it.

Tereza:

Stand by the door please, look away.

Tereza

walks sideways towards the

Wife

without making eye contact.

Tereza

crosses the growl zone, the barking zone, and the snapping zone until eventually the

Wife

lunges at her.

Tereza

grabs the chain binding the woman’s wrists with one hand and begins to force her down to the floor to pin her.

Tereza

is growling full force at the

Wife

. Two dogs head to head.

The

Philosopher

, not used to such a scene, starts to approach them—

Tereza:

Do not approach—

Philosopher:

What are you doing!??

Tereza: Do

not

approach—stop

. She must see you obey me.

He stops. The

Wife

thrashes as

Tereza

begins to pin her down onto her side, exposing her belly.

Tereza

makes a kind of short correctional sound as a prompt while she does this. At first the sound is sharp, but then