[Script] Hut
INT. LONG HALL, ENGLISH COUNTRYSIDE, DAY. The hall is made of unhewn log walls held together with dried mud and a straw roof. In the center of the hall, at a ROUND TABLE, sit HUT and his three apprentices, WELSHMAN, WOMAN, and AUSTRALIAN. They pass scrolls back and forth and hold them up to the mass of candles at the table’s center.
AUSTRALIAN: All of the tests so far have come back negative. Even the bludgeoning you ordered.
HUT: We had to be sure.
WELSHMAN: I still say we should have talked to his wench.
WOMAN: Welshman’s right, she could have told us if he was lying.
HUT: Why is it your solution always has you talking to a Saxon woman, Welshman?
WOMAN: Hut!
HUT: If he’s lying to us, she’ll lie to us too. We’re wasting our time and losing the patient.
WELSHMAN: I’m just gonna say you definitely wouldn’t have specified the wench’s race if I wasn’t Welsh.
HUT rises from the table, leaning on a CANE. He grabs a pouch from his robe, reaches into it, and pulls out like fifteen LEECHES, slapping them haphazardly on his chest. He balances a SHEEP BLADDER on the handle of his cane as he speaks.
HUT: When he came in it was only for a toothache, now he’s spasming and foaming at the mouth. This is moving too fast. We need to be more aggressive. Double his mercury dose.
WOMAN: I’ll get the vial but that’s just a bandage, Hut, if we don’t figure this out he has hours.
AUSTRALIAN: Doesn’t he live by that old hag?
HUT: It’s not witches, it’s never witches.
AUSTRALIAN: That’s not what I–
The DOOR swings open, and WILDAD enters. He looks sad but also sad.
WILDAD: Hut, you missed your peasant hours again. I’m tired of covering for you.
HUT: I know you are, but you’ll do it every time I ask you anyway, because you’re my little baby boy and you do what I tell you.
WILSDAD nods sadly and leaves. Before the door can close, COUNTESS BOSS WOMAN enters.
COUNTESS BOSS WOMAN: Hut, that’s it. I’m cutting off your mercury. This patient can’t handle any more mercury.
HUT: Have they invented Interferon yet?
COUNTESS BOSS WOMAN: No.
HUT: Then I literally don’t have a third idea.
AUSTRALIAN: He mentioned the hag next door breeds dogs. What if the toothache is a coincidence and he was bitten? Maybe he’s gone rabid.
HUT: Oh my God, Welshman that’s genius! His symptoms are a perfect match.
WELSHMAN: But I didn’t–
HUT: My man!
WOMAN: I’ll go check the patient for bites and see if he’ll take water.
WOMAN leaves with COUNTESS BOSS WOMAN, both shaking their heads in wry resignation.
WELSHMAN: Well we’ll have to notify his wench now. No cure for rabies.
HUT stares contemplatively out the single un-glassed window, watching the PEASANTS claw at the MUD with STICKS, doing SOMETHING. He slaps another fat handful of leaches on his back.