by John Norman
The silvery creature began to whip about the inclosure. It frightened me. Once its rough scales struck the front of my leg, above the ankle. I cried out. I closed my eyes, gritting my teeth, my fists clenched, my body contracted. When I dared to open my eyes again, the creature was again at the farther fence of wands, motionless, facing me.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It had not escaped.
If it had not been for Ute I do not think I would have survived.
I seemed so weak and frightened and helpless. Ute, though a small girl, seemed strong, and endlessly resourceful.
She had shown me what could be eaten, and what could not. It was she who had shown how the water trap might be built. She had also shown me how to make snares of binding fiber, bending down small branches, and making triggers of small twigs.
She had also shown me how, with binding fiber, a log and a stick trigger, to make a snare large enough to catch a tabuk, but we did not actually make such a snare. It might have attracted the attention of a huntsman, and provoked his curiosity. The smaller snares would be more easily overlooked. Further, it would have been difficult for Ute and I to have placed the log in such a snare, and, besides, without a knife, and wishing to move swiftly, tabuk would have been heavy game for us. She had also shown me how to make shelters of various sorts and use a small, curved stick for striking down birds and tiny animals. Ute taught me to find food where it would not have occurred to me to look for it. I relished the roots she taught me to dig for. But I was less eager to sample the small amphibians she caught in her hands, or the fat, green insects she scooped from the inside of logs and from under overturned rocks.
"They can be eaten," she said.
I, however, contented myself with nuts and fruits, and roots, and water creatures which resembled those with which I was familiar, and, of course, the flesh of small birds and animals.
Perhaps, the most extraordinary thing Ute did, to my mind, was, with sticks, a flat piece of wood and some binding fiber, make a small fire drill. How pleased I was when I saw the dried flakes of leaves suddenly redden and flash into a tiny flame, which we then fed with leaves and twigs, until it would burn sticks. Over tiny fires, using rock-sharpened, green sticks, we roasted out catches. We had seen no other human beings since our escape. We had slept by day in Ka-la-na thickets, and moved southwestward by night.
Ute had not wished to build fires, but I had insisted upon it.
We could not eat our catches raw.
"Tal," cried Ute, greeting me a free person.
"Tal!" I cried, pleased, waving to her. I was very relieved she had returned. She had, thrust in her belt, the binding fiber she had used for snares. We always took it with us, of course, when we moved. Over her shoulder she had two small, furred animals, hideous forest urts, about the size of cats, in her left hand she carried four small, green-and-yellow-plummaged birds.
Tonight we would feast.
I, too, had been successful.
"Ute," I cried. "I have caught a fish!"
"Good! cried Ute. "Bring it to the camp!"
"Ute!" I pleaded, anguished.
Ute laughed and threw her catch down on the bank. She waded into the trap. I remained where I was, blocking the exit to the trap.
Ute approached the creature very carefully, in order not to startle it. It wavered slightly in the water.
Then, suddenly, very swiftly, Ute struck for it. It backed into the fence of wands and she caught it there, against the sticks, and, in a moment, it thrashing and squirming, she lifted it from the water and carried it triumphantly to the shore.
"Destroy the trap," said Ute.
Each time we moved from a thicket, if we had built such a trap, we destroyed it. This, incidentally, is a standard Gorean practice. He never leaves a trap set to which he does not intend to return. The Goreans, often so cruel to one another, tend to have an affection for wildlife and growing things, which they regard as free, and thereby deserving of great respect. This affection and respect, unfortunately, is seldom extended to domestic animals, such as bosk and slaves. The Gorean woodsman, it might be mentioned, before he will strike a tree with his ax, speaks to the tree, begs its forgiveness and explains the use to which the wood will be put. In our case, of course, aside from such general considerations, we had a very special reason for destroying the trap. It was a piece of evidence which might betray us, which might set men upon our trail. Ute waited sitting for me on the bank, while I pulled up the sticks of the trap and cast them into the bushes.
I then helped her carry our catch, she bearing the fish, and the small birds, to our camp.
"Clean the animals," said Ute.
I did not like her giving me orders.
"I do not want to," I said.
"Then build the fire," said Ute.
"You know I cannot manage the fire drill," I said, angrily. I had never been able to master it.
"Then," said Ute, "let us not make a fire."
"No," I said. "I cannot eat raw flesh! We must have a fire!"
"It is dangerous," said Ute.
"Make a fire, Ute," I begged.
"Then clean the animals," she said.
"All right," I said. I hated that job. It was so dirty, so sticky and slimy. Ute always wanted me to do it! Who was she to give me orders? I did not like her. She was stupid. she made grammatical mistakes in speaking her own language! I hated her.
With a sharp rock and a stick I started to work on the animals.
I no longer needed Ute. She had taught me probably as much as she could. I could now get along without her. Besides, she acted superior to me. I was an Earth girl, superior to Gorean girls! She acted like she was our leader. I had not told her she could be the leader! I hated her.
"What are you thinking of, El-in-or?" asked Ute.
"Elinor," I said, sharply.
"Elinor," said Ute.
"Nothing," I said.
"Oh," said Ute.
After I had worked for awhile, Ute, taking up a rock and a stick, began to help me.
I did not thank her. She should have done the work herself. I had spent the day fishing. She had only roved about the thicket, hunting birds and checking her snares.
Ute began to hum.
"Why are you humming?" I asked her, irritated.
"Because I am happy," said Ute.
"Why are you happy? I asked.
She looked at me, puzzled. "Because I am free," she said.
When we had cleaned the animals, and the birds, and the fish, which later job I left to Ute, for I did not like to touch the creature. Ute bent over the fire drill.
"Hurry," I told her. I was hungry.
Ute worked for more than fifteen minutes, bowing the drill, sweating, her eyes fixed on that tiny, blackened pit in the wood.
"Hurry," I told her. "Hurry!"
Then, at last, a tiny flame appeared, eating at the flakes of dried leaves on forked sticks.
In a few minutes, we had our fire.
Because we had more food than usual, we set up two small spits on forked sticks. When the food was done, we removed it from the spits, placing it on leaves. I was terribly hungry. It was now dark out, and the evening was chilly. It would be pleasant to eat by the fire, and warm ourselves, while we enjoyed our open-air repast.
"What are you doing, Ute!" I cried, seizing her wrist.
She looked at me, puzzled. "Putting out the fire," she said.
"No," I cried.
"It is dangerous," she said.
"There is no one about," I said.
"It is dangerous," she repeated.
I had no wish to eat in the dark, nor to freeze. "Do not put out the fire, Ute." I said. "It is all right."
Ute shook her head, undecided.
"Please!" I pressed.
"All right," smiled Ute.
But scarcely more than a Gorean Ihn had passed before Ute, suddenly, with a look of terror in her eyes, began to fling dirt on the fire.
"What are you doing!" I cried.
"Be q
uiet!" she whispered.
Then I heard, far overhead, in the darkness, the scream of a tarn.
"It is a wild tarn," I said.
The fire was now out.
"We must leave now," said Ute, frightened.
"It is only a wild tarn," I insisted.
"I hope that is true," said Ute.
I felt a shiver course my spine.
Ute began to destroy, in the darkness, the small shelter of sticks and leaves we had constructed.
"Bring what food you can," she said. "We must leave now."
Angry, but frightened, I gathered what food I could find.
When she had finished with the shelter, Ute felt about and, with her hands, scooped together the bones and entrails, the furs and scales, left over from our catch, and buried them.
As well as she could, she destroyed all signs of our camp. Then, moving swiftly through the darkness, I following, carrying what food I could, Ute fled out camp.
I followed her, hating her. I was afraid to be without her.
* * *
We moved southwestward through the great thicket, and then, finally came to its edge.
The night was dark.
Ute scrutinized the skies. We saw nothing. She listened for a long time. We heard nothing.
"You see, Ute," I said, irritated. "It was nothing."
"Perhaps," agreed Ute.
"I hear no more tarn screams," I told her.
"Perhaps they have dismounted," suggested Ute.
"It was only a wild tarn," I told her.
"I hope that that is true," she said.
Together, at the edge of the thicket, we ate the remains of our meal, which I had carried.
We wiped our hands on the grass, and threw the bones into the brush. "Look!" whispered Ute.
Through the brush, some two hundred yards away, moving in the darkness, we saw two torches.
"Men," moaned Ute. "Men!"
From the thicket, running together, we fled southwestward.
By dawn we came to another large stand of Ka-la-na, in which we, wearily, concealed ourselves.
* * *
Four days later in yet another thicket, one afternoon, Ute requested that I set one of our snares on a small game trail we had found earlier.
We had heard nothing more of pursuit. We had seen no more torches, following us in the night.
We had again escaped.
Swinging the loop of binding fiber, I walked along the trail.
There were small birds about, and I saw a scurrying brush urt, even a lovely, yellowish Tabuk fawn. I crossed two tiny streams.
Suddenly I stopped, terrified.
I heard the sound of a man's voice. I slipped from the soft, gentle, green path between the trees and brush, and fell to my stomach, concealed among the brush and grasses.
They were not coming along the trail.
I inched forward, on my elbows and stomach, and then, through a tiny parting in the brush, saw them.
My heart almost stopped.
They were in a small clearing. There were two tarns hobbled nearby. The men had made no fire. They were clad in leather, and armed. They were warriors, mercenaries. They seemed rough, cruel men. I recognized them. I had seem them as long ago as Targo's compound north of Laura. They were hirelings of Haakon of Skjern, his men.
"She is nowhere in here," one of the men told the other.
"If we had hunting sleen," said the other, "and could find her trail, we would have her in our bracelets before dusk."
"I hope she is red silk," said the other.
"If she is not when we apprehend her," said the other, "by the time we turn her over to Haakon she will be of the reddest of silks."
"Haakon might not be pleased," said the other.
The first laughed. "Haakon does not know which girl is red silk and which is white silk."
"That is true," grinned the other.
"Besides," pointed out the first, "do you really think Haakon expects us to return white silk girls to his chain?"
"Of course not, laughed the second, slapping his knee. "Of course not!" "This one has led us a merry chase indeed," said the first man, grimly. "We will make her pay us back well for our time and trouble."
"But what if we do not catch her?" asked the second.
"She is indeed elusive," said the first man, "but we will catch her." Laying on my stomach in the grass, listening, I moaned inwardly. "She seems intelligent," said the second.
"Yes," pointed out the first, "we saw her fire."
"True," said the second, "though she seems clever, though she seems intelligent, though she has well eluded us this far, she yet built a fire."
The first smiled. "Any girl foolish enough to build a fire," he said, "will, sooner or later, be caught."
"What is our plan?" asked the second.
"We know that she had a fire," said the first. "One supposes she was cooking. If she was cooking, she must have caught birds or meat."
"At the edge of the thicket to the northeast, days ago," said the second man, "we found the bones of brush urts!"
"Yes," said the first man, "and nearby, in this thicket, there is a small game trail."
"It is hard to hunt in a Ka-la-na thicket," said the second man.
"More importantly," said the first man, "brush urts tend to use such trails." "Yes!" said the second.
"Sooner or later, it seems likely, does it not," asked the first, "that she will come to the trail, to hunt, or set a snare, or see if one is sprung." "There may be other trails," pointed out the second man. "If we do not catch her now," said the first man, spreading his hands, "we will catch her tomorrow, or the day after."
On my stomach, carefully, silently, I began to back away. When I was several yards away, silently, bending over, noiselessly, I slipped away.
One thought was foremost in my mind. That I must find and warn Ute, that we might escape.
But then I stopped.
I crawled into some brush, frightened. They had always spoken only of "she." As far as they knew, there was but one girl to be caught.
I shook my head. No, I must not think such thoughts. But the men frightened me. They were rough, cruel men, mercenaries, ruthless. I could not permit Elinor Brinton, the sensitive girl of Earth, to fall into the hands of such hardened brutes. I had heard them talk of what they would do to a girl, even though she might be white silk!
Ute had been a slave before.
No, I told myself, no! I must not think such thoughts.
I found myself getting up and, calmly, walking back toward our camp. The men knew of only one girl. They thought there was only one of us. I must not think such thoughts, I told myself.
Ute and I must escape.
I smiled.
Ute had thought she was my leader. She had dared to give me orders. She had commanded me, Elinor Brinton, though she was only an ignorant Gorean girl, had dared to act as the leader of a girl of Earth, and one such as I!
She would learn better.
No, I cried to myself. I must warn Ute! I must warn her!
I was now nearing our camp, walking casually.
I remembered clearly what the man had said. "If we do not catch her now," he had said, "we will catch her tomorrow, or the day after."
They had pursued us for days. They would not give up the chase. They would have us.
I smiled.
Or at least one of us.
Ute was stupid, she was ignorant, she was Gorean, she did not matter. She was a crude, simple girl. She made mistakes in speaking her own language. She did not have my fine mind, my sensitivity, my delicate nature, my cleverness. She was, I reminded myself, of low caster. She was less, far less than I.
Besides, she had dared to treat me as her inferior, ordering me about, instructing me. I hated her! Pretty little Ute, whom men found so desirable! I hated her! I was more beautiful than she. Ute had been slave before. She could be slave again! I remembered she had once thonged me by the nose ring. I hated her. We wo
uld find out who was more clever. I hated her!
I threw the piece of binding fiber, which I had been carrying for the snare, which I had not set, into the brush.
"Greetings, Ute," said I, smiling.
"Tal, El-in-or," smiled Ute, looking up from her work. She was trying, with a pointed stick, to round a pit in a new board for a new fire drill. Usually, in our night journeys, we carried with us only the precious binding fiber. Accordingly, Ute often constructed a new drill.
"Oh, Ute," I said. "I set the snare far down the game trail. And as I was going away, I heard it spring and heard an animal."
"Good," said Ute. "What was it?"
"I don't know," I said. "I looked. I had not seen one like it before. It is some kind of brush urt, I think. It is very ugly."
"Why didn't you bring it back with you? she asked.
"I did not want to touch it," I said.
"Oh, El-in-or!" laughed Ute. "You are so foolish!"
"Please get it, Ute," I begged. "I do not want to touch it. It is so ugly." "All right," said Ute. "I will get it." She returned to her work.
I cast a frightened glance backward, down the trail.:Hadn't you better hurry?" I asked.
"Why?" asked Ute.
"Might someone not find the snare?" I said.
Ute looked at me. "Yes," she said. "We must take it down quickly." She put aside her work and stood up.
"Show me where you put it," said Ute, starting off.
"No!" I cried.
She turned and looked at me.
"You can't miss it," I told her. "It is to the left. You could not miss it." "All right," said Ute, and left the camp. My heart was pounding.
Stealthily, at a distance, I followed her. A short distance from the camp, I knelt down and picked up a heavy rock. I hid in the brush beside the trail, clutching the rock.
Suddenly, some hundred yards away, I heard a man's shout.
My heart leaped. They had taken her!
But then I heard the shouts of another man, and then of both, and a crashing through the brush.
To my dismay, terrified, frantic, her eyes wide, hands extended, fleet as a Tabuk, Ute was fleeing back down the trail.
"El-in-or," she cried. "Slavers! Run!"
"I know," I said.
She looked at me, startled.
I struck her suddenly in the side of the head with the stone.
