A LITTLE SALTY
by Alex Vishegorodskiy
April 1, 2025
Artist Statement:
I don’t really know where I was going with this play, but the idea of two peasant salt miners arguing about their station in life just sort of occurred to me, and I decided to start writing it. It ended up becoming a very pertinent metaphor for … something, but that certainly wasn’t my intention going in. I’m fairly happy with how it turned out, though.
CHARACTERS
Reginald. A feudal serf who works in a salt mine. Content with his life and happy to be told what to do by the manor of the land.
Darian. Also a feudal serf in the salt mine, but enlightened. Discontented with his lot in life.
SETTING
A salt mine in a medieval European-style kingdom. Circa 1200 AD.
TEXT
Italicization indicates emotional emphasis.
Em-dashes indicate interruptions.
NOTES
The two actors are dressed in dirty tunics, trousers, and boots, and are facing the audience. The background is a mine shaft. Sounds of pickaxes being used on rock can be heard in the background. Both actors wield pickaxes, which they use on a prop rock formation in front of them.
(Reginald swings his pickaxe, breaking the rock apart and revealing a rich salt vein.)
Reginald: A-ha! Would you look at that, Darian! I’m not half-bad at this, aren’t I, Darian? Aren’t I?
Darian: You’re a useful idiot is what you are, Reginald.
Reginald: I am not! An idiot, I mean. You wish you could mine salt like I can.
Darian: Sure I do. Maybe I could win a manumission that way.
Reginald: What good would that do you? There’s nothing but trouble to be had as a freeman. And brigands. And highwaymen.
Darian: Nonsense. Do you really want to work for the manor for the rest of your life? Think about all the possibilities in the whole wide world, and we’re stuck in this hole digging for salt because his majesty needs it for spiced wines and plum pies! No, Reginald. I’ve greater ambitions.
(Reginald stops swinging his pickaxe. He’s shocked.)
Reginald: Darian, you can’t mean that! Romans 13:1-2, the good book says, “Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. Therefore, whoever resists the authorities resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment."
(Darian looks at Reginald askance.)
Darian: You can read?
Reginald: No. The priest read it to me.
Darian: Right. Well, a pox on the good book, I say.
(Reginald gasps.)
Reginald: I can’t believe my best friend is a heathen. I’m disappointed in you.
Darian: Think about it, Reginald! If you authored that decrepit old book—
Reginald: I’ll have been divinely inspired by the Lord himself!
Darian: Not the point, Reg. Focus! Wouldn’t you write that everybody has to be, “subject to the governing authorities?” Awfully convenient, don’t you think?
Reginald: Utter balderdash. Besides, what else would I do but mine salt? There’s brigands. And highwaymen.
(Beat.)
Darian: I know what I’d do. I’d be a blacksmith.
Reginald: A blacksmith? Not what I pictured you doing, if I’m honest. I can definitely see you in skirts and a spatula, though!
(Reginald chuckles. Darian clocks him across the ear.)
Reginald: Ow!
Darian: Don’t be silly. I’d forge the best swords in all the realm. Much finer than rusty old pickaxes.
Reginald: I think our pickaxes are perfectly fine. And what do you know of swords anyway? We’re serfs, not knights. Leave the chivalry to those with the code, I say.
Darian: You say that with too much pride.
Reginald: And what’s wrong with that? There’s plenty of fulfillment to be found in the life of a serf. All in a day’s work, I say.
Darian: Do you say? Or is that priest speaking with your mouth again?
Reginald: Just because you happen to disagree with him doesn’t mean there’s some conspiracy to convert you.
(Darian chuckles.)
Darian: I’ll believe that when pigs start flying.
Reginald: Well, I’m happy right where I am.
(Reginald stomps his foot down and resumes mining.)
Reginald: Right here! The manor needs me to mine, so I’ll mine. No delusions of grandeur for me, no sir.
Darian: Who’s got delusions of grandeur? Me?
Reginald: I said what I said.
(Beat.)
Darian: Say, aren’t you partial to masonry? You could build my forge! We’d make a fortune in the city! Stone and steel. Those are in high demand, you know. Hey, that could be the name of our shop! The Stone & Steel!
Reginald: Shhh! (Hushed.) D’you know what the others would think of me if they heard that kinda talk? They’d think me a … Freemason …
Darian: This is your problem, Reg. You care too much about what other people think. About what the Lord thinks. Live for yourself a little, for a change.
(Reginald clicks his tongue.)
Reginald: Sinful talk, Darian. Sinful talk.
Darian: Come on, Reggie. Half the reason you go to church so often is because you marvel at the architecture of the building. You’ve always wanted to be a mason! Remember when we were kids?
Reginald: Thin ice, Darian.
Darian: I’m not asking you to do anything, just imagine. No manor, no salt mine, just you, me, the road, and endless possibilities. Nobody to boss us around and treat us like property. We’ll be our own men and govern our own lives.
Reginald: That’s right. You, me, dead, in a ditch, because we were foolish and got robbed by brigands and highwaymen.
Darian: Don’t be that way.
(Reginald sighs.)
Reginald: Fine. Let’s say we do it. Let’s say we set off on our grand adventure, you and me, to make a fortune in the city as blacksmith and stonemason. We don’t have any money. How do we buy supplies?
Darian: Easy. Plenty of work in the city to be had for skilled miners like us.
(Reginald laughs.)
Reginald: You want to leave the life of a salt miner in the country for the life of a salt miner in the city?
Darian: You’ve got to think big picture, Reg. We wouldn’t be serfs anymore. People in the city have more rights. We’d earn a wage. Over time, we’d save up enough money to buy some tools.
Reginald: And where do you imagine you’ll build this grand workshop of yours? Right on top of the king’s palace, mayhaps?
Darian: Come on, Reg, stop with the softballs. After we buy some tools, we can use them to make even more money as artisans-for-hire! Maybe we’ll even join a guild. Then we’ll use that money to buy a deed to some land. I’ve got it all figured out, you’ll see.
Reginald: Alright, well, there’s one teeny-tiny little flaw in your grand plan, Wayland the Smith. We’d get robbed by brigands long before we made it to the city. And—
Darian: Highwaymen. Right. Listen, the town stables wouldn’t miss a horse or two. A couple palfreys, maybe a strong pack horse.
Reginald: There it is, Darian. I said so, didn’t I? Sinful thought turns into sinful talk turns into sinful action.
Darian: What’s sinful is hoarding all those perfectly good horses. We snag a couple the manor doesn’t need, and they won’t notice a thing. It’ll be like they never had ‘em!
Reginald: Easy there. You’re talking about this like I’ve already agreed to your insane plan.
(Another serf walks by with a cart full to the brim with rock salt.)
Serf: Enough chatting outta the both of you! You’ve a quota to meet!
(He walks off, grumbling to himself.)
Darian: You’d rather take that from him for the rest of your life?
Reginald: Maybe I would! Maybe I like knowing exactly where my place is. Don’t you know freedom invites the Devil into your life? Idle hands, Darian. Idle hands.
Darian: You heard that from the priest, too, didn’t you?
Reginald: He’s an intelligent and respectable man, and he’s in touch with his spiritual side. You’d do well to come to church a little more often.
Darian: Bugger that. Just imagine it, Reg: a thriving business enterprise in the capital. Our own guild. The finest arms in all the realm, and the best stonemasons to build lodgings for knights-errants and their squires. And I heard the women can be quite comely …
Reginald: As the Lord is my witness, Darian, you’re up to your neck in debauchery.
Darian: I’ll be up to my neck in gold soon enough, instead of salty dust.
(Darian finally, begrudgingly, resumes mining. Reginald stops mining.)
(Beat.)
Reginald: You know what your problem is? You’re never happy. Our life may be simple, and we might not earn a wage, or make swords, or build buildings, or be neck-deep in gold, but we’ve got each other, haven’t we? We’ve got the village. We’ve got an honest day’s work and plenty of ale to fill our bellies at the end of the day. What’s not to like?
Darian: You’re too easily placated, Reg.
Reginald: Maybe you’re too ambitious. Let’s say you’ve got it all; the business, the gold, knights-errants, the lot of it. Do you think it’ll be enough?
Darian: Once I get all that, I’ll let you know.
Reginald: You know what I think? I think it’ll never be enough. I think that eventually, you’ll become the manor and make someone like me mine salt all day because you need it for your spiced wines and plum pies.
(Darian stops mining and looks at Reginald.)
Darian: (Exaggeratedly.) Reginald, I’m wounded. But isn’t that the way of the world? It’s the circle of life; there must always be one above to be obeyed and one below to be commanded. Someone must mine the salt.
Reginald: Father, forgive him, for he knows not what he does.
Darian: I know what I will do, Reg.
(Reginald clocks Darian across the ear.)
Darian: Ow!
Reginald: All this talk of plum pies is making me hungry. We’re behind on quota, so let’s get mining so we can go home and eat our share. No more of this talk of wayward serfs and endless roads, or we’ll get a hiding.
(Reginald and Darian both resume mining.)
(Pause.)
Reginald: How do you know they’re comely?
Darian: What?
Reginald: You said the women in the city are comely. How do you know?
Darian: Well, there was this gleeman that passed through town a few weeks ago …
END