1841 by Michael Gow

Act II Scene VII 

AURORA 
Where’s Mercy? She’s gone with them. She can’t 
have. Mercy! What was she thinking? She’s said 
‘yes’ to them. She doesn’t know. Mercy! She 
doesn’t know what they’ve done. I left her here. 
She said she’d be careful. I left her here. Fear. I 
could feel it in the air, I could hear it, out there, I 
had to see. I left her here. I went alone. To the 
river. It was in the water, running in the water. I 
followed it along the river, thicker, stronger, 
darker. There, on the bank. Everywhere, on the 
rocks, on the trees, in the water. Lying where 
they’d fallen, or where they’d tried to hide, or 
where they’d crawled away in to the scrub, 
everywhere. No one could bear to see it, no one 
should see it, no one could ever make such a 
sight. But there, by the river, in the trees, under 
bushes, in the sand, in the water; people who 
never needed me, never knew of me, people who 
lived with what they longed for every moment of 
their lives. I heard them, I could hear them, calling 
out, crying. I’ve seen fields of corpses lying in the 
rain, but lying there gladly after hearing a few 
words that made them burst with joy and anger. 
I’ve seen mounds of bodies in the sun, but a sight 
like that has only made others rush to defend, to 
protect, to find more strength to fight for what they 
long for. But there, by the river – no defence, no 
protection, no strength, nothing. Fear. Death. 
Waste.