Quarry of Gor, page 11
But the men, interestingly, did not seem interested in pursuing her. I did not realize why this might be.
Surely she was of some value. Are we not all of some value?
“What a fool she is,” said one of my sister slaves.
I did not think her a fool, but I thought her act horribly ill-judged, and foolish. Surely it could only have been motivated by some terror or desperation. Surely she could not think seriously of escape. She, as we, was naked, collared, and branded. There is nowhere to escape to. The world sees us as slaves, and will keep us as slaves. The most that might be achieved, if one were not, to one’s dread and terror, returned to a displeased master, would be to fall into a new slavery and, as one would be recognized as a fugitive or stray, a far sterner slavery. There is no escape for the Gorean slave girl.
I was terrified even to think of escape. I did not want to be whipped. I did not want to be hamstrung, or have my feet cut off. I did not wish to lose my ears and nose. I did not wish to be run for sleen. I did not wish to be cast to blood-hungry plants. I did not wish to be tied in the woods and left for the feeding of wild sleen or the nibblings of urts.
So, I wondered, what could have motivated the slave’s effort to escape? What did she fear so terribly that she was willing to try to escape?
Still the men did not lower the longboat. “Let her go,” one of them had said. I did not understand this. Were they really “letting her go”?
“They are turning,” said a man. “They are closing in.”
I did not understand this.
“She will see them in a moment,” said one of the oarsmen.
“The fins,” said another.
There was, at that point, a scream of misery, a woman’s voice, a cry of unmitigated terror, from several yards to the right of the ship.
“Do you think she will have time to return to the ship?” asked an oarsman.
“I do not know,” said another. “She is a good swimmer.”
“She has turned about. She is returning to the ship,” said an oarsman.
“She swims well,” said another.
“She should,” said another. “She is swimming for her life.”
“Will we take her aboard again?” asked an oarsman.
“The captain will decide,” said another.
“Masters!” shrieked the girl. “Oh!” she cried.
“One of them investigates her,” said an oarsman.
“Oh!” cried the girl.
“And now another,” said an oarsman.
“I advise you not to thrash about,” said an oarsman, presumably to the girl in the water.
I gathered several of the oarsmen had gathered at the rail, watching.
I supposed that a thrashing in the water might, as it suggested injury or distress, lure in marine predators. Fish thrashing at the end of a line, might be half eaten before they could be brought into a boat.
“Oh!” cried the girl again.
“At least she is not bleeding,” said an oarsman.
I had heard of marine predators who could detect blood in the water at a distance of half a pasang.
“She has been displeasing,” said a fellow. “Let us bring her aboard, cut her, and then throw her back in the water.”
“Masters! Masters!” I heard.
I recalled something I had heard, from long ago, that sharks, even far from shore, may follow a ship for days, to feed on garbage thrown overboard. To be sure, such creatures are most likely to be found in the vicinity of shallower waters, where the sunlight encourages the marine growth which lures in smaller fish to feed. Such creatures, too, given their biological rhythms, are supposedly most active and dangerous early in the morning and toward dusk, in the morning after a night of hunger, one supposes, and, prior to the falling of darkness, to obtain enough nourishment to carry them through a foodless night.
“Please, Masters! Save me!” cried the girl.
“That big one is going to make its strike,” said an oarsman. “He is clearly satisfied.”
“He is going to roll,” said another.
The same extended, tapering snout which facilitates a smooth knifelike movement in the water militates against a direct seizing of prey. Accordingly, the creature rolls to its side to bring its wide, fang-lined, traplike mouth into play.
“Masters, mercy!” screamed the girl.
“Captain?” asked a man.
“Put down an oar,” said a voice.
We gathered then, from the foot of the ladder, under the closed hatch, in the hold, that an oar had been lowered, which had been seized by the slave, who had then been brought, cold, terrified, shuddering, and soaked, to the deck.
“Shall we whip her?” asked a man.
“No,” said a voice, presumably that of the captain. “Chain her to a deck ring. If we put her in the hold now I fear the other slaves would show her little mercy.”
“Gruel?” asked a voice.
“None for her until tomorrow,” said a voice, presumably that of the captain.
“Free the sail,” I heard.
“Yes, Captain,” said a voice.
There was a snap of canvas, and the ship surged ahead.
It was shortly after that that the hatch was opened, and I was allowed to come on deck.
The slave who had been recovered from the sea lay on the deck. She was on her right side, her knees drawn up. She was chained by the neck to a stout deck ring. She was still shuddering. She did not meet my eyes. Both her hands were on the chain that fastened her to the deck ring.
I looked away from her.
I could see the shore in the distance.
There were rocky beaches, and behind them, in places, trees. There were fields occasionally and, I think, orchards. We were too far north for vineyards. I saw more than one small village. Each, I supposed, had its Home Stone, probably as much cherished there, in such a remote, humble place, as were those elsewhere, even those of mighty cities, such as Ar, Turia, or Brundisium. And each dwelling, too, I supposed, even a shack or hut, would have its own Home Stone. In his own hut, with its own Home Stone, even the least of men, it is said, is a Ubar.
I heard a small sound of chain, and I turned about, again. The slave was now on her belly, on the boards of the deck, and she still held the chain in her hands. Then she wept and, putting down her head, kissed the chain.
I wondered, again, what could have tempted her to leap from the ship.
I was hooded and naked, my hands thonged behind my back, some days ago when I was assisted by him whom I took to be the leader of my abductors, his hand on my arm, down the gangplank of the ship in the harbor at Brundisium.
“Thank you, Master,” I had said, steadied.
I could sense the other men behind us on the gangplank.
One was close behind.
“The least cry, or untoward sound, from you, kajira,” said he who held my left arm, he whom I took to be leader of my abductors, “and you will have a knife in your back.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Oh,” I said, softly, wincing. I felt the point below my left shoulder blade.
Then I felt the boards of the wharf, thick, rough, and warm, beneath my feet. I could still smell smoke from the night before.
We went to the right for perhaps better than a quarter of a pasang. We must have passed more than a hundred moored vessels. It was early, but there was already business on the wharves, calls and cries, men coming and going. I heard the sound of a chain and sensed the passing of a coffle. Girls are commonly coffled by the neck, or wrist. In this fashion, freed of shackles, they can move more easily, more gracefully. The female slave is expected to move gracefully. Neck coffling is generally preferred. It is commonly deemed more aesthetically pleasing. Too, it is more secure. One might occasionally slip a wrist ring, but no girl slips a neck ring or, for that matter, an ankle ring. When a girl is chained at a master’s slave ring, it is usual to chain her by the left ankle. I became aware, gradually, uneasily, that most of the men who had left the ship with us had now slipped away. Two only were with me now, he whom I took to be the leader of my abductors and the other fellow, at my back, he with the knife. I did not know how many streets we might have passed, streets leading up, away from the wharves. The smell of smoke was stronger here.
The hand on my arm stopped me. I was then turned to the left.
“Ahead, climbing,” said he whom I took to be the leader of my abductors, “is the House of Anesidemus.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“On your neck,” he said, “is the collar of the house. It would be risky for us to have it removed at a metal worker’s shop, and madness for us to sell you with it on your neck. Too, we must be soon away.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I had seen little of my abductors for I had been muchly hooded, and when I was freed of the hood, they had been masked, muchly masked.
I had gathered, from accents, remarks, and such, that they had come from different cities, and different walks of life. I did not doubt but what had brought them together, in one place or another, in one city or another, in one tavern or another, in one brothel, or another, was a sense of what they had in common, ambition, a lack of scruples, opportunism, and greed.
I did not know what I should do.
I was uncertain.
I stood still.
Then suddenly, there was an unexpected, abrupt, loud report. I cried out, shocked, startled, in pain, and stumbled forward, almost losing my balance. I knew that sound, and the associated feeling, like fire, both from my original house of training, whose name and location I did not know, and from the House of Anesidemus, from which I had been sold. Had I not felt it before? Is it not an experience sufficiently familiar to an attractive, negligible female slave? I had been stung sharply below the small of my back, with a sudden, forcible blow, delivered with the fierce, swift flat of a man’s hand.
We are not free women.
Such things may be done to us. We must expect such things.
I caught my balance, and hurried forward.
I had been sped on my way.
Within the hood, tears of helpless humiliation burst from my eyes. I heard a man’s laugh, from behind me.
What brutes are men!
How they do with us what they please!
I moved on for a time. I was then sure that he whom I took to be the leader of my abductors and his fellow, he with the knife, how sharp and cruel it had felt, had now slipped away, doubtless now lost amongst the workers and passers-by on the docks. I stopped. Where was I? Where was the house of Anesidemus? I was suddenly miserable, and helpless, now no more than a slave on a far, exotic world. Where was Earth? Where was my familiar world? I had been brought here, in effect, as an animal, to be collared and trained for the pleasure of masters. I was naked, bound, and hooded. I could feel warm boards beneath my bared feet. Suddenly, how helpless and frightened I was! Hooded and bound, collared, marked, and naked, what is one to do, where is one to turn? Yet, was it not fitting, I thought, that I should be here, and as I was? Certainly I had learned on Gor how I, a natural slave, should be, and what I, a natural slave, was for. Surely I had well suspected such things, even on Earth. I knew I would train well. I had long known that I belonged in a collar. I pulled at the thongs fastening my wrists behind my back. How well they were pinioned! How easily, and well, did the men of Gor secure slaves! How vulnerable I was! I could not see within the hood. A soft breeze arose. It ruffled the hood, and I felt the air on my body. How sensitive, and alive, is an unclothed body! I stood still. There was conversation to my right. As far as I knew, no one remarked me. Perhaps a hooded, bound, naked slave was not that unusual in Brundisium, particularly in the dock district. I feared I should be moving or kneeling. Why should a slave be standing? Surely she should be occupied. Had she no fetching to accomplish, no message to deliver, no errand to do? I was suddenly alert. I heard the movement of robes passing me. Had that movement stopped, or had I been accosted, I would have instantly thrown myself to my knees, my head down to the boards of the dock. How different all this was from my former world! Somewhere ahead of me, I gathered, surely, was the House of Anesidemus, in which, yesterday, I had been sold. I, how incredible it now seemed, sold! Sold as the object, property, and animal I now was! I had no more to say about this than any other vended beast. Yet how natural, and right, that seemed to me. That I was a slave was now clear to me. I acknowledged it, and gratefully. It was what I was. Collared, I was a thousand times more free than I had ever been on Earth. I must try to reach the house, from which I would doubtless be turned over to someone I did not even know, who was now my master. I would try to serve him well.
Only a few Ehn before, I had been struck below the small of my back, a swift, sharp slap.
My fundament still stung.
I smiled.
Why should I be humiliated? Why, rather, should I not be grateful, be proud?
Let the free woman be humiliated, surely not the slave!
Commonly, I knew, it is only attractive slaves who are struck so.
The slave wishes to be attractive to men. Much in her life can depend on that, and, too, it is natural for her, for she is a slave.
How free one is as a slave!
I moved forward, afresh.
I must hasten to the House of Anesidemus.
It would not do for a slave to dally.
I must soon call out. Surely I required assistance. Surely I could beseech a master. Surely a man could see me to the House of Anesidemus. One might conduct me there, or turn me over to a guardsman, who would shortly thereafter deliver me to its cages. It must be near. I hoped I had not inadvertently passed it. I did not think so. Still, paving stones were now beneath my feet. Even a slave might help me, if she were not loath to do so, as my accent might betray me as a barbarian. Indeed, perhaps I might encounter another barbarian, as collared and marked as I. Barbarians might be rare in their collars, but they surely existed. I had been brought to this world as one in such a shipment, as one in such a catch, flock, or herd.
“Oh!” I cried, in dismay, for my right shoulder had struck against voluminous robes, these enveloping a figure as slight and soft, and not much larger, if at all, than my own.
“Stupid, filthy, clumsy beast!” cried a shocked, outraged voice.
“Forgive me, Mistress!” I cried, throwing myself to my knees, my head to the paving stones. “I am hooded. I could not see you!”
“Your accent!” she cried. “You are a barbarian!”
“Forgive me, Mistress,” I begged.
“Barbarians are sometimes in need of discipline,” she said. “They soon learn that they are abject slaves!”
“Forgive me, Mistress,” I begged. “I know well that I am worthless, and the least of slaves.”
Was it not so, I, as a barbarian? Yet I had heard that men often wanted us in their collars. How one understands oneself, when one is collared! Everything is then clear, perfectly clear.
Why, I wondered, as the other was presumably not hooded, had she not been able to avoid me, or warn me? Within the hood, I could not see, save for the sense of light or darkness. Surely such an unfortunate jostling, or contretemps, could not be blamed on a hooded slave!
“You struck against me,” she said, “you, not even Gorean, but a barbarian!”
“It was not my fault, beautiful, noble Mistress,” I said.
“Ah!” cried the woman. “I thought so! You deliberately discomfited me, a free woman!”
“No, Mistress!” I said, trembling. I had heard much of free women in my training, both in the first house and in that of Anesidemus.
“Lying slave!” she screamed. “Do you think me a fool!”
“No, Mistress!” I said.
“You convict yourself of deliberate insolence,” she said, “for which you might be cut to pieces!”
“No, Mistress,” I said, puzzled, terrified.
“You must be able to see in the hood,” she said, “or you would not know that I am beautiful!”
I sensed a crowd was gathering.
“You are free,” I said. “It is well known to worthless slaves that all free women are beautiful, and noble, as well.”
“Even of low caste?” she inquired, archly.
“In their freedom,” I said.
“I am of high caste,” she said, “as you can see through the hood.”
“I cannot see through the hood,” I said.
Why, I wondered, if she were free and on the streets, was she not veiled? Surely a veil, suitably draped and adjusted, might easily conceal beauty, as well as arouse speculation. To be sure, some free women, the taunting and more brazen, were careless of their veiling. How easy it was for a fold or two to slacken or part.
“I am of the Merchants,” she said, “as you can see.”
“I cannot see, Mistress,” I wept. “I am hooded!”
It was my understanding that the Merchants was not considered, at least generally, as a high caste on Gor. To be sure, they were generally accounted the richest of castes.
“So you compound your insolence,” she said, “by calling me a liar!”
“No, noble Mistress,” I said. “Perhaps noble Mistress is mistaken.”
“Hear the slave,” said the woman, presumably to those gathered about. “She dares to criticize a free person!”
“No, Mistress!” I protested.
