A story (1/.3) and some pics. I checked carefully the previous posts, but please forgive me if some are reposts, I'm grewing old...
From: knittina DeDance The Braiding
These sad events took place 425 years ago during severe
upheavals that swept through the German principalities
along the middle Rhine.
Three recently unearthed manuscripts provide an eyewitness
description of the events. It seems they were taken
verbatim as the events took place. Their archaic Rhineland
German has been translated into modern English. The
translator is deeply apologetic for any mistranslation and
begs the readers' understanding. She hopes her errors do
not mislead or detract from the events that took place on
that sunny August day.
Tina's story:
Dungeons scare me more than my pending death. I am still
shaking from the look on the women standing around me as
my sentence was pronounced. Especially I was disturbed by
their grins, fleshy tongues peeking from between thin
lips, aroused inadvertent shivers as they heard the grim
words. I very distinctly recall one of them - a woman in
black, pink ruffles around her neck, red hair pulled
sternly behind her neck, long incredible lashes framing
large blue eyes, which glistened as they stared at me.
Her mouth opened soundlessly as she said, "I hope you live
long. I'll be seeing you from my balcony. Please do not
disappoint me and my friends ".
The trial had taken place in the cathedral lay center.
Nuns filled the pews. On the dais grim men in hoods stared
at me, their eyes flaming from under drooping eyelids. As
I had feared I was found guilty of "foul murder", since my
husband had mysteriously vanished and a rotting corpse was
found at the bottom of our well. I was sentenced to the
mercy of the town of Altenburg, "For the heinous
crime of slaying your husband, you Tina Tanzenrich will be
broken alive on the wheel in the Altenburg market place
tomorrow and your body will be left to the vermin and
carrion birds as a lesson to all".
I knew I had done nothing, but I did not know who had.
After all I was an abandoned lady with a choice house that
would revert to the church authorities, so somehow I knew
there was nothing I could do. My legs buckled when I heard
the sentence. Wouldn't yours have?
I hoped my agony and pain would be credited against the
purgatory our nuns and priests told us was the lot for all
sinners, and what could be worse than the eternal fires of
purgatory. Though I am really unsure about that. Usually I
rely more on what I see and feel than what I have been
told to take on pure faith. That did not help my
relationships with the almighty Mother Church, though
after severe canings I learnt to hide my doubts.
Two nuns quietly pulled me up. Holding my manacled arms
they walked me out of the center down the street to the
Altenburg castle, a dank place, parts of it still in ruins
from the wars recently fought against the heretics. Men
and women crowded on the sides, joked and laughed at me.
One seemingly compassionate elder woman in a bright blue
gown said "I hope her end is fast, but...". I looked to the
left and again saw the redhead in black openly smiling.
And again shesoundlessly told me, her lips moving
distinctly so I could read her "We are having a party for
you. So sorry you cannot join us. " Looking back at her,
my lips trembling, I was prodded through the carved castle
doors and then walked down stairs to a dark area I had
heard about ... the castle dungeons. A soldier in rusty
armour greeted us, looked at me up and down, grinned
toothlessly, took a huge key from the wall and a flaming
torch and grunted "Follow me!".
We went slowly down dark corridors and then he grunted
again "Wait here!". The nuns removed my wrist shackles.
After all where would I run to? He opened a heavy stained
oak door, through which the two nuns shoved me. Being
thrust through the dungeon door, hearing it creak and then
clang shut behind me leaving me in pitch black, terrified
me more than anything that had happened that day. All I
could feel were squeaks of rats, total darkness, fetid
air, rustling on the floor, sounds and chirps of flying
bats. I held my hands in front of me but felt nothing. I
shuffled forward feeling straw on the ground.
Moving furry things touched my toes. I stopped for a
pause, still unable to see anything, shaking as the sounds
cradled me. I screamed as I felt my toes nibbled. And then
another sound, muted, a quiet sigh on my left. I take
short slow steps in that direction, stopping as I feel a
soft body at my feet and ask "The wheel? You too?", and I
hear a muffled feminine sob "Yes".
I crouch down and touch. Immediately my hand is grabbed,
trembling moist fingers pressing into my palm. "I am
Petra, Petra Schwingen". I immediately answer "Tina
Tanzenrich, from Altenburg". Petra's fingers dig deeper
into my palm, and now crying she tells me "I'm from
outside Koln, an hour away. They accused me for killing my
husband. I did not. And I had not seen him for months. He
had left me. But they found a decayed male body in freshly
dug ground near our house. And they said that was him and
I had killed him. I did not. And there was rat poison in
the barn. And they found me guilty, ..and ..you know. The
wheel." I cannot contain myself and gasping tell her "The
same with me. But they found a rotted body at the bottom
of our well, and .. I did not do it."
The coincidence of us being unjustly accused for a similar
crime and being executed together is too much for me. I
break down, wildly sobbing and bury my tear stricken face
in her breasts which envelope me. Her hands running
through my hair calm me after a while. In the dark I see
nothing, but just feel her solacing presence, and for the
first time in days I feel at peace. Slowly my hands caress
her and she responds.
Our movements become more and more sensuous and ardent.
Yes, we try it all. What else should we do? We'll never
have another chance.
Initially we are both virginal, with women that is, but
gradually we warm up, and ...well, I do not need to go into
prurient detail. We both forget where we are and
wordlessly enjoy each other. I cannot count how often I
come but it is lots, it sates me. We end up sleeping
together, my fingers quivering in her, her fingers
wriggling in me, our tongues and lips together, bodies
intertwined as if we were one.
After a dreamless sleep I wake to the sound of a creaking
door. Pale light breaks the darkness. A husky voice says
"This is appalling. UP!!!". I then look at Petra, and for
the first time I see her. Uncombed blonde hair, rags
around her on the floor, round face, huge brown eyes open
with fear, and I feel nothing but the deepest love and
pity for her. "DRESS!!!". We both slip on the grey rags. I
do not recall taking mine off after I was put in the
dungeon, but apparently I did, and giggle at Petra, who
with an extraordinarily beautiful smile giggles back.
Four heavy set women in black quickly shackle our wrists,
pulling our hands in front of us. My skin is pinched as
they pull them tight. I yelp. All four laugh, a deep
satisfied laugh. "Just wait, this is nothing". We are
walked upstairs, up the dank corridors, the sounds of
boots clanking on the stone floors, reverberating off the
dark walls. Outside in the bright sunlight, my eyes blink
ands squint until they get used to the strong light. A few
drunks, ruffians and lots of children gawk at us as we are
pulled up on a cart. Standing Petra and I face each other
and are chained to the side of the cart.
Petra does not resist. I do and pay for that. One of the
women slashes me across my back with a crop and the other
punches me hard in my stomach. They grin. The manacles are
pulled tight and cut into my skin. The chain is very
tightly wrapped under my breasts holding me to the side of
the cart. We gaze at each other silently. Together we
reach for the other's hands and hold them tight. I want to
wipe off a faint trace of drool at her mouth's right edge,
but I cannot.
I lick my lips. She reads me and licks hers removing the
spot of spittle. A drunk makes an obscene pelvic gesture
as he yells "Try me!!!". The women get off the cart, and
order the wagon man to take us to our fate. I try to
ignore the jeering of those around us. The cartman taps
the huge mule with his whip and we slowly move off, the
four women walking by the cart on both sides.
On the cart rattling across the cobblestones, I try not to
think of the pain ahead. I think back to a woman I talked
with after she survived the rack. She told me that during
her ordeal she had forced herself to think about peaceful
open fields, sunshine, warmth, the aroma of fresh cut
flowers and the excitement of long ago festivals, and that
through that she stayed in command of herself rather than
letting the pain drive her into madness. I hope and pray I
will muster the strength to do that when the time comes,
but again I think of the bars cracking my bones and
joints, birds cawing, their beaks tearing into my eyes and
lips, plucking my eyeballs out and flesh tissues off.
Will I stay conscious as that happens? What will I feel as
the wheel is hoisted up, my broken limbs flopping with the
movements of the wheel? Will I still be aware, writhing,
making horrible wretched sounds? Watching Petra's ashen
face and feeling her fingers twitching in my palms I
wonder whether in my agony I will still think of her,
still hear her or will her sounds be drowned out by the
frenzied cheering of the spectators and my own agonies. I
sob again, tears dripping out of my eyes onto my heaving
breasts, and again reflect on the terror and horror of
being wheeled. Lord it is really horrible. Legs and arms
would be bent a bit to get full benefits from the blows.
At first my knees will not touch the wheel, until they are
hammered to fit them into the spokes.
And to make it really last the executioner will break me
from my extremities towards my torso and neck, winding up
his work with well-aimed blows at my crotch and
collarbones. UGH!!!!! Will the trauma be so great that at
some point I mercifully subside into hallucinations and
numbness? Or will my throbbing senses stay aware of all.
And what is worse is that I do not feel remorse for
something I never did. I pray I will not be punished in
the hereafter for my arrogance in denying God's will on
earth, as expressed through his ordained representatives.
And then we enter the square. I briefly recall fond
memories of past fairs and festivities, weekend markets,
ogling lads, myself with friends watching hangings,
burnings and wheelings of deserving criminals and
heretics, screaming ourselves into ecstatic frenzies, and
how little did I know. And I see the scaffold, six steps
up, three persons wide, in its middle two huge slanted
spoked wagon wheels standing at the end of long thick
posts that hang over the side of the scaffold. The wheels
are slightly angled to each other to make sure we watch
each other's contorting and tortured body, both of us
convulsing and writhing. Both wheels are bathed in a
golden light from the late morning sun. The wheel spokes
are spotted with dents and red-brown stains. The scaffold
flooring appears to be spotlessly clean. A trim, medium
masked tall man, the executioner, is standing there with
three nuns, dressed in black habits. He is dressed in
blood red. The nuns' faces are a pallid white, silhouetted
by thin red lips and dark eyes. I see a stand behind the
wheels. In it are seven metal rods, all as long as a small
child, ranging from quill thin to spear shaft thick.
The crowd gives way to the wagon, but barely. I see lots
of familiar faces, all gleeful, all merry, and I wonder
what I ever did to deserve this. I wonder if Petra
recognizes anyone, but she, guessing my thoughts, murmurs,
"You seem to know them all. I know no-one" and her eyes
water again. I smile at her and whisper, "I know you, my
love". And am rewarded by a momentary look of bliss. We
hold each other's hands tighter. I look wistfully into
Petra's face and am
rewarded by her open stare at me, inviting me into her.
But alas this is not to be. At the scaffold the cart's
back railing is slung down and the back is pushed against
the platform. All I see are the wheels and the stand with
bars behind them. And I cannot help gazing at them, my
worst fancies and nightmares blot out every other thought,
and again I feel my body shudder, and again I break out in
body shaking sobs.
Petra is the first to be taken onto the scaffold. They
remove the chain holding her to the side of the cart. Her
hands scramble to keep close to me but she is wrenched
away by the nuns, all three grim yet with aroused glimmers
of expression lighting up their passive appearances. Petra
keeps her hands flung out towards me, yelling incoherently
as her sweaty body twists and writhes frantically, trying
to break free from the nuns who keep her on her feet and
struggling, back her up to the left wheel. Two hold her
against the wheel. The third nun forces her right arm into
position twisting it so her palm rests on a spoke and rim
connection, her elbow jutting out. She ties the wrist down
with a thick leather strap. She ties the other wrist down
the same way on the other side of the wheel. The two nuns
hold her left leg while the third pulls the right leg up,
awkwardly bends her knee, and straps her ankles against
the wheel in about an eight o'clock position, foot flat on
a spoke's end. She does the same with her left leg making
sure her foot is tied at around four o'clock. Petra is
now struggling violently in mid-air, her torso moving back
and forth from the wheel, her hips undulating obscenely.
She does not stop screaming, spittle dribbling from her
mouth, eyes crazed in her knowledge of what lies ahead.
One of the nuns stands in front of her and loudly
declaims, "This is God's will. Who are you to argue
against it?"