The Curses of Elsa
A girl with sand-white skin strolled in the common. Tendrils of flaming auburn curls spilled from beneath a kerchief that was tied tightly about her head. She had fine, intelligent eyes, silver pools of storm clouds that orbited around a vortex's eye of black. A set of narrow, bow-shaped lips graced her chin below a blunt, small nose. She was indeed a striking beauty, as many a stranger should stop and glace at the fair maiden.
"Elsa! Elsa!" exclaimed a young boy of her age, His dark hair falling from its pigtail into his eyes as he ran, grabbing her arm. "Jorsch, I believe I can find my way through the market square," she stuttered, a melodic voice broken by muted noises that made bystanders stare.
"Elsa! You know what will happen if anyone sees you..."
"If anyone sees me? All these people have done so far is go about their business. No exchanges have been made, and none has attempted to seize me."
"Elsa--" began Jorsch again, attempting to lead her away from the throng of shoppers.
But as his hand closed on her shoulder, she began to seize, her entire abdomen contorting and undulating, her arms shaking at her sides like branches in a gale. She bent and twisted, and he had to let go of her, or else he should be dragged to his knees. She bent double, and then straightened up again, rotating her hips and spine in through a series of strange contortions. Then, an audible pop emitted from her back, and she grunted, standing straight. Elsa looked squarely into Jorsch's eyes, and murmured, "I believe I can manage on my own." He began to reach again for her, batting at her arm as she passed by, but stopped himself. She might as well go see what would happen, he thought spitefully.
That fool.... She was new to town, a naive little git, who didn't know which side of an ox you tied the rope around. But he’d let her go, just so she wouldn’t complain…
She scampered off, her brightly colored shawl’s hem playing on the cool fall breezes that drifted into their tiny village. Sharp accents rang out, voices arguing over whose fruit was better. Wives drifted in and out of thatch-roofed cottages, trellises of grape vines and clematis growing near the doorways, covering windows that gaped with hungry dark mouths, beckoning visitors into their depths. She trotted down the road past these dwellings, towards the river where the ships sat with their wide white and blue sails catching the gentle winds.
She didn’t tarry, her azure eyes straying from the path before her only to study a bird or a wild flower. She cared not for the people, for they should soon shun her. But she didn’t let her thoughts linger upon such grim matters, for she was, in her view, what she was. There was no changing it. Life still flowed about her, and she lived it as well as she could. A cry went up, and someone pointed as she stopped, bending over repeatedly. She could feel the rays of anger that emanated from the people’s eyes as she stood, hunched, bending, shuddering, bending, grunting, now singing out in a strange, muted voice that raised the very hairs on their backs.
She tried to speak beyond the muddled murmurs she emitted, but all that came out was “schowoowarroacggghaolloowwwfoorraaagoooonaoooo…” Nothing she wanted to say would come out. The spasms continued to wrack her, and she still stood, barely keeping her balance as powerful muscles in her back and torso contracted, pulling her abdomen into an L-shape over and over. Finally, it stopped, and she managed to stand straight, holding her breath, she ducked away as quickly as she could, hoping to escape notice, veiled by the backs of the crowd itself. She skittered over the rutted, dusty ground, stumbling to her knees over a tree root that protruded. A yell from farther behind made her look up to see a man in a dark robe, his stern gray eyes staring down at her with strange solemnity. The man turned to another, his companion, whom stood in an identical dark robe, and nodded. Silently, they each took hold of one arm, and pulled her to her feet.
She at first turned wonderingly from one to the other. But they didn’t return her gazes, so she began to speak to them. But her voice came out in broken, disjointed segments as her body began to spasm. They held her by the elbows, each bracing a hand against her shoulder. Neither man moved nor spoke, their eyes unfocused, they stared at the ground, chanting in a strange way that scared her more than her body’s spasms. Then they began to move, dragging her too quickly for her to keep her feet beneath herself. It was painful, and she yelped in anger, hoping to get them to stop. They neared the town’s church, they slowed, met by a group of others, similarly clad in the black woolen cloaks. They began to chant in low, slow voices, and the two original assailants dragged her down the center aisle of the church. In the dusty shafts of sunlight, they dropped her, allowing her to sit on her bottom, scooting a few feet away from these terrible people. Tears had begun to spring up in her eyes, and she wanted to run, or to perhaps disappear altogether, like a ghost. She rolled over, throwing her feet in a position which allowed her to stand. On trembling legs, she sprinted towards the altar, sobbing wretchedly. Her worn leather shoes clattered on the floor as she ran. From nowhere sprang a man in dark woolen garbs. His outstretched arms snared her, a fly in his web. He had caught her, and now pinioned her hands behind her back. She still struggled, but did so in an exhausted, flailing way. At the foot of the altar, he pulled her to a chair. She was pushed into the seat, her arms now bound with rough ropes to its back. The stiff fibers of the rope cut into her arms, and she took in long, shivering breaths as people began to throng around her, their dark robes trailing eerily in the shadows. In fleeting, panicked thoughts, she realized that the priest was among the group. She also recognized deacon with a distinct rust colored beard.
Why were they doing this to her? Nothing made sense! Then a gong was struck. The priest bellowed something in Latin, his voice fluctuating with intones of anger and awe. More gongs were struck, and Elsa began to convulse again, as well as she could, for her upper body was fairly immobilized. Her hands twitched at her wrists, her feet, knees, ankles contorting and jumping in strange ways. Even her hips began to thrust themselves forwards from the chair, making it rock and bang against the wooden floor. More voices rose, a dozen darkly clad figures dancing around her in a frenzied clamor. As her body wore itself out, her mind caused her more pain. They were…exorcising her? She had heard tales of it before in the dark near fireplaces on cold winter nights. But this was happening to her? The voices rose and fell, now shrieking in gibberish-like nonsensical phrases, bellowing words that were alien to her ears.
The tones seared her conscious, the figures now much too close to her for comfort. She felt an innate need to escape, the vicious mix of rage, fear and sadness broiling in her soul. Then, out of this, she started to scream. The men now began their chant in more hurried voices, several syllables per second, their bodies drifting in and out of the ring of people. Another strike to the gong filled Elsa’s ears with liquid pain, and she screamed, her voice screeching stridently over the deacons’ and priest’s. In her rage of panic, she began to contort her hands more yet, the chair now jumping around in its proximity to the altar. As she let lose another wail, the back of the chair, and her head, collided with the base of the altar. A large cross came smashing down on top of her, and she screamed again, now from pain as splinters of glass and wood grazed her skin, ripping the epidermis. A large shard of metal met her fingers, but hung there, sticky with the blood and mess of rope. Now, she began to saw at the bindings, her mind almost closing down except for the fact that she had to be free. She heard little of the men’s bellowing, didn’t notice their flailing motions of panic and indecision. All she did was saw continuously at the ropes. Then, with a final jerk, they loosened. She rose, screaming, and sprinted away towards the first row of benches. A glass window loomed there, the beautiful crystal panes leaded together in arrays of gleaming rectangeles. Elsa whirled for a moment as a man in the robe tripped, falling towards the window. He fell through in a moment, and she now sought the escape route he had created, neverminding the crunch of glass beneath her feet as she landed on him, hearing him grunt. She sprinted off, her entire body spasming in sobs. In fleeting half-thoughts of desperation, she began to realize was no more to these people than a possessed foundling, and would never be more.
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Feedback Welcomed!
Now for some background info: Elsa is a girl in the middle ages who has severe Tourette's Syndrome, just as I do... Except in the fourteen and thirteen hundreds, people didn't understand what was happening when someone had tics.... Read these links to learn more about Tourette's. weblog.php?w=1441 <<Blog
topic39868.html <<article
PS:There was a woman with it a duchess, who had it in the fourteen hundreds, and she eventually went to live in seclusion due to bouts of screaming and cursing. But I want to work through the scenario of a common person with the same condition of in that time period. I will continued the Curses of Elsa soon.
Cheers!
--Voxina
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