Though neither man was aware of the other’s presence, somehow, at that horizon where all thought dovetails, both men intuited that today, at long last, it would be accomplished. Today would be the end.

Scold’s Bridle: A Cruelty

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.”