"Lohengrin"
LOHENGRIN

Elsa is accused, but she won't make a rational reply. She just tells the
assembly with a wistful, dreamy smile: "No, it wasn't like that. We were in
the woods, and we got separated. I was reading some poetry, and thinking.
He was rushing about. You know how it is with boys. I don't know where he
went."

Ortrud's version was unequivocal. Quite different. And damning. She won't
speak up herself now. It's for her husband Telramund to address the
meeting. She has one, Elsa doesn't. Oh, not that it couldn't have been
another way. No. Telramund had been supposed to wed Elsa, but they hadn't
found any magic in each other's company, even though as her guardian he had
many opportunities to persuade her of his merits. He completely failed to
seduce her. So, Ortrud, the wily witch, had seen her chance. She had seized
him, like a hawk falling on a rabbit. Ortrud was now only a handful of
words from being ruler of Brabant, if Elsa could be thrust aside.

Telramund speaks. "It was witnessed, this terrible crime. Elsa is
concealing the truth."

King Heinrich fidgets on the uncomfortable makeshift throne. He only wants
the Brabanters to stop squabbling among themselves, and provide a troop of
cavalry for his new war against the Hungarians. "Tell us once more of the
crime, for I fear the full assembly has not heard the details."

Telramund draws himself up to his full height. "Elsa," he spits, "Elsa was
with the boy. In the woods. Deep in the forest. But Ortrud, seeking
mushrooms and berries, was nearby. She saw them; brother and sister,
rutting like wild beasts. Her on top of him."

There's a rumble of displeasure, a deep communal gasp for breath from the
whole company. Hundreds of them, packed into the marketplace. A voice
shouts: "Monster." King Heinrich raises his hand: "Let him finish speaking."

"Yes, like beasts. She, seventeen summers, he no more than fifteen. A
crime against nature, and the laws of every land. And then, he fled. With
her in pursuit. Both naked. With her waving the sash from her gown. The
sash we found knotted into a noose, days later. Dangling from the oak, the
oak sacred to those devil worshippers of old."

There's a renewed gasp of fear. Heresy too, it's plain.

"But, no sign of that boy," he concludes. "What can we assume? But that
she murdered him to conceal her guilt. Her guilt at her filthy lust. That
she hanged him, then cast his body in the Scheldt. Or buried it in some
dark corner of the wood. He either sleeps with the crabs or with the
earthworms now, but Duke of Brabant he shall never be. And this evil
creature, his sister, now pretends to the title."

King Heinrich stills the rumble of disapproval with a bellow: "Elsa? What
do you say to these charges?"

Dreamily, Elsa replies: "Upon my life, they are not true. He was there,
then he was gone."

"And why is she so serene and guiltless?" Ortrud rages to her husband.
"Ask that!"

King Heinrich scowls at her.

"There must be a contest," he says. "It is how we Germans resolve our
disputes. We may choose today. There is the old way, of ordeal. Or we may
ask each of the accusers to name a champion, to fight on her behalf."

The crowd is hoping for trial by ordeal. Oh, how delightful, on a sunny
summer's day. To see these two young women, these rivals for the throne,
submit to the higher justice. To see them stripped naked and beaten in turn
upon their backsides, until one confesses her sins. Maybe that won't be
enough, and there'll be heated irons, other cruelties. There's a buzz of
speculation.

But Telramund is not anxious to see his wife birched, even though he
secretly admits that it would do her some good. Still her tongue. To see
Elsa punished, that would be good. But since she is a well-rounded young
woman, unlike the tall thin Ortrud, she might prevail in this contest, no
matter what the truth of the matter. Elsa is still smiling her distant
smile, staring into the middle distance. "Yes, an ordeal," she says softly.
"Tear my clothes from me, beat me until, oh, until..." Her hands are
squeezing at herself, immodestly.

"A contest!" King Heinrich and Telramund both exclaim.

"And I shall fight for the beautiful Ortrud. My fair wife, skilled in all
medicinal arts. And as truthful as the summer days are long."

Ortrud smirks at this, and simpers: "Oh, my lord. Thank you for staking
your honor upon mine."

"And who shall fight for you?" King Heinrich asks Elsa.

With a shudder of passion, she says: "I have long dreamed of my champion.
Coming to me in a dream. A knight so perfect. I don't know his name."

Ortrud spits: "She fucks her brother, kills him like a dog. Then this.
Hear her. She lusts for some unknown knight, someone she has no doubt met
in the forest. Real or phantom, we don't know. Some vagabond she is fucking
could be our king! Or she is making it all up, doing filthy things in
private instead of praying like a young maiden should. But that's her idea
of prayer, the blasphemer. Just look at her hands, look at her immodesty.
Know her for what she is!"

Elsa is hugging herself, in a very unchaste fashion.

King Heinrich shouts: "Elsa! Summon your knight, and cease this wanton
behavior."

Elsa looks upward, and silently prays. A nobleman standing by shouts:
"Where is the champion to defend Elsa's virtue? Step forward."

"If he doesn't appear, she is guilty," Ortrud gloats to Telramund.

"No," King Heinrich corrects her. "Not so simple. Lands and money are at
stake. If he fails to appear, then you must face your ordeal."

A long minute passes. No one appears.

"Strip these women," King Heinrich orders gruffly. "Bind them, and fetch
fresh birches. We will investigate who is telling the truth."

Elsa is already pulling at her own clothes, though the serving women
around her are urging her to wait. Ortrud unpins her robe and lets it fall.
She wears a thin shift beneath it that scarcely conceals her skinny body.

"Ask again!" Telramund urges, concerned.

King Heinrich looks annoyed. He is in the mood to see these two proud
beauties humbled. But knows he must not appear capricious. Again, the
herald cries out.

Elsa gazes into the distance, but begins to unpin her gown. "Bind me," she
cries. "I know I speak the truth. Whip us both, and hear who is the
sorcerer, and who is the penitent."

The two women are naked. Hands tied behind them with thongs. The assembled
men, and some of the women, look on with unconcealed lust. But they try to
not call out or otherwise mock the two. They are noble-born after all, not
serving wenches or farmgirls. Elsa is pale, blonde, and a woman of stature.
Broad hips, large breasts. Ortrud is tall, dark-haired. As thin as a
greyhound. Her skin dark, from her habit of gathering mushrooms and other
ingredients by day, unclothed. She scowls, radiating fearlessness. Ten
years older, but burning with sexual energy.

Birches and thornbush cuttings are selected.

"These women are proud ones," King Heinrich warns. "They will withstand a
lot of beating, Telramund. It would be best if you know the truth, for you
to speak it and save them both a great deal of pain."

"Like you, I'm tired of this intrigue. Let them suffer," Telramund replies.

And then, a distant horn. Moments later, coming into the square, a dusty,
shabby knight on a donkey with a stylized white swan painted upon his
battered, dented shield. There's some puzzled laughter as he shouts loudly:
"Hail! Landlord, an ale! I'll take a lass, too. The fat one, if you're
giving them away."

King Heinrich roars: "Who are you, stranger? How dare you profane our
judicial proceedings in such a fashion?"

The stranger bows. "My lord, forgive me. I didn't recognize you! I am just
a poor wayfarer, a knight-errant. But I meant what I said, I would be glad
to extend the hand of friendship, and plenty more, to the comely young
woman you seem so intent on mistreating."

Elsa gasps: "It's him. Oh god, it's him."

The crowd murmur. "Her knight. Her champion."

The newcomer looks around, shaking his head. "Really? Oh, I have a skill
at intervening. By accident, usually. At getting in the middle of things.
At ending up defending the good against the evil. Champion of the Underdog,
that's me. So what's the story here?"

"You are Elsa's Champion? Ha!" Telramund scoffs. "I could break you with
one hand!"

The stranger turns to stare at his burly, bearded accuser.

"I can see what you can do with one hand," he replies calmly, making a
reciprocating gesture.

Telramund's men are outraged. Swords leap from scabbards. The stranger
draws his.

He smiles, nods to the naked, quivering Elsa. "Well, I think I have been
nominated as your champion, by default."

"My lord, all I have is yours, my body, my soul, my kingdom, if you will
defend me," Elsa sobs.

The stranger shrugs. "We'll discuss the details later."

"Fight fairly, you two," King Heinrich counsels. "Like good Germans should."

The two men circle each other. The stranger teases: "Is the skinny bitch a
good fuck? Looks like a miserable slut to me. Still, you seem the kind who
prefers boys, anyway. She like it up the ass? Good if you have a skinny
dick like yours."

With a roar Telramund rushes at him, raising his sword high, and taking a
wild swing. The stranger steps aside, and gives a hoot of laughter at
Telramund's sword shatters on the stone post he is leaning against. With a
practiced move he kicks the hulking nobleman's feet from beneath him. And
puts the point of his sword against his throat. "Now, I was asking, how is
she?"

Ortrud would leap to her own defense, but both women are being held
tightly by servants.

The stranger smiles. "I'll spare you, but you have to answer the question."

"She's, yes, she's very passionate. Intense," the downed noble concedes.

"Sticky cunt? Well provided for in female charms, despite her lack of any
shape?"

"Yes."

"A drinker of men's seed, I'd guess from the set of her mouth. That pout,
I mean."

"Yes, she is."

Ortrud's eyes are ablaze with fury.

"But you do take her in the manner of the Orientals, don't you? From the
rear?"

"Yes," he sobs.

"Oh, see what I escaped," Elsa quavers. "Perverts. Oh, my gallant knight,
I am yours."

He gives a little bow. "Welcome. And, uh, do you have a name?"

"Elsa von Brabant," she says proudly. "Bearer of the true lineage of this
dukedom. A true heiress. And you, sir?"	

"You may call me Swanman. Or The Stranger. Or whatever you choose. I don't
answer to a name. It's just the way I am. And let it be a condition of our
happiness, that you never ask me for my real name. Promise?"

"Yes, sir," she says.

"But do you not know your father, your ancestors, the details of your
birth?" King Heinrich asks in astonishment.

"Oh, I do," the stranger replies. "But I'm not inclined to engage in
boasting contests. So I say nothing at all. It's easy enough."

There's a murmur of disbelief. But then some voices cry out. 

"Leave him be!" 

"He saved our Elsa!" 

"Hail the Swanman."

"He's the one for us. The Protector Of Brabant."

Ortrud is scowling angrily from the side. She kicks out at Telramund,
spitefully. 	"Useless clod! Now see what you've done." Elsa is being
wrapped in her gown, but Ortrud stands naked, rage in her eyes. The two new
friends wander off hand in hand, followed by the crowd. King Heinrich,
upstaged, shouts: "I hereby proclaim Elsa's innocence. Now throw these two
scoundrels out of town!"


Later that evening, Ortrud finds Telramund. Skulking beneath the city wall,
picking through the heap of possessions tossed to him as his rooms in the
castle are looted.

She's still naked. By choice, as her witch's right. But she is insanely
angry now.

"You stupid clumsy bastard. Can't you even use a sword?"

"He was too quick. Charmed."

"Charmed, my aching asshole. He was awake, and you were not. Now look at
us! Outcasts!"

"Yes, we are. And we deserve it."

"Deserve it? Be damned! No, we don't. No fatalism here, I won't allow it.
God, how I've been dishonored!"

"You? What about me?"

"You?" she scoffs. "I'm the one who has been insulted by every local lout,
asking if it's true? Do I really suck on men's pricks? Do I like to have my
asshole fucked?"

"You do," he says, "See, it's no disgrace if it's true. You do!"

"Yes, but it was my secret, until you told all the slack-jawed yokels of
Brabant."

"He had his sword at my throat. Razor sharp. What kind of fool do you
think I am?"

"I don't have time to even begin telling you. But we will have our revenge."

"How? Oh I regret ever listening to you, and your sorceress wiles."

"He is the sorcerer," she spits. "Not I."

"We should go."

"I'm going nowhere, until I brew his downfall."

"How?"

"I'll think of something. Come over here, Telramund." She's sitting on a
overflowing chest of clothes. She spreads her thighs, rubs hurriedly. "Yes.
Here. Kneel down. Help me find some inspiration. The witch's cauldron. Lick
it."

He does as she orders. And she dreams aloud, as he tongues her dutifully.

"We must break his spell. The illusion that he can keep his name secret.
His delusion that she is a pure, innocent woman."

He mumbles. "Speak up, man," she commands pulling his head back. "I was
saying," he splutters licking his lips, "that she may be pure, really." 

"I don't tell lies," Ortrud scowls. "I saw them fucking. Her and her
brother."

"But not her killing him?"

"No. I never said I did. That is a surmise."

"What can we do about revealing his name?"

"Oh, we'll have to make her doubtful. So that she asks him. So the spell
is broken between them."

"Good luck," he says.

She snorts, and presses his face into her lap again. "Make yourself
useful, if you have no ideas of your own."


An hour later Telramund has a sore tongue, and she has a plan.
Elsa is wandering. Everyone in town seems intent on drinking himself into
oblivion. Her knight among them, though he insisted he would be praying.
She walks the walls. Laments gently for her lost brother. Wonders who the
new man in her life is.

A voice calls out to her.

"Oh, spare me. No more! Oh, all the demons of hell could not be worse. I'm
disgusted at myself."

"Who's there, in such torment?" Elsa asks, anxiously.

There's just a long moan, and gasps and grunts, as though beasts are
fighting. Another shriek, then silence, just a faint panting.

"Hello?"

"It's no one, just a poor soul who has been cast out," a cracked voice
says. Ortrud, busy with Telramund, can't credit her luck.

"Ortrud?" she asks in surprise, recognizing the voice. "Is that you? Still
here?"

"Elsa? Oh, forgive me, sweet lady. I sinned against you. But I couldn't
stop Telramund, he is so impulsive."

"What are you saying?"

"That I sinned, and beg your forgiveness."

"That one who lied that she saw me, in carnal congress with my brother?"

"I still believe I did," Ortrud says, unrepentant.

"Your jealousy made it so. An illusion."

Silence.

"Jealousy of him, of my beauty," Elsa continues. "Of Telramund's need for
me, instead of you. Even though I rejected him."

A long silence. Ortrud is seething.

"Jealous? Yet now you are so high, and I am so low. I have cause for
jealousy, but feel none in my heart. Forgive us, please."

Elsa stares into the dark, then says: "Show yourself."

Into a pool of light under a guttering torch, steps Ortrud. Still as naked
as she was before. Her body now wet with perspiration. Somewhere in the
dark lurks Telramund, clutching his aching penis, rubbing again, wiping
Ortud's juices from his filthy mouth.

"Was what they said true, Ortrud?"

"What do you mean?"

"That you drink men's seed? That you permit a man to place his member in
your mouth? Or in your backside?"

"Yes, Elsa."

"Why?"

"Why not? It gives me pleasure. It would you, too."

"Never! I can't imagine doing that."

"You can. You could learn many things if you learned the wiles of a
courtesan. Many secret things. Like, a lover's true name..."

"Stop! Do you mean, my new knight?"

"Why allow him to keep such a secret, my lady? What kind of man is he? Low
born or high? What noble lady could permit such deceit? Allow him into her
bed without knowing the truth about him? But you could draw the truth from
him. Yes, you could..."

"No!"

"Elsa, do you want to know the truth?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then listen carefully to me...Remember my words..."


The marriage ceremony is over, and they are alone. Elsa and ... her knight.
Still no name has been given. And she is now growing angry at this
pretence. What if he is just some lowborn herdsman, a tinker, an outlaw?

With Ortrud's secret, she will find out. They hug clumsily. He begins to
loosen her robe, unpin it. She assists, saying: "I was so ashamed of being
naked in the square, when you arrived. All those people staring. But when I
felt your eyes on me, it was different. All the others seemed to vanish."

He kisses her, "Yes, Elsa. You were beautiful."

"I am beautiful, you mean," she corrects. "Or am I the 'fat one' to you
again? What did you mean by that?"

"I cannot speak seriously, except when I must. I meant it merely by
contrast with that horrible, skinny Ortrud. Don't be offended."

"I'm not. She is a nothing. But you seemed familiar with her wiles, young
man."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning her habits with men. From the familiar way you taunted Telramund."

"I have encountered many such, in my travels."

"Women who permit such liberties?"

"Yes."

"And you have grown to like them?"

They are both nude now, and rolling around on the bedroom floor.

"Not that much."

"Oh, so if I asked permission to suck on you, you would deny me?"

"Elsa, you are a chaste virtuous woman! How could you? How could such vile
words pass your lips?"

"Oh, I could, sir," she laughs. "If your vile prick passed my lips, I'd be
a very fortunate slut. Come, until it's hard enough to ride. Let me suckle
on it."

"Elsa!"

"Does it have a name, even though you don't?" she teases.

"Elsa!" he warns.

"Don't men all name their penises? What's yours? Is it Heini? Wotan?
Wurstchen? Odin? Parsifal? Richard?"

He claps his hands over his ears. "No, no, you mustn't ask that either!"

Outside, a flash of lightning, followed by a long angry rumble thunder.
Rain begins to fall, heavily. He sobs, staring at her in horror. "That's
not the way it can be, Elsa. I must keep all my names secret. My own, my
spear, my sword, my penis..."

"No name, no entry into Elsa's mouth, let alone her saintly, chaste
fuckhole," Elsa growls.

"You did fuck your brother!" he croaks, suddenly enlightened.

"Yes, but I didn't kill him. I was having too much fun. We both were."

"Why?" he recoils in horror.

"Because my father and uncle were both dead. And so many of the nobles
here are ugly. Smelly and ugly. I'd rather fuck a donkey. Had to, some
days. Oh, and I suppose you can't tell me the name of your donkey, either?
Huh?"

"He's called Schwann, if it matters so much to you," the stranger murmurs.

"And your cock?"

"No."

"Then, you'll get no Elsa."

He reels out into the storm, raving.


The next morning, the makeshift army is gathered. The Brabant cavalry are
waiting. King Heinrich sees Elsa in the distance. Distraught, supported by
her serving maids. From the other direction, Ortrud approaches. Still
naked, shamelessly defiant of the hungry stares of the soldiers. On a bier
behind her, her husband. Dead, face frozen in a joyful rictus. Thighs
spread, hands gripping his penis, all that lustful motion captured by rigor
mortis.

Ortrud laments, a mocking tone still evident despite her tears: "See our
unhappiness now. My companion is dead. Dead from his only joy. Everything
is lost. And what of you, Elsa? Where is your stranger now? The man of no
name? The sorcerer? Did you suck his secret from him? Are you one of us
now? One of the miserable?"

Elsa motions in the air. "He retains his grace, his mystery. Your idea
failed. Or I failed. But his anger is vast. I fear for the outcome."
>From behind the ranks of Brabant cavalry, the stranger appears, leading his
donkey. He bows to King Heinrich, and says: "I cannot serve, sir. I cannot
lead these men. I must depart, and leave them to another. Just as I must
leave the fair Elsa, for her presumption in asking my name, despite all her
promises to not do so."

"Who are you?" King Heinrich asks angrily. "What kind of idiot would
sacrifice love, a kingdom, loyal followers, for something so foolish as
keeping his name private?"

The stranger considers for a moment, then replies: "This idiot. I did not
seek a kingdom, nor love. They were thrust upon me. I gladly defended the
innocent maiden, though maiden she is not, nor innocent. Now I feel the
pull of my needs, and must travel on. For my sins, I am Lohengrin. My
father, Parsifal, you may know. My country, the castle of Montsalvat. We
tend the Holy Grail, and hope to do good."

Eyes are downcast, all around. Elsa weakly falls to her knees. Ortrud,
suddenly realizing her guilt, cries out: "Don't leave! It was I who killed
the boy! He rejected my love. Hanged him, and threw him in the river."

Lohengrin nods. "Then you must practice murder more carefully. Perhaps,
hang yourself before King Heinrich does it for you? But fear not for the
future ruler here. The boy lived, though he is a little shaken by his
ordeal and does not feel inclined to return here for another year. He is at
Montsalvat. But he will return."

Lohengrin mounts Schwann, his boots tucked into the old rope stirrups.
Ortrud rushes away, with a wail of despair.

Elsa leaps up, rushes forward, with a cry of alarm. "No. Stay. At least
until the young Duke returns. Keep this land safe. Don't just think of me.
Think of all the good you may accomplish, by so little a sacrifice."

Lohengrin stares into the distance, then replies: "Stay? Until I can think
of something better to do? Yes, I may. Why not? Doing good can be tiring."
He slips from his donkey. Motions to a herald. "Hey, you. Be useful. Stop
that one hanging herself. The whore. On second thoughts, she may help
educate people here." 

King Heinrich nods. "My thoughts exactly."

Ortrud is dragged back, a noose already tangled round her neck. She's
wild-eyed, spitting. "No, let me die! No more disgrace!"

There's a rumble of approval as King Heinrich tells her: "I'll decide when
there has been enough disgrace. You will remain captive until you have
demonstrated your penitence."

"Don't forget to whip her," Lohengrin suggests helpfully. "Often. So she's
sincere about it." 

"Yes. A public whipping for her. That's long overdue. But for now, cage
her, she is dangerous."

Ortrud looks about as grateful as she's likely to as she is chained, then
forced into a small cage on the back of a cart.

Elsa engulfs Lohengrin, tears on her cheeks. "I promise, you will be happy
here." He shrugs. "I will try. And so will you." As they walk away, arm in
arm, he says: "So, you want to do it now? Changed your mind? Want to swap
some names? Make some introductions? What do you call your cunt?"