Millford Fair

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The village of Millford on the Tane had held a summer carnival for as long as anyone could remember. The general theme had always centered roughly around the history and traditions of the ancient village. There were booths with meat pies, archery contests, awards for prize winning cows and pigs. A popular favorite among the young and not so young men was the ducking stool. This was not entirely historical in nature. It was more in the nature of a medieval wet T shirt contest. Attractive young women dressed in skimpy costumes would volunteer to be dipped in the pond and admired by the menfolk. The ducking stool used for this ritual was no modern carnival device. No Milford used the genuine item. A ducking stool that had some how survived the centuries and now spent the rest of the year tucked away in the village history museum in the basement of the Village Hall. Once a year it was brought out and put to work entertaining the townsfolk.

Eleanor Casterbrook with a passion for local history had always detested this use of an important historical artifact. This centuries old device could well be damaged by such frivolous use. She also objected to turning something that for many women over the ages a painful and humiliating ordeal into a sort of joke. Even if the volunteers seemed to enjoy the process and the attention of the menfolk Eleanor saw the whole thing rather demeaning to the womanhood of Millford.

In the past year the village historian had at last retired and Eleanor as the only other member of the Historical Committee found herself with the position of historian and in charge of the museum and its collection of artifacts. She swore that this year she would put an end to this outrageous tradition. From now on her collection would only be used for authentic historical purposes.

This announcement did not go over well with the citizens of Millford. There was much grumbling about the stuck up old blue stocking sticking her too long nose into everyone else’s good time. Not that Eleanor was all that old. At thirty five she was not even much older than some of the volunteers for the old ducking stool show. Not that anyone would want to see her prancing about in some skimpy costume. Most folks figured that she was just so dried up and desperate for a man that she couldn’t stand the thought of other folks having a bit of fun.

A crowd had gathered at the village square for the traditional speech by the Mayor to open the festivities. “As you may have heard” he said, “this year we will not have the usual wench dunking.” There was a scattering of boos and hisses from the crowd. “Per the declaration of the village historian, our own Eleanor Casterbrook the ducking stool is only to be used for historically accurate purposes.” there were more boos and some muttered comments which were highly uncomplimentary to Mz. Casterbrook. “We have however come up with an alternative which we hope you will find satisfactorily entertaining if not in the same way. The village solicitor has gone through our ancient book of local laws and regulations. He found in one ancient volume a law which has never been repealed through all the centuries of our existence. It set forth the proper punishment of any woman tried and convicted of being a “Common Scold”. It states that she is to be placed in the ducking stool and ducked over head and ears in some convenient pond, the filthier the better, in accordance with the direction of the Magistrates.” An excited murmur spread through the crowd and this announcement. “We have convened a special session of the Magistrates Court for one day. If any person have a complaint against a woman that she be a common scold, one who speaks out of her station and pushes her self into what is no business of hers, they should bring her before the court for proper sentencing. If she is found guilty the traditional punishment will be meted out. It is important that every part of this process be historical in accordance with the direction of our dear Eleanor.” He cracked open an ancient tome. “Here the forms and practices of our ancestors have been set in an ancient rhyme for our instruction.”
“Then was the Scold herself in a wheelbarrow brought.
Stripped naked to the smock as in this case she ought.
Cows tongues about her neck were strung it made a merry show.
And thus unto the ducking school the famous scold did go.”
“You will notice we have here a fine antique wheelbarrow and also a bucket of cows tongues, a symbol of the scold’s offending member. These have been generously donated by Smith and Sons Meat Market. They were set aside early last week for our use.” The Mayor lifted the lid off the bucket releasing an awful stench. “They are now quite slimy and ripe. I am sure you will find them a suitable ornament for any scold you choose to bring before the court. Now if we have some volunteers to go and fetch us a scold our fine historical demonstration can begin.”

The entire crowd surged forward. They seized the wheelbarrow taking care not to disturb the bucket and its stinking contents. “Let’s get her boys” “duck the stinking bitch” “gonna get what’s coming to her now”. They headed down the street to the history museum where Eleanor waited, blissfully unaware of what was unfolding in the square. She could hear the door to the museum open and a group of noisy lads tumbling down. She turned to hush them but froze in shock when she saw the look on their faces. They grabbed her by either arm and frog marched her between them, up the stairs and out the door. She stood there blinking in the bright sunlight, a shocked look on her pale face, at the assembled mob.

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The Mayor himself spoke out. “My dear Eleanor, I thought you should know that upon examining the ancient law books we found that the laws against a common scold are still in force. This crowd feels they have a case against you and wish to see you tried in accordance with our history and tradition. We will make every effort to keep the proceedings as authentic as possible. I hope this meets with your approval.” he smirked. “I am sure you are familiar with the ancient rhymes. We have procured an appropriate wheelbarrow and a fine garland of cows tongue. I see you have dressed in historical garb for the fair. I hope that your sense of historical accuracy has extended to those parts you did not expect anyone to see.”

Eleanor was indeed familiar with the old rhyme. She knew all too well what would come next. Held on either side by two strong lads and an a state of shock she stood frozen in terror. The usual volunteer wenches now took on the task of stripping the scold to her smock. Like the peeling of an onion, layer by layer the elaborate historical costume was removed. Bonnet, gloves, shawl, bodice, gown, boots, stockings. Eleanor had indeed dressed in a historical manner all the way down. The final layer against her skin was a simple smock. A loose fitting garment, rather like a very long T shirt, its hem reaching down to just above her knees, the sleeves ending above her elbows the unadorned hem at the neck cut in a simple curve, extending far down her chest. It was not the fine embroidered silk of a noble woman or even the bleached linen of a merchant’s wife. In keeping with her simple peasant’s garb Eleanor’s smock was made of worn, course muslin. Unlike a modern undergarment a smock was not designed to contain, lift or shape a woman’s body. That function was met by the laces and stays of the intermediate layers. Eleanor’s bodice had made a valiant effort to gather and lift what ever assets she possessed into some semblance of a bosom. With the upper layers peeled away Eleanor’s charms stood, or rather sagged, beneath the thin smock, to be judged on their own merit, or lack thereof. In the heat of the August sun, struggling against her captors Eleanor had begun to sweat profusely. The thin fabric clung to whatever passed for her form. She was breathing heavily. At the neck of the smock the crowd could see her thin collar bones and the ribs of her upper chest, rising and falling with each gasp for air. Further down, scarcely concealed by the thin course fabric which clung to her sweaty skin, the could clearly make out a pair of paltry sagging breasts, hanging like two empty purses on her heaving chest. A final touch, the garland of cows tongues was placed about her neck leaving a smear of stinking slime where it brushed against the pale skin. Thrust into the wheelbarrow she was quickly trundled down the street, amid great fanfare, for her appointment with the Magistrates.

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Now dragged to her feet before the court Eleanor’s initial shock began to wear off. She gave voice to her outrage in no uncertain terms. Her timing could not have been worse. “The tongue on that woman” “a certain scold and an unrepentant one at that” The Magistrates wasted no time in delivering their verdict. Now came the time for the sentencing. “Eleanor Casterbrook you stand before us, convicted by your own words and actions of being a common scold. We have looked at the historical record to determine and appropriate sentence for one as bold as yourself. The minimum sentence was three times, over head and ears. Repeated or more serious offenders might get four, five, even a dozen duckings. However we have found several examples from the court records of a punishment that seems most suitable for one such as you, who has clearly excited such popular outrage. You shall be taken to the ducking stool by an officer of the court, made fast with an iron band about your waist. Your arms shall be drawn back and a wood bar placed inside your elbows. Then your arms and legs shall be firmly bound to the like parts of said stool. Thus you shall be delivered to the tender mercies of the assembled crowd. They shall duck you as often and as long as they see fit, until such time as you confess your fault and show every imaginable sign of remorse and humble repentance.”

The crowd roared its approval at this sentence. They would have a fine day’s sport and Eleanor would truly get what was coming to her. The Mayor made one final announcement before turning the terror stricken woman to the mob. “You have heard that to increase the humiliation of the criminal it was traditional for the ducking pond to be the foulest pool or pit that might be found. Nothing in our village today meets medieval standards for filth. We were lucky enough to find a local hog farmer willing to donate a wagon of pig manure. At this very moment this is being unloaded into the ducking pond. I hope this meets with Eleanor’s exacting standards of historical authenticity.

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The stench of the pond was indeed quite authentic. The surface was a slimy slick of liquid pig manure. It smelled and looked like an open sewer. Eleanor was rapidly and securely bound to the stool in the prescribed manner. Her arms drawn back and hands and feet bound the only part she could move was to crane her neck and toss her head a bit. At this point she was still railing at the crowd and demanding how they dared to do this to her. She was certainly showing no signs of meek and humble repentance. The crowd looked forward to changing that, however long it might take.

Several strong lads took control of the stool, pressing down on their end to raise Eleanor above the heads of the crowd. They swung her out over the fetid surface of the pond. For the first ducking they lowered her slowly, allowing the crowd to savor her growing distress. Her bare feet dipped into the disgusting slick that covered the surface of the pond, stirring up bubbles of sewer gas. Slowly it rose up her calves to her knees as they lowered the stool. The seat part of the stool was open, rather like a primitive night stool or toilet. Eleanor could feel the filth rising up through this opening and enveloping her private parts. She shuddered at the thought of what was now flowing into her most intimate regions. Ever so slowly it rose, gently lapping at her belly and breasts, the greasy slime coating her pale skin. With her chin at water level she could not miss noticing what had to be a huge turd floating inches from her face. Clearly pig manure was not the only thing added to the pond. Eleanor had tried to avoid breathing in the foul air. Luckily she had the presence of mind to take in a deep breath just before the final plunge. She closed her eyes and mouth as tightly as she could against the rotting pig slop that now engulfed her head but could do nothing to keep it from flowing into her nose and ears. Her hair, long and reddish brown, with a few streaks of gray, floated up about her raised face which was faintly visible just beneath the surface. The crowd could make out her clenched jaw and lips pressed to hold in the precious air. Her cheeks swelled as she fought the demand of her lungs to exhale the spent breath. The lads in control of the stool waited till the moment when that spent air burst from her lips before pressing down on their end of the lever. The bubbles broke the surface first, Eleanor’s head rose through the slime but not before she had taken in a good mouthful of pig shit. She gasped for air sucking in the filth along with the air. She coughed and gagged, vomited and swallowed, in an effort to clear her mouth and get a breath. By the time she was able to get a descent breath she was gasping like a fish out of water and had swallowed and vomited up a good pint of the slop. Her hair and face were well coated with slime from the surface of the pond. Her own vomit, a blend of the pig shit, mucus and the remains of her breakfast flowed down across her chest and pooled in her lap. There it joined the turd she had seen prior to her first plunge. “First” she thought. How many more would there be? How many more could she take?

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“Duck her again, Duck her again” the crowd chanted with one voice. There would clearly be no opportunity for a confession or humble promise to “sin no more”. There was little of the “tender mercy” in the crowd that gathered around the pond. Mercy indeed is a characteristic of individuals, not of mobs. Any pity or mercy that one of them might have felt as an individual was submerged in a growing sense of “mob-ness”. The collective beast had discovered schandenfreude, the pleasure derived from another person’s misfortune or humiliation. The mob was in fact a beast that had been sleeping for the two hundred and fifty years that the ducking stool had lain unused in the basement of the village hall. Now that it had awakened it was ravenous. The first taste had only whetted it’s appetite. Now it demanded more and more. The only source available the wretched woman bound to the stool before it. Nearly naked, gasping for air and covered in filth.

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Again and again they ducked her. Now slow, now quick. Three violent plunges in rapid succession made a great splash. The force of her body driven into the water disarrayed her smock, the neck slipping over her shoulders and down below her breasts to her bound elbows. The crowd found the sight of those empty sagging teats, streaked with slime, oddly exciting. Anything that increased her humiliation added to the pleasure. A pleasure growing to ecstasy.

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Now they sought a new game. Teasing her with a chance to confess. Perhaps to escape if she could only tell them what they wanted to hear.
“Do you confess?”
“Yes please no more. Don’t duck me again”
“Are you telling us what to do? She needs more training. Duck her again”

“Do you confess?”
Gasping for breath she chokes out “I I ..” cough cough gag …
“Duck her again”

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Confession to scolding, a promise to reform, a promise to hold her tongue and keep her proper place. None of this was enough. Sobbing she said that this was only what she deserved. She had cheated them of their traditional entertainment. Even the exposure of her naked body required confession and a plea for forgiveness. No man should be forced to look upon something so ugly. “Yes, I confess, the sight of my body is so hideous that it can only be improved by this filth. I thank you good people for improving my totally worthless body.”

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