by John Norman
“The tarn, unburdened,” I said, “might have eventually reached the cot.”
“We shall hope so,” said Tajima, “its seeking fellows each bearing, presumably, a male of full weight, saddles, various accouterments, and such.”
“I think you were fortunate,” I said.
“I think so,” he said.
“How is it you are here?” I asked
“One supposes for the same reason that you are here,” said Tajima, “the need for shelter and food, for concealment, the desire for a refuge unlikely to be suspected, one not fond of the exactions of the shogun.”
“I had thought,” I said, “you had planned to fly directly north and at a height more suitable for reconnaissance than stealth.”
“That would have been quite unwise,” said Tajima.
“Clearly,” I said. “I am sorry.”
“Be not so,” said Tajima. “You train your tarnsmen well. If there is a fault here, it is mine, for I too much gambled on surprise and seriously underestimated the alacrity with which a pursuit could be brought aflight.”
“I would not have anticipated it, either,” I said.
I recalled how dismayed I had been when, en route to the palace road, to free Haruki and his fellows, if possible, I had seen the two tarns streaking northward, and one mounted doubtless by dangerous and pertinacious Tyrtaios, who, I feared, possessed the subtlety, training, and weaponry of the darkest of castes. I knew the black dagger was not easily attained; it is won in but one way, the ascent, as it is said, of the nine steps of blood. In many cities the caste is outlawed, but there are those, in such cities or elsewhere, who will pay for its services.
Tajima lifted the tiny lamp and surveyed the prisoner.
She lifted her head. Probably she sensed the light through the blindfold.
“I trust,” I said, “you have freed her limbs occasionally.” It was not as though she was braceleted, or chained.
“Yes,” said Tajima. “But I have left the blindfold in place.”
“You are thinking of removing it now?” I said.
“Soon,” he said.
The prisoner started. She was frightened.
“There is a lamp,” said Tajima, addressing himself to the prisoner. “Do not look directly upon it until your eyes have accustomed themselves to the light.”
The lamp, of course, was quite dim, and barely illuminated the single room of this hut, or shed. On the other hand, it would doubtless be painful if directly looked upon by one who had long been the prisoner of a blindfold.
Tajima placed the small source of illumination on a shelf to the side. He then put down the sack he had brought into the hut on the floor, near the sitting prisoner. I heard it touch the floor. It contained, whatever its other contents might be, some metal.
“Do you know, captive,” he asked, “whose captive you are?”
“No,” she whispered, frightened.
“I think you do,” he said.
“No!” she sobbed.
“Surely you know my voice,” he said.
“Let it not be he!” she pleaded. “Let it not be he!”
“You looked well,” he said, “turned, bound belly up, well extended, nicely stretched over the saddle apron of a tarn.”
“Tarsk!” she said.
“A pleasant thing to see a female bound so,” he said.
“Tarsk!” she said.
“As a slave,” he said.
“Tarsk, tarsk!” she hissed.
“I am going to kneel you,” he said.
“I am a free woman!” she said. “I do not kneel before men!”
Tajima reached down and lifted her beneath the arms, and placed her on her knees before us.
“Remain as you are,” he cautioned her.
Obviously she was furious at this humiliation, but she remained on her knees. How different she was from the impassioned, eager, tender, vulnerable loving slave who wants so much to be on her knees, and knows she belongs there, before her beloved master.
“Are you a free woman?” inquired Tajima.
“Certainly!” she said.
“She is barefoot, and has but a single garment,” said Haruki. “And the garment is rent, and soiled.”
“Twice,” said Tajima, “tarnsmen returned, circling about, at a great height, and we must conceal ourselves, once in the reeds and mud near a small stream, once in leaves and brush.”
“She needs a bath,” said Haruki. Pani, even of the peasants, are likely to be particular about such things.
“Tarsk!” she hissed.
“You are sure you are a free woman?” asked Tajima.
“Yes!” she said.
“When I commanded you from the board, over the pool,” said Tajima, “I addressed you as ‘slave’, and under that designation you obeyed.”
“That is sufficient,” I said. “In that act she pronounced herself slave.”
A free woman can freely pronounce herself a slave, of course, but this is her last act as a free woman. Her freedom is then gone. She is then only another slave, another vendible beast and property.
“I responded so to save my life!” she said.
“That matters not in the least,” I said.
“I do not know why I did that!” she cried.
“But it was done,” I said.
“I do not know why I did it!” she said.
“We do,” said Tajima.
“Why?” she said.
“Because,” he said, “you are a slave.”
“No!” she said.
“Do you wish to be returned to the board, to swim with the eels?” he asked.
“No, no!” she wept.
“Now, of course,” he said, “as you are a slave, you would be not only bound and blindfolded on the board, but stripped, as well.”
“I hate you all!” she cried.
“Beware,” said Haruki, “a slave is to be obedient, respectful, deferent, and pleasing.”
“Wholly pleasing,” I said.
“I am not a slave!” she said. “Free me! Remove the blindfold!”
“Are you hungry?” asked Tajima.
“Yes,” she said. “I am hungry. I am terribly hungry!”
“Are you prepared to beg for food?” he asked.
“Tarsk!” she cried.
“I suspect,” said Tajima, “she is now as hungry as a slave.”
“As other slaves,” I said.
I recalled the pathetic hunger of Cecily, Jane, and Saru at the supper of Lord Yamada. Indeed, as I recalled, Saru had not been fed at the supper. Hopefully, she had been given something later, either in the pen, or before her shackling in the palace. Perhaps, on the other hand, she must wait until the following day.
“I am not a slave!” she said. “Feed me!”
“She seems insufficiently deferent,” I said.
“As I recall, from the supper,” said Tajima to the prisoner, “you believe slaves should be whipped.”
“I am not a slave,” she said.
“But, if you were,” said Tajima, “what then?”
“If I were a slave,” said Sumomo, “I would, of course, be subject to the whip, as any other slave.”
“I think you are a slave,” said Tajima.
“No,” she said.
“Do you have a name?” asked Tajima.
“Yes,” she said, “Sumomo, free woman, daughter of Lord Yamada, Shogun of the Islands!”
“Slaves,” I said, “do not have names, unless it pleases masters to give them one.”
“I am not a slave,” she said.
“But you are hungry?” said Tajima.
“Yes!” she said.
“Are you prepared to beg for food?” he asked.
“If necessary,” she said.
“You may do so,” he said.
“I beg food,” she said.
“Properly,” he said.
“Please!” she said.
“Properly,” he said.
“I beg food,” she
said, pathetically.
“‘I beg food,’ what?” he asked.
“No!” she said.
“‘I beg food,’ what?” he said.
“I beg food,” she whispered, “—Master.”
“You heard?” inquired Tajima.
“Of course,” I said, “the slave has begged food. It is not unusual for a slave to beg food, particular if she has not been fed recently.”
“And in so begging,” said Tajima, “the woman proclaims herself a slave, and makes herself a slave, does she not?”
“Yes, if she is not already a slave,” I said.
“And in so begging,” said Tajima, “the slave acknowledges herself a slave, does she not?”
“Yes,” I said. A slave’s food, of course, as her clothing, and such, is at the discretion of her master. Indeed, some masters require small rituals at feeding times. “I beg food, Master,” “Please feed me, Master,” “Your slave would be fed, Master,” “Please, Master, feed your slave,” and such. Certainly, in such ways the girl is reminded that she is a slave.
He then cupped some millet, not rice, in his hand, and fed the slave.
“She eats like a ravenous slave,” said Haruki.
“She is a ravenous slave,” said Tajima.
“Please, more,” she said. “Please more—Master.”
“That is enough,” said Tajima. “We must be careful of your figure.”
An angry noise escaped the captive.
“She is slight, but seems exquisite,” I said. “I speculate she would look well on the block.”
“It is now dark,” said Haruki. “We must soon leave. I trust you will accompany us, noble Tajima.”
“Of course,” said Tajima.
“We cannot take this woman with us, as she is,” I said.
“Certainly not,” said Tajima. “I am prepared.” He then reached to the prisoner’s blindfold. I gathered she had worn it since it had been affixed by an Ashigaru, high on the platform by the eel pool. “Do not look directly at the lamp,” said Tajima, again warning the prisoner.
“Who are you?” she said, suddenly.
“Surely you suspect,” he said. “Surely you know. Surely you can recognize my voice.”
“You tarsk,” she cried. “You tarsk!”
She struggled in the cords.
“I hate you,” she said. “I hate you!”
The blindfold, slowly, carefully, unwrapped, was drawn from her head.
She regarded her captor, indeed, her master.
“Yes,” he said, “it is my bonds you wear.”
“I hate you,” she wept.
“You are the property of Tajima, officer in the tarn cavalry, liaison to the forces of Lord Nishida, daimyo to the shogun, Lord Temmu,” I said.
She squirmed angrily, helplessly, in her bonds.
Then, after a time, her struggles subsided.
She was well secured.
“We cannot take you with us, as you are,” said Tajima.
He then, slowly, and carefully, removed her bonds.
She regarded him, wonderingly, frightened.
No longer did she regard Tajima with derision or contempt, if she had ever truly done so. It was clear to her that she was in his power, and he could do with her what he might wish.
“Stand,” said Tajima.
She rose, unsteadily, to her feet, for her ankles had been bound. She caught her balance, and stood before us, frightened, bent over.
“Straighten your body,” said Tajima.
“Slovenly posture is not acceptable in a slave,” I said.
“I am not a slave,” she said.
“Straighter,” said Tajima.
She straightened her body.
“No,” he said, “not stiff, not rigid, but slim, supple, slender, so gentle and lovely that you might bend in the wind. Be as soft and delicate as the petal of a talender, as graceful as the fresh, young willow by the side of the stream.”
“Tarsk!” she said.
“Better,” said Tajima, considering her posture.
“Let me go,” she said.
“Will you flee to the eels?” inquired Tajima.
“No!” she said.
“It is nearly dark,” said Haruki. “Cut her throat and leave her behind. It will be more merciful than the eels.”
“Do not!” she begged.
“I do not think that she is fully pleasing,” I said.
“We can fetch a whip,” said Tajima.
“How am I to be?” she asked, plaintively.
“Be such that men will want you,” I said, “such that they will bid on you, that they will want you in their collar.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Be such that free women will hate you,” I said.
“Tarsk,” she said, “urt, sleen!”
“Stand as what you are,” I said, “stand as the most exciting, beautiful, helpless, vulnerable, and desirable of women, as a slave.”
“I am not a slave!” she cried.
“Head down,” said Haruki. “Do you dare look into the eyes of a free male without permission?”
“That is it,” I said.
“Good,” said Tajima.
I regarded her, as I had learned to regard women on Gor, to see them unclouded by hypocrisy, pretense, convention, and lies, to see them as they are, so fascinating, so special, so different, so wonderful, so designed by nature to be owned, collared, and mastered. Her face was lovely, her figure exquisite. Her wrists were slender, and would take bracelets nicely. Her feet were small, and her ankles were trim. Such ankles take shackles well. Light chain would hold her with perfection, as any such small lovely beast. Yes, I thought, she might do well on the block. How pleasant it is to buy women.
“Excellent,” I said.
“Beast,” she said.
“Her hair,” I said, “is slave long.” Indeed, it fell behind her almost to her ankles. Perhaps it had never been cut.
“Inappropriate, however,” said Tajima, “for a field slave.”
She looked up, startled.
“Do not move,” said Tajima.
“What are you going to do?” she cried, alarmed.
He had approached her with an unsheathed knife. He now stood behind her, one fist knotted in her hair.
“Do not resist,” he warned her.
“Do not!” she begged.
“You cannot be taken with us, as you are,” I said. “You might be mistaken for Sumomo, the daughter of the shogun.”
“I am Sumomo,” she said, “daughter of Yamada, Shogun of the Islands!”
“You are no longer Sumomo,” I informed her.
“Hold still,” said Tajima.
“She will have to have a new name,” said Haruki.
“If she is to have one,” I said.
“True,” said Haruki.
Not all animals, of course, are named. Consider a flock of verr, a herd of tarsks. Still it is common for slaves to be named, as this makes it easier to refer to them, to command them, and so on.
Tears welled in the eyes of the slave as Tajima, cut by cut, cropped her hair. Indeed, in my view he had cropped it rather short, even for a field slave.
“Good,” said Tajima, stepping back, well satisfied with his work.
I feared that Tajima had relished the slave’s shearing. To be sure, she had not treated him well, in Tarncamp, and elsewhere.
Disbelievingly, awed, with dismay, she put her hands to her head.
“What have you done to me?” she said.
“Very little,” he said, “as of now.”
He then sheathed the knife, and came around the girl, and stood, with us, appraisingly, before her.
“The white garment would surely be recognized,” I said.
“Certainly,” said Tajima.
“It is all I have!” she said.
“Remove it,” he said. “Do not fear, I have arranged another.”
“A slave is not permitted modesty,” I said, “no mor
e than any other animal, but unclothed you would obviously be conspicuous. Certainly nudity is easily noticed.”
In public, female slaves are almost always clothed. The most obvious exceptions to this are of an instructive or punitive nature. When a girl is new to the collar she is sometimes denied clothing in public. This well impresses on her that she is no longer a free woman. She is soon likely to plead for a rag or tunic. Similarly, a slave who has been displeasing may be denied clothing in public, as a punishment. Obviously a nude slave has little status amongst clothed slaves, even given the usual nature of the clothing likely to be permitted to a slave. Also, as an aesthetic note, one might remark the fact that most slave garments are extremely attractive on a woman. Indeed, they are designed with this in mind, the striking enhancement of her beauty. Many women have no sense as to how beautiful they really are until they find themselves in the garments of a slave. What garmenture could be more stimulating, more attractive, more provocative, or feminine? How could a woman be more female than in such a garment, other than, say, being chained nude to a master’s slave ring, or such? Too, I fear that such garmenture, and the collar, as both much enhance a woman’s beauty, have their appeal to her vanity. What woman, slave or free, objects to being beautiful? Indeed, what free woman has not conjectured how she might appear, so excitingly and beautifully clad? Nudity, incidentally, is not so rare amongst Gorean men, particularly those engaged in heavy labors. One thinks little of it in such situations.
“I am to be disguised?” she said.
“Rather,” said Tajima, “clothed appropriately.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“It is dark,” said Haruki, looking outside.
“Would you prefer to retain your white gown?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “It is light and thin. It conceals me but inadequately. I fear it even hints at my lineaments. It is humiliating and disgraceful.” She then turned to Tajima. “Where are my robes?” she said.
Tajima bent down and drew from the bag he had brought to the hut, a small wad of cloth. This he threw against the slave, who caught it, and then held it from her.
“What is this?” she said.
“It is the tunic of a field slave,” said Tajima.
“I cannot wear this,” she said.
“Cut her throat,” said Haruki.
She backed away into a corner of the shed where the light of the tiny lamp scarcely reached.
“We must reach the next village before dawn,” said Haruki.
