The Elephant's Legacy.
And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? John 9:2
The day the elephants paraded in the streets of Leicester, a new page was written in the medical and history books. Over a hundred years after one elephant lifted one massive foot and set it down on the street, men would remember what happened in that moment - or what was thought to have happened in that moment.
In May 1862, the fair came to Leicester. Girls and boys ran into their houses, crying to their parents, "The fair's coming!" They talked to their friends about the garish coloured roundabouts they would see, debating whether this year they would be brave enough to try the swing-boats. Their parents thought of the stalls there, selling cheeses and clothing; the markets for horses and sheep and cattle that clogged the streets and filled the air with the smells of manure and too much livestock in too small a place.
The greatest attractions, however, were the wild animal shows. The massive wooden wagons lurched through the streets, the teams of Shire horses drawing them, straining with the effort. Between the cavalcade of wagons were the camels and the greatest stars of the show: the elephants. The crowds at the sides of the street goggled in wonder at the enormous creatures as they marched slowly past, their ears flapping against their heads, the sun touching their curved grey backs and outlining them in golden brilliance.
"They're so big!"
"I wanna see! I can't see - move it, you're in the way!"
"Can you see 'em, Billy?"
"Mam, look! They're huge!"
"They have nice eyes."
This last came from a young woman standing very near the wagons as they rumbled past. Her companions looked at her in surprise. "What's that, Mary Jane?"
"The elephants have nice eyes," she repeated. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with beautiful dark eyes and hair. Her cheekbones stood out harshly in her comely face, and she leaned on her friend's shoulder, her legs too weak to support her full weight. Her normally slender figure had thickened, showing her condition, and the group of women she was with exchanged glances.
One of them asked, "Do you want to go home, Mary Jane? Being out like this might not be good for the baby."
Mary Jane laughed. "I enjoy the fair, Verity! That will be good for the baby. There, see, there's the last one." She pointed to the last wagon. Ambling along beside it was the last elephant in the parade. It tossed its head nervously, and the crowd's cries rose in excitement.
"Look at its teeth!"
"Bet they could run you through soon as look at you!"
A couple of small boys, pushing each other and pointing, started waving their arms about and yelling, "Hey! Elephant! Have them teeth pulled out, elephant!"
The crowd pushed forward, and Mary Jane staggered, her crippled legs giving way; another shove from the crowd, and she fell into the path of the elephant and wagon.
She hit the hard, dusty ground and rolled sideways. She lifted her head and saw the feet of the elephant lift and fall, raising tiny puffs of dust; she felt the earth tremble at the impact. Her heart seemed to fly up inside her, and she could feel it pounding a terrified beat against her ribs. Her legs, always weak, were now completely useless and she did not even think of trying to move. Joseph, she thought. Panic rose as she thought of her husband, short, rugged and hard-working. Joseph, oh Joseph.
Dimly, she heard the shouts of the crowd, but all she could see was the feet of the elephant, lifting and falling, coming closer and closer, so close she could see each individual wrinkle in the grey skin. She shut her eyes, waiting... waiting... waiting...
"Mary Jane!"
The scream rent through the air and she felt hands grip her shoulders, pull her back out of the street, into the safety of her friend's arms. The world suddenly speeded up again, and Mary Jane found herself trembling all over, her hands clutching to find anything that was safe. Only then, now that it was all over, did she panic, breaking down into tears, sobbing with shock and fright into the hankerchief someone pushed into her hand. She felt comforting hands pat her shoulders, heard someone say, "Best get her home," and then she was being pushed out of the crowds into a small alley-way, out of the noise and excitement. Verity stroked Mary Jane's hair as she wept into her shoulder. "There, there," she murmured. "It's alright, now. It's alright."
Eventually, Mary Jane's tears slowed and stopped. She stepped back, wiping her eyes against her sleeve. "Th-thank you, Verity," she managed. She swallowed, then whispered, "Will you take me home?"
Verity took her arm and helped her crippled and heavily pregnant friend home. Once inside, Mary Jane collapsed into a chair, her body still trembling with shock. The sound of her shallow, ragged breathing mingled with the squeak and splash of the pump being worked, and Verity came in from the yard with a chipped mug in her hand. She offered it to Mary Jane who shook her head.
"Drink it," Verity insisted. She pressed the mug into her hand, and automatically, Mary Jane lifted it to her lips and drank. She smiled wanly, then more cheerfully.
"I feel a bit better now. Thank you." She handed the mug back and lolled her head against the chair back. Verity quietly went into the other room and took the thin pillow from the wooden bed. When she came back, Mary Jane was dozing, one hand hanging down, and the other resting on her swollen stomach, like a mother bird on her nest.
- - - -
Twenty seven years later, and the son of Mary Jane Merrick limped through Liverpool Street Station. His shuffling gait showed his exhaustion, and his lack of any luggage was enough to set him apart from the rest of the passengers embarking and disembarking from the smelly, smoke-belching trains. As he climbed the stairs, a boy came up behind him, and began questioning, "Mister? Why's your head so big? Mister?" His grin and taunting voice attracted two more boys who were watching, and they followed the small, stumbling figure with its mocking satellite, repeating again and again, "Mister? Why's your head so big?"
The figure in its bizarre veiled hat and voluminous cloak tried to walk faster, but this only succeeded in capturing the attention of more bystanders. More people began to follow, passengers and station staff alike, pointing fingers and staring, muttering curiously about this strange person. He tried to turn and go back through the crowd, but they hemmed him in, refused to let him pass. One person, a scruffy porter bolder than the rest, tried to remove the concealing black hat, but only succeeded in lifting a corner of the heavy brown veil. At once he stumbled back in horror, and the man underneath the hat jerked away, trying again to break through the ring of people surrounding him. This time he got through, but not before a hoarse shout had gone up. "It's a monster!"
He tried to head for the doors out of the station, but the crowd behind him had seized upon the porter's words, and the scream came after him like a rabid dog. "It's a monster! Stop it!"
The shouts reached the ears of two policemen outside, and they surged forward, ready to deliver punishment or help as the situation required. Seeing the excited and voluble crowd, and in the midst of it a terrified creature apparently on the verge of collapse, they realized the need for action.
"Here, break it up, break it up!"
"Move along people, please."
Forcing back the group of people who all seemed to be shouting different things, they helped up the person - was it male or female, they wondered? - and helped it to a bench by the wall, where it sat, shaking all over. The younger policeman wrinkled up his nose at the foul smell emanating from the person, but said politely, "Here sir, you just sit here a bit. Do you want to take your hat off?"
The person lifted its abnormally huge head and the policeman saw that there was a vertical slit in the hat's veil. It said something in a high-pitched voice, but neither man could understand what it was; helplessly the younger one asked, "Foreign? No speak English? French? Par-lay-voo?"
The crowd of people would not be held back by mere threats and began pressing forward again. "It can't speak 'cause it's a monster!" someone shouted, and the mysterious person at whom the speech was directed, flinched as though from a blow. The policemen, with a despairing glance at one another, tapped it on the shoulder and suggested, "How 'bout we go to the waiting room, sir?"
He rose, stumbled, and would have fallen if the policemen had not caught him. Hearing the voices behind them rise in a tumult of revulsion, disgust and shock, they quickly hurried the person into one of the third-class waiting rooms. Once inside, he retreated into the darkest part of the room and collapsed down upon the floor. The policemen tried again to make sense of his high and surprisingly flute-like voice, but it remained unintelligible. Finally, as they were about to give up, and with the shouts of the crowd growing in volume and emotion, the person fumbled in some inner pocket underneath his immense black cloak, and with his uncrippled hand, produced a small, creased oblong of pasteboard. He handed this to them, and they took it, reading on it the name of a Mr Frederick Treves, a surgeon with the London Hospital.
The men exchanged glances, wondering what this creature was doing with a card like this, but it was the only solution to their problem. Leaving the room and its strange occupant, they began issuing directions. Someone must send for this Treves, and more men were needed to keep the crowd at bay.
Inside the room, the person huddled in the corner, rocking to and fro with its head on its knees. Its slim, delicate, uncrippled hand again crept to its inside pocket, and drew out a small object which it brought up to its face so it could see through the slit in its veil. It was a small painted portrait of a woman, with beautiful dark hair and eyes. Joesph Carey Merrick gazed at his mother, Mary Jane Merrick and in his mind, he was remembering a verse he had heard her say when he was a child, before she had died.
Was I so tall, could reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with a span;
I would be measured by the soul,
The mind's the standard of the man.
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I think the ending needs work. Advice and abuse welcomed.
), but "Mary Jane" and "Marion" are almost too similar for comfort. Maybe you could change one of their names to a different one, just for the sake of less confusion?
)? Make me care. Add some layers to her character. Why was she at the fair in the first place? Why was Marion there to help her? From what I saw, Mary Jane was a free spirit who was going through a difficult pregnancy, and Marion was there to help her. Make your characters leap off the page; I suggest (even though this is just a short story) doing a character sketch for each one of these characters. You'll have something much greater in depth, and you'll have more loveable characters.
(and yes, I ripped off the style of Sam's crits 
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