John Norman

by Time Slave

  The screams of the women startled her. The dark shape, which seemed to fall from nowhere, stood beside her. The men shouted, springing to their feet. The man stood with his feet spread, in the fire itself, and then, slowly, angrily, lifted the spit from the tripods, kicking apart the burning wood. He carried Hamilton, on the spit, easily, well over his head, his eyes terrible. Then he thrust the spit a foot into the ground at the side of the fire.

  “Tree!” she cried. “Master!”

  But he had turned from her and was facing the leader of the Weasel People, who, warily, looking about, was backing away from him.

  She became aware of consternation in the camp. A man of the Weasel People lifted a spear in his hand, but the arrow, loosed from the branches at the side of the camp, already was piercing his throat. He tried to speak, turned and fell, breaking the arrow with his hands, then sprawling into the dirt.

  Men fought, hand to hand, with stone knives, with stone axes. The women of the Weasel People screamed. Hamilton saw Hawk strike the red-haired girl in the back, felling her, and leaping upon her. She saw Fox with the shorter, darkhaired girl, nude, her arm in his grip, thrust his prize to the side of the red-haired girl. They were thrust back to back; the wrists of each were tied behind her back with the hair of the other; they were then thrown from their feet and Hawk, with a bit of rawhide rope, lashed together their right ankles hobbling them.

  The leader of the Weasel People struck down at Tree with his ax but Tree caught the ax, and they grappled; then Tree, like an animal, insane with fury, was behind the leader of the Weasel People; one hand was on his upper jaw, the other on his lower; he broke the lower jaw away from the face; then, methodically, he broke the arms and legs of the man, leaving him in the dirt.

  Stone and Knife stepped away from bodies. Knife cut the head from his man.

  Arrow Maker strode into the camp, his quiver empty. Runner withdrew his spear from the back of one of the Weasel People.

  Flower ran to Knife, Cloud to Runner.

  One of the men of the Weasel People fled toward the brush. He met the ax of Wolf, who stepped over his body.

  The men of the Weasel People lay about the camp, fallen. Only one lived, their leader, helpless in the dirt near the fire, jaw and limbs broken.

  Tooth, his ax bloody, knelt to free Ugly Girl. She whimpered, and he took her in his arms.

  Hamilton put her head back, helpless on the pole thrust in the dirt. Her body was blistered. It stung.

  She saw Gunther backed against a rock. He had been disarmed. She saw Spear take the rifle by the barrel, and break it over a rock, then the other rifle, which had been William’s. William lay to one side, unconscious.

  Fox returned to the clearing. Preceding him was the girl of the Dirt People, who had once hidden in the granary bin during the raid of the Weasel People. Her wrists were tied behind her back. In the camp, Fox threw her from her feet and, with an end of the rope tying her wrists, pulled her right ankle up behind her, tying it tightly to her wrists, that she might not run. In a few moments, from another direction, came Hawk. His prisoner was the virginally bodied girl of the Dirt People, who had been saved from the sacrificial altar by the strike of the Weasel People. She had exchanged slaveries. She would find that of the Men even more complete than that of the Weasel People. The Men demanded more, as was the right of masters, from their females. Hawk put her to her belly and tied her wrists together behind her back, and then, with the same lash of rawhide rope, crossed, pulled up, and tied her ankles. He then turned her on her side, and left her helpless. She lay in the dirt. She looked after him, his by capture. Hamilton saw that his ax was bloodied, and knew then that, in the brush, he had killed for his lovely prize. Hamilton saw her eyes, as she, lying on her side, a secured slave, wrists bound to ankles, watched the hunter walk away from her, paying her no more attention. She was forgotten, until wanted. She knew then that she would have to strive desperately to please a hunter such as he. Hamilton smiled to herself. She did not doubt that the new slave, his by victory and seizure, would serve him well, like Butterfly, who now, freed of the female-holding pit, like the others of the Men, followed him, trying to touch him, to hold his arm, to press her lips to his shoulder. Good-naturedly, he shook her off, but she continued to follow him, closely, as closely as she dared.

  Hamilton saw Runner and Arrow Maker turning Gunther about, pushing him against the rock, and tying his hands behind his back.

  Tied on the pole, upright in the dirt, hands lashed to it, crossed, over her head, ankles crossed and tied, body tied tightly against it, Hamilton was helpless.

  She saw Tree turn and now, that the work of men, the killing, the victory, the vengeance, was done, face her. He motioned Hawk to cut her loose, and turned-away. Hamilton, bond by bond, was freed of the pole. She fell to the ground, crouching, scarcely able to stand. Her hands, and feet, from the lashings, were white. Her body was blistered, wet with hot honey.

  “Tree,” she called. “Master!”

  She held out her hand to him. He looked at her. He did not seem pleased. Tears formed in her eyes. She knew how frightful she must look to him, her hair muchly gone, cut away from her head by the women of the Dirt People, her scalp cut and scraped.

  “I love you,” she said.

  He frowned. Then he laughed, mightily, for he had been teasing her, with the cruel humor of the hunter. He grinned at her. Then he held open his arms to her, and she fled to him, weeping, putting her head against his chest.

  30

  Hamilton turned her head to one side. Her eyes were frightened. She bit her lip. “Old Woman!” she cried. “Old Woman!”

  “Antelope will fetch her,” said Cloud. “Do not cry out.”

  Hamilton struggled to her feet, bent over. “Lie down,” said Cloud.

  She felt wet. The interior of her right thigh, her right leg, her right shin, were soaked with water. There seemed so much. She had awakened. “Tree,” she had cried. “Tree!” Then she had cried with pain. He had taken the scent, and, getting to his feet, had left her. He would sleep elsewhere. She had cried for a woman. “Please, Cloud! Old Womanl Flowerl Antelope!”

  “Lie down,” said Antelope.

  Hamilton’s fists turned white with pain. She cried out. “Do not make noise,” said Antelope. “You will disturb the men.”

  Antelope lowered Hamilton to a sitting position. Her head was up. She could feel the water about her. She tore away, grimacing with the movement, the brief skirt and threw it from her.

  “Old Woman!” screamed Hamilton.

  Old Woman had not been killed in the raid of the Weasel People. When she had been led away, Hamilton had not known if she were alive or dead. Struck unconscious in the fall, Old Woman had lain at the foot of the shelters. She now hobbled about with a heavy stick, favoring the leg which had been broken, the pain of which had cost her her consciousness for hours, and had, inadvertently, saved her life from the Weasel People. They, like many predators, found inert objects of little interest. Left for dead, she had been found, several hours later, when the Men had returned.

  “Old Woman!” screamed Hamilton.

  “Antelope will fetch her,” said Cloud. “Lie down.”

  Hamilton, suddenly in the grip of the reflex, screamed. “Be quiet,” scolded Cloud. “Do not awaken the men!”

  Hamilton eased herself to her left thigh, lying on the stone. There was no pain now. Her eyes were wide in the darkness. She felt the stone, granular, against her body. She felt the dampness on her left thigh, where she lay in the wetness.

  With her own hair, which was now fully grown again, Cloud wiped her forehead.

  “Your hair is very beautiful,” said Cloud. It was seldom that Cloud paid compliments. Hamilton did not respond to her. But Hamilton was grateful.

  Hamilton lay in silence. She must try not to arouse the men. “Old Woman will come soon,” said Cloud.

  Hamilton, lying in the darkness, legs drawn up, frightened, waited.

  Four months ago,
when the men had fought a cave bear, contesting a deep shelter with it, with torches and spears, hunting it deep in its own lair, Knife had, suddenly, withdrawn. The bear, freed of the prodding spear, had leaped forward, striking Spear. The great claws had raked, like hooks of steel across the face of Spear, taking his left eye from his head, and blinding, with a long, hot furrow of red, his right eye. Spear, his face and head covered with blood, had fallen backward, the bear biting at him. Tree, from the side, on the bear’s exposed flank, had driven his stone-headed spear to the heart and the great animal, a thousand pounds of fury, thrashing, snapping the shaft of the spear, had rolled to the side of the shelter, biting at the rock, and died. “Why did you fall back?” demanded Tree of Knife. If the Men did not stand together, they would die. Each must depend on the other. He who saves himself slays his brother. But Knife had not been afraid. Knife was not a coward. He looked at the bloodied head of Spear, pulling the large man’s hands away from his face. Knife had grinned. “Spear is blind,” said Knife. “I am first among the Men.”

  Hamilton screamed, her head back. It was like nothing she had felt or imagined.

  When, at the end of the preceding summer, Hamilton and the others had been retaken by their men, Gunther and William, stripped and bound, had been brought back, too, to the shelters. Their clothing, weapons and other accouterments had been destroyed, cast in a river. Spear, and the others, not knowing the power of them, such strange artifacts, would take no chances. Even Gunther’s wrist watch, which Cloud had liked, was destroyed. Perhaps such objects had some strange affinity with their owners; perhaps they were loyal to them; perhaps they would betray or injure others, or strangers? They would be destroyed. Gunther and William, thus, hands tied behind their backs, ropes on their necks, herded by women, came naked to the camp of the men. They did not know what would be done with them. The leader of the Weasel People, his jaw torn from his face by Tree, his legs and arms broken, had been left behind for the leopards.

  “I want Old Woman!” wept Hamilton. “Please! Please! I want Old Woman!”

  “She will come,” said Cloud.

  With the men to the camp had come, too, the captive females, taken from the Weasel People, some of whom had been girls of the Dirt People. Hamilton, herself, with pleasure, had tied the wrists of the nude red-haired girl behind her back. She had knotted the coffle rope, too, tightly, about her throat; she had similarly secured the nude virginally bodied girl of the Dirt People. “You will learn what it is to be the girls of the Men,” Hamilton told them in triumph. She turned away. Already Fox had his hands on the waist of the red-haired girl; already Spear, grinning, stood before the virginally bodied girl; she shrank back, bound; she pulled back against the coffle rope; it stopped her; she, by her right arm, above the elbow, and her left ankle, was lowered to the ground. Before even the Men quitted the destroyed camp of the Weasel People, the newly captured women, tied in coffle, in the dirt, were well taught the domination of their new masters; but Tree did not busy himself with the new slave flesh; rather, four times, pounding, scarcely moments between them, he struck Hamilton with his force; it had been long since he had held a female body and he was not kind with her; the slave, Brenda Hamilton, clung to her master, her head back, her eyes closed, beaten by his body and will; so swiftly, so ruthlessly did he satisfy himself with her, that no common pleasure was permitted her; she held to him, as though for her life; struck again and again she gasped, and knew no simple pleasure, but that she was helpless again in his arms, that she again was held by him and that she belonged to him; she looked at him, adoringly; his will and might had again been impressed upon her; she pitied women who had never known such men; then, when Tree had again looked upon her as Turtle, and not simply a thing to beat and abuse for his pleasure, he alerted himself to her responses, it pleasing him to pleasure her, and, subtly and at length, reduced her to submissive splendor. She was, at the last, carried from the camp of the Weasel People in Tree’s arms, on the trail of the Men and their loot and captives. Behind them the camp lay shattered; behind them lay the fires, broken, sticks about, weapons snapped, dying ashes; behind them lay the coming of darkness, and the wailing of a man, broken jawed, broken limbed, who would wait for the leopards.

  She had not felt the pain now for more than five minutes. She recalled gentler times with Tree, among flowers.

  “Tree!” she cried out.

  “Be quiet,” said Cloud. “Do not disturb the men.” Tree had left her, to go sleep elsewhere when it had begun.

  William and Gunther had been brought, bound, and naked, to the camp of the Men. The women had thrown Gunther on his back over a rock, several of them holding him. Cloud, with a shell, had bent to cut his manhood from him.

  “Please,” had wept Hamilton. “Do not hurt him!”

  Spear had looked at Tree, who had nodded. “Stop,” had said Spear.

  Half in shock Gunther and William had then been put in the brief skirts of the women of the Men, necklaces tied about their throats.

  The women had much laughed. The children had struck them with sticks.

  Then the Men had hurled them into a pit in the shelters, roughly circular, more than twenty feet in depth, filled with refuse, infested with the brown rat. They had been left there to die.

  One night, the second night of the return to the shelters, Hamilton, with a torch, had crept to the edge of the pit.

  “Gunther! William!” she called softly.

  In the light, she saw William’s face, raised to her. In his left hand he held, by the left hind foot, a dead rat, more than a foot in length. It was partially eaten.

  He stood ankle deep in the bones, the filth. She saw there were pools of water in the pit.

  “You’re alive,” she whispered.

  He had taken the necklace from his neck. It was looped in the waist of the garment he wore.

  “Gunther?” she asked.

  “He is alive,” said William, blinking against the light of the torch.

  Hamilton fought nausea, the impulse to vomit from the stink of the pit.

  Hamilton lifted the torch. At one side of the pit, not sleeping, staring into the darkness, sitting, his back against the stone, was Gunther.

  “He’s dead,” whispered Hamilton, sick.

  “No,” said William.

  Hamilton looked down, tears in her eyes.

  “I make snares with this,” said William, lifting the leather strands of the necklace of the Men. “Sometimes,” said William, “I catch them with my bare hands, by feel. Sometimes I pretend to be asleep. Sometimes I let them crawl over my arm and then, like this,” he making a sudden grasping motion, “seize them.”

  “You will die in here,” said Hamilton.

  “What the rats eat we can eat,” said William. “But I must feed Gunther.”

  “He’s dead,” whispered Hamilton.

  “No,” said William. “He is alive.” Then he added, “His body is alive.”

  “What is wrong with him?” she asked.

  William shrugged. “He has met defeat. He has met hunters. He has met men greater than he himself. Inside his body, this has killed him.”

  Hamilton looked upon the body that had been Gunther, so mighty, so proud and fine. It now stared into the darkness. She suspected he did not even hear them speak.

  “Do not worry for him,” said William. “I shall keep him alive as well as I can.”

  The minds of men greater than Gunther, Hamilton suspected, might have broken under the dislocations of the last months.

  “Is he insane?” asked Hamilton.

  “I do not think so,” said William. “It is more like the will to live is gone.”

  “Gunther was so much alive, so strong,” said Hamilton.

  “He was not a hunter,” said William. “He thought himself such, but he was only a man of our own times, my dear Hamilton, a small man, greater than most, but frail, crippled, far from the mightinesses he envisioned. It is a tragedy. For such a man it would be best that he n
ever met what he conceived himself to be, one worthy of the spear, the hunt and knife.”

  “You are a kindly man, William,” said Hamilton.

  William shrugged. “I respect Gunther,” he said. “I admire him. He is, for all his faults, and mine, my friend.”

  “What can you do?”

  “It is my intention,” said William, smiling, “to continue to live.”

  “I must free you somehow,” said Hamilton.

  “Do not be foolish,” said William. “They would kill you.”

  “Do you care for these men?” asked Tree.

  Hamilton cried out. She almost lost the torch. Tree crouched in the darkness behind her. He had followed her. He took the torch from her. He held it up. William, in the pit below, stepped back. Tree looked down at Hamilton. “Do you care for these men?” he asked.

  “They are my friends,” said Hamilton.

  Tree looked at her. It was strange for a man to be a friend of a woman.

  Yet he did not think the concept could not be understood. Once on the height of the shelters, on the rocks, under the stars, they had lain together, looking up.

  “There are fires in the sky,” had said Tree.

  “Someday, perhaps,” had said Hamilton, “men will seek the fires in the sky.”

  “They are far away,” said Tree. “Once, when I was little, I climbed a high mountain, to light a torch from them. I could not reach them. They are very high. They are higher, I think, than the tallest trees.”

  “I think so, too,” she said, “but someday, perhaps, men will touch them.”

  “Do you think so?” asked Tree, turning to look at her.

  “Perhaps,” said Hamilton.

  “But we would have to build a ship,” said Tree.

  “Yes,” said Hamilton.

  “There are seas in the sky,” said Tree, suddenly, “for rain falls from them to the land. If we took a ship to a high mountain, overlooking the sea in the sky, we could sail to the stars!”