The Leiry Loop

The Clothesline
A Transylvanian Folk-tale as re-told by John Leir, a Douche* story-teller

As I was traveling across the continents of Eurasia and Antamerica**, I came upon a queer little town hidden somewhere among the giant coniferous trees of the vast Transylvanian forest, unexplored and unchartered. The town, in itself, was modern (brick houses lying about) and prosperous, in spite of it lying absolutely nowhere. It was rich in culture and the arts, and the people were very warm in welcoming strangers, but the most striking feature that drew me in was the ability of the townsfolk to come up with bizarre stories in each and every thing they happened to lay sight on. For example, the dirt in the sole of my shoes or my toenails that I had failed to clip for years. It also helped that they speak fluent English. (I thought, at first, that they speak some sort of native tongue.)

My profession allowed me to stay for while and hear out these peculiar stories straight from the horses’ mouth. I managed to gather hundreds of those, which I’m sure would catch the interest of many if I had the chance to compile it into a book. For the meantime, allow me to recount one of the shorter stories among the numerous rest. It was of the clothesline. Now, the story of the clothesline is a fascinating one, if not original, and very short. I will spare any reader of the boring details, like the names of the characters and the setting, and anything I deem unnecessary.

Once, there lived a young man who claimed he could do anything, from conjuring gold out of thin air to controlling the weather. Nobody knew where he came from, his objectives, or whether the rumours were true, but word spread quickly over the land about the mysterious lad and the people were all eager to meet the famed traveler.

He came, finally, on one of the towns under the protection of Her Majesty, The Queen. Upon arrival, he was greeted with the townspeople with cheers and celebration. It was indeed a festive mood, and everyone seemed happy that the traveler set foot on their quaint town. One by one, the sick and the disabled lined up behind the traveler like it was some kind of parade as he walked down the town’s streets, each hoping he, the miraculous one, would help them in their misery. The traveler, however, saw neither reason to stop nor to even look back on the unfortunates.

Still they believed.

Nightfall. The traveler passed the town without stopping and brought with him the unfortunates, and the people went to their beds, disappointed at the lack of performance expected of the man, yet at the same time happy that they got rid of their disabled.

Morning came again and to the surprise of all, the unfortunates were all gathered at the town square, all healed and well. They remembered absolutely nothing of the past night except the fact that they followed the traveler no matter where he went. When they came to their senses they ended up in their current location, feeling better than ever.

And the town rejoiced.

It was inevitable that this extraordinary event would reach The Queen, for she had her eyes and ears planted among her territory. The Queen was praised for her unrivaled beauty, but loathed for her greed. She wanted more power, more prestige, more strength, and more of everything. Thus, she ordered her army to scour the land and search for the young man. Not one of her soldiers were allowed to go back without promising results. A huge sum of gold was offered as a reward. She was resolved; very much resolved on finding what she believed would give him what she wanted most: divine power at her disposal.

It took almost a year, but they still succeeded on tracking the elusive one.

He was shackled and dragged in front of The Queen and her royal subjects. The man found her attractive and indeed he was awe-struck at the beauty in front of him, but he knew. He knew of his fate waiting to strike like a snake aiming at its prey. At the end of the day, he knew he was going to die.

For he was a fake, a trickster. None of the miracles he conjured was real. Not a single one was authentic. He was a stage actor, bored out of his wits and so him and his accomplices started on a journey fooling people along the way. It was his companions who posed as the miserly, pretending to follow and be healed. It was all just a scheme.

But The Queen would have none of it. He tried explaining the truth but she was convinced he was just trying to escape The Queen’s clutches. Both of them were desperate; both of them were blinded.

The man was sent to the dungeons, dressed in dirty rags. Three days and three nights was allocated to him; he was forced to make gold out of nothing, as proof. He was deprived of food, and was only given rainwater. At the end of the deadline The Queen would order the man be sent to the gallows, and be hanged in public.

And so three days and three nights passed, and the man was dragged once again out of the dungeons and into a public plaza with the people as witness. Slowly he was led up to the platform where the rope was waiting for his neck. The dirty set of rags that The Queen had let him wore would trip him, as if mocking. He laughed at himself, thinking that up until the very end he still had an audience, creating a spectacle.

Then he decided that he would perform one final trick.

And as a last act of retaliation, he shouted at the top of his lungs insults intended for the Queen, who took the liberty of watching his final moments. And The Queen, proud as she was, fumed in anger upon hearing the filthy words thrown at her. In her rage she came up with something evil, and ordered the thick rope intended for hanging tightened up sufficiently to induce more pain...

Of course, anyone who had seen enough crime shows on television or has considerable knowledge on crime and punishment (preferably in the Middle Ages) should know that the traditional hanging called “standard drop” is more humane than most variations of hanging. By suddenly dropping the victim, the cause of death would not be suffocation, but with force it would be enough to break the person’s neck, causing immediate paralysis and immobilization. The Queen thought, why give this insolent man a sudden and painless death when he can die writhing in agony?

So it happened, at her signal, which the man’s neck was wrapped around the rope, and he was, well, hanged, so to speak. However, he was lowered slowly: he was then left hanging, literally, as the tight rope denied him of air. It was a slow process, a torture of sorts. The man did not struggle but the unbearable suffering was etched deeply into his face. Nevertheless it still proved to be fatal and the man met his inhumane and shameful death.

It was not unusual in medieval times to leave the corpse of the hanged at the very spot where they were punished, to further humiliate it and also to serve an example to anyone willing to oppose authority. The crows would nibble at the flesh and nobody would care. The stench would be intolerable as the decay settled in.

Morning came yet again, sunrise beckoning the hard-workers to start with their tasks. Households nearby the town plaza prepared themselves for the sickening, vomit-inducing smell of the corpse from yesterday, and yet when they opened their windows and warily sniffed in the morning air, the expected never came. They cautiously looked out, and behold! The bloody corpse was gone, the traces of blood and the bits of flesh seemed like they were never there in the first place. The crows that flew and littered around appeared to have vanished, and what was left of the gallows was the rope, and the rag-dress of the prisoner clung in it, dancing with the wind, ever-mocking, as the faces of the people who bore witness went white in astonishment and disbelief.

Some say the man was taken by his friends to give him a proper burial, some say he was truly a mystical being and was able to escape unharmed. Some claimed it was all an act... but one thing happened after that fateful day, when the sun was shining brightly and the wind was blowing gently... the people took upon themselves a belief on a curse of The Man Hanged In A Rope, and everyday, without fail, they would hang their clothes in any kind of rope as tribute to the one who vanished, as if re-enacting the scene. Overtime, as customs were passed from generation to generation, one would only use the clothesline to dry out clothes under the sun, unaware of its tragic and eerie history and the purpose to which it was invented.


* A former citizen of DoucheVille, Twinkletown. The place was destroyed when a horde of mammoths went on a stampede and killed almost everyone residing in it, leaving only a single survivor. Douches are renowned for their ability to invent places, events, persons, etc. They would often include these in their stories claiming they are in fact, real. They’re obviously lying, of course. They're also douchebags, but everyone knows that already. 

** A patch of land between Antarctica and America, also known as The Berry Strait.