Scold’s Bridle: A Cruelty

“Do we have an understanding then, Mr. Biskup?”

Ivan Biskup disliked the way the smile was growing across the face of Peters; his neighbour, the unbidden guest to his garage workshop.

“No,” Ivan returned. “No, we don’t. Not yet at least.” He plucked a rag from the pocket of his trousers to wipe away the perspiration that jeweled his weathered face. The iron workshop was a stifling cell. The open garage door afforded no breeze but only the rays of the Dog Day sun to pour in like molten slag. “I don’t even understand why you, why anybody, would want a book like this, let alone have something made from it.”

The chunky volume sat upon one of Biskup’s worn workbenches. The book’s gold-leaf edging sparkled under the fluorescent lights. Cruel & Unusual: An Illustrated History of Torture Devices was the book’s title. The cover seemed to shout these words, with its thick, ominous typeface. Beneath the title was an arrangement of four photographs, each showcasing a different invention born of humanity’s boundless creativity and cruelty. Ivan recognized one of the items as an iron maiden. The other, he assumed, was a gallows, or some hideous rack-and-rope contraption designed to dislocate living limbs like corks popping from bottled champagne. The other two were line drawings of devices too esoteric for Ivan. He scratched the back of his neck.

“I teach history,” answered Peters, though Ivan had forgotten his question, “I want a device for a visual aid. It will help me teach a lesson. The neighbours tell me you work wonders with wrought iron.”

There was a fluttering noise as Peters flicked open the book to an earmarked leaf. He tapped his finger on the page, coaxing Ivan to look.

The image might have been of a helmet. Ivan squinted his eyes and studied closer, concluding at last that the contraption was a mask of some description. Its frame was of curved iron bands and jutting screws and a few ornamental curlicues. Poking up from the top of the mask was a pair of donkey’s ears, fashioned in crudely hammered metal.

“You’re either joking or crazy,” Ivan said. His indignation had been made plain. “Folks around here aren’t going to let their kids see something like this in school. I don’t care if it is from some fancy history book. What’s this thing supposed to be anyway?”

“It’s called a scold’s bridle. It’s also sometimes referred to as a brank. In medieval times, authorities would employ it to remind certain people of their station in life.”

At that instant, a young mother pushed a pram along the sidewalk in front of Ivan’s exposed workshop. The woman gently rocked the carriage with one hand while with the other she waved a blue teddy bear before the open hood. Neither action consoled the infant, whose cries were piercing and persistent.

“Good morning, Allison!” Peters cried. He waved and grinned at her. Allison waved back tiredly. Peters then turned back to Ivan and mumbled, “That kid sounds like a boiled cat. Imagine hearing that at three in the morning?” He shuddered with disgust.

Ivan reached over and closed the book.

“I’ll pay you,” announced Peters. “I know you need the money.”

When he saw the expression on Ivan’s face, saw the way the older man puffed up his sizeable frame, Peters raised his hands in a gesture of peacekeeping.

“Please,” he began, “don’t take offence. It’s just…well, I watch. I see things. I’m good at taking little pieces of detail and seeing how they fit into a larger mosaic. This workshop, for instance. When my wife and I first moved onto this street, we’d see throngs of people on your driveway every Saturday and Sunday.”

Ivan nodded mournfully. “My sales. My Edwina used to help me every weekend…”

“I remember. I think almost every house on the block had at least one piece of your ironwork; fireplace tools, patio furniture, garden gates.”

“Every house except yours,” Ivan replied. He, too, was good at noting details.

“That’s why I’m here; to correct that. Besides, it’s been a long time since you’ve had one of your sales. I’d imagine your bills are piling up. And before you ask, I deduced this after your wife passed last year. My condolences, by the way. You haven’t hosted a sale since. I remember that day in January when your car wouldn’t start. You had it towed and I haven’t seen it since. The repairs must have been outside your budget. You’ve been practically housebound.”

Ivan emitted an unintentional sigh of lament. “If I make that mask,” he began, “what were you thinking of paying?”

Peters named a sum that stole Ivan’s breath.

“I don’t believe you,” Ivan said thinly.

Peters produced an envelope plump with bills.

At Peters’ insistence, Ivan counted them, fumblingly.

“How does a schoolteacher come up with that kind of money?”

“Family,” Peters said plainly. “Now, let me go over a few of the key details.” He once again opened the torture book to the chosen page.

“The scold’s bridle shown here is modelled on a donkey’s head. I gather this was a pretty common design; make the guilty party resemble a jackass, that sort of idea. But I came up with this rough sketch on this paper.” He produced a sheet from his shirt pocket. “The bridle I want is made to look more like a rabbit. See the ears?”

Ivan moved his head vaguely.

“As for the mouth clamp, the book suggests an iron band lined with adjustable screws, points facing inward. These can be tightened to various lengths, depending on how deeply the punisher wants to push the screws into the wearer’s gums…” Peters continued to explain gleefully, before finally asking, “Do we have a deal then, Mr. Biskup?”

Ivan’s gaze was tethered to the bulging envelope on his workbench. “Yes…yes, I suppose we do.”

 

*

 

He did not begin to work on the project until the sun had begun to sink, dragging with it some of the swelter. After a pauper’s supper of canned soup and an apple, Ivan wended his way to the garage.

The iron muzzle was the most labour-intensive of the bridle’s components. Mr. Peters had requested that the bit be lined with a gravel-like coating of barbs. A pair of chains linked the mouthpiece to the muzzle, and the whole contraption was framed by a network of flat iron bars bent to fit the exact measurements Mr. Peters had left on his sketch.

The following evening Ivan went about ornamenting the scold’s bridle with the jackrabbit ears of thin metal. He even added six pieces of jutting copper wire to the muzzle; whiskers for the bunny’s polished metal nose. The gum clamp was lined with double rows of screws and the mask’s interior was enhanced with thick spiky bolts. He scored the interior of the eyeholes and peeled back the pointed metal jags so that the wearer’s eyelids would, theoretically speaking of course, be nicked with each blink.

The third night was just a matter of tightening and buffering.

On the appointed morning, Peters came to collect. The metal monstrosity was secreted inside a white cardboard box that bore the insignia of a wine Ivan had never drunk. Peters peeked into the top, then gave what might have been a very faint nod. He neatly folded over the carton’s flaps, picked up his spoil and strolled down Ivan’s driveway without so much as a word.

 

*

 

From that day onward, guilt—inexplicable, burning, ever-present—became Ivan’s erstwhile companion. It weighted his frame like a millstone. When he did manage to steal a few hours of sleep it chewed on his psyche, causing dreams of tortures too gorgeous to ever be recalled by a civilized mind. Indeed, Ivan felt as if he was trapped in one of the devices from Peters’ book. He thought of the schoolchildren seeing what he’d wrought. He found that thought unbearable.

However, he had paid his bills and still had cash left over, enough to keep himself in drink for several weeks.

Finally, his guilt crested over into burning curiosity.

Ivan lay on the bed, listening to the windup alarm clock ticking at him from the nightstand like a clucking tongue. It punished him until daylight finally broke.

He sat up too quickly and for a moment the room lilted, yet it did not rob him of his clarity. He needed to know, needed to be reassured that he had done nothing wrong. Of course, his mask had been fashioned in good faith, as a teaching tool, but nevertheless, this rationale could not keep the ugly guilt at bay.

He rose and dressed. This morning he would have closure.

Not until he was out in the street did it occur to Ivan that he hadn’t bothered to check the time. It was early but clearly not too early; women and men on the street were jogging or were beginning their morning commute in their smart-looking business attire.

He thought he’d made it all the way to Peters’ house without being seen when the front door was startlingly flung open. Peters stared hard at him. His white Oxford shirt was buttoned to the collar, but the tie was hanging from his right hand like a limp scourge.

“Ivan!” he said with audible shock.

“I…” he began, clearing his throat as he struggled to find the words, “I just came to…”

Peters raised his hand and chortled softly. “I know why you’re here.” He pushed the door open wide. “You want to see your creation in its new home, yes?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Inside, the house was warm and stale. Heavy drapes kept out the light, kept the rooms obscured.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” lied Ivan.

“Come with me,” Peters said. “You’ll appreciate this. The scold’s bridle is not only beautiful, it works. Come. Wifey’s in the kitchen making breakfast.” The wave of his hand was childlike, playful.

Dread retarded Ivan’s rounding of the corner. When he finally willed himself to advance, his fear became manifest in the shape of the woman at the stove. Ivan could no longer move. His breath leaked out in a low moan. It felt like his organs had been replaced with ice.

She sheepishly sat down at the kitchen table whose single place-setting was for her husband, who casually sat, took up his fork.

The scold’s bridle crowned the woman like some gruesome headdress. The metal ears jutted up as though she was a startled hare listening intently for some encroaching predator. Aside from the cage on her head, the woman’s attire was quite normal, almost banal. She wore a robe of lavender satin. She was looking at Ivan, looking into him. Ivan could see her brilliant blue eyes, shimmering with tears of agony, shining out from the shadows of the Lepus mask.

“Dear, we have a guest,” said Peters. “Set another place at the table.” His tone was noticeably firmer now, more like a military commander than a spouse. “Have a seat, Ivan.”

Ivan nodded. Thoughtlessly he pulled one of the high-backed chairs out from under the kitchen table and sat down. He was happy for the support, for his legs seemed to have lost all their strength.

Peters’ wife retrieved a plate, coffee mug and juice glass from the cupboard.

“Here, let me…” Ivan said as he attempted to stand.

“No,” Peters said coldly. Ivan looked at him and Peters shook his head. “No,” he repeated.

She was facing them now. The metal bands that Ivan himself had manipulated so cunningly were now revealed in all their hideousness. The morning sun shone through the window with ironic brightness, causing the torture tool to gleam.

Ivan could only suppose that the woman was pretty, so smothered were her features. Through the slats Ivan could see her eyes, wide and wet with tears. They were the only human feature he could discern inside that orgy of cold metal.

“She likes rabbits,” Peters explained. “A jackass mask would have been too harsh.”

She stepped closer in order to set his place. As she leaned in Ivan was able to hear faint gagging sounds and the awful chink of teeth-on-metal. Her breathing was sharp but uneven, drawn and exhaled solely through her nostrils. A dark wet thread suddenly sprouted from the muzzle. It left a small red stain on the linen tablecloth.

“My god,” Ivan gasped before pushing himself erect. He turned and began toward the front door.

“I told you it was for teaching,” Peters called, but Ivan was already out the door. The rest of Peters’ spiel fell on deaf ears, for Ivan was too absorbed in shock and self-loathing to hear. The only words that managed to rise above the murmur were “You’re culpable, you know!”

Ivan rushed out into the day and squinted from the accusatory sunlight. He staggered back to his home. Once inside he went straight to the garage where the cordless phone was perched near his workbench. He had it in his fist and was about to dial when Peters’ words bored into him. He had been desperate, yes, but even this and playing up the grieving widower routine would only get him so far with the authorities.

Panic set in. The garage became stifling. Ivan flung the track door open. He breathed in greedily, his mind racing.

Ivan was so lost in his panic he did not hear the approaching footsteps.

“Are you Mr. Biskup?” a strange voice called. Ivan jumped at the sound of it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The woman in his driveway was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He’d seen her before: the young mother from the basement apartment down the road.

“Mr. Peters said I should talk to you,” she said.

“Talk to me?” Ivan sputtered.

Allison. Was that the name Peters had called her?

“He said you’d understand,” she continued. She moved to him, revealing her fatigue-ravaged face, her teary, reddened eyes. “It’s my baby,” she said. “He won’t stop crying. Day and night. I’ve tried everything; singing to him, midnight feedings, taking him for long drives. Nothing works.”

Ivan’s hand autonomously found his mouth and gripped it.

The woman held out a tattered envelope. “It’s all I can afford. I don’t need anything as elaborate as what Mr. Peters ordered. Here, I drew a sketch.”

She unfolded a colourful paper from inside the envelope. It was an ad from a magazine or catalogue. The infant in the photograph had been distorted, its wide and innocent grin gagged by a hectic thumbnail drawing of a chin strap and blinders and a spiked ball-gag forced between the tiny lips.

“I love my son, you understand? I love him. I’m not doing this to punish him. I just need some peace and quiet. I’ll only need this for a while…just a little while…just until he learns.”