A Cruel Passing of Innocence

by J. D. Jensen

  Then the lashings came fast and methodically; the whip-boys had found their mark. One after another in quick succession the blows rained down in a monotonous rhythm, drawing vivid cuts across both buttocks each time so that soon they were covered in angry welts, red and inflamed, rising vividly on his flesh as if the bamboo drew the skin out in the wake of each cut. A bluish-red bruising began to form on the paleness of his skin, and stifled gasps escaped his lips.

  After ten or so lashes Nassara could see his distress. He began to writhe, straining against the straps. His arm muscles knotted, his body trying to twist and buck away from the direction of the brutal cuts as they slammed repeatedly into his flesh. But the tightness of the thick strap around his waist denied him any freedom of movement, other than to wrench his arms and shoulders back away from the restraining straps of his wrists. Each time he did so in his unwilling reflex, so was his agony intensified by the snagging of the tautened flesh between his legs, a secondary punishment to the agony of the canes.

  His whole body started to tremble in an uncontrollable squirming motion as he fought against the excruciating pain, the muscles of his legs taut and quivering, sweat running down from between his shoulders. Yet only now did he cry out, no longer able to contain himself.

  The bamboos seemed to sing against the air as they swooped down, slapping starkly on his flesh with hollow thwacking sounds. In the aftermath of each flurry there would be a short, muted clangour of his chains. By now the cuts were slicing onto skin that had become lacerated wheals from the previously delivered lashes, some crisscrossing each other in shocking abundance of reddish furrows, until his buttocks were a ravaged mess. His body convulsed in spasms of excruciation as each new swipe thrust into him. His cries of anguish echoed around the courtyard, plucking at Nassara’s heart, making her tears of pity, love and fury sting her eyes again. How she preyed to close her ears and eyes to such vile torment of her dear Zheeno.

  Her lips moved in silent pleading, willing the vile onslaught to cease. Then, almost as if her prayers had been answered, the flogging came to a sudden, abrupt end. The headman held up a hand and the whip-boys stopped instantly.

  At first Nassara thought Zheeno had lost consciousness. He seemed to sag from the bonds and his head hung forward onto his chest. Then he appeared to revive himself, making pathetic tugging movements as if to free his limbs, moaning as he shook in the wake of his agony.

  Two other whip-boys moved hurriedly to the frame and undid the straps, first the ankles, then the wrists. Then the trembling slave slowly lowered his hands and grasped the crossbar for support. The waist strap was unbuckled and he stumbled back a pace from the frame, his legs barely able to support him.

  The whip-boys moved to his side, ready to support him should he fall. Now it seemed there was to be some measure of compassion, although perhaps this was merely out of consideration for the masters’ property.

  One of the fat men went to Zheeno, carrying a jar of soothing oils. Zheeno was helped to where the steps went down to the gloomy underground world beneath the palace, his iron shackles making their perpetual, discordant jangle at his every shuffling pace. Trying to retain some vestiges of dignity he walked stiffly, every rolling step agonising for him, his face a pale mask of misery. His lips trembled slightly, although he held his head high and his shoulders back.

  Feeling her love and admiration go out to him, Nassara watched as he disappeared from view behind the fat man, the two whip-boys trailing behind, as if keeping a respectful distance from him.

  For some moments there was a silence in the courtyard. Surely this was the end of the display of cruel instruction, Nassara thought hopefully. Surely the masters had been proficient in the demonstration of their ruthless power and authority. No slave would dare to mutiny again to deprive the masters of what was theirs, making sure to guard their lowly life from the heinous crime of self-inflicted death.

  But with astonishment and rekindled fear Nassara saw the headman raise his hand again, pointing in the direction of the female slaves. For some moments it seemed to waver over them, and for one appalling second Nassara thought it would rest upon her.

  But it did not. He was pointing at Ugimba. It was Ugimba who was to be the example from amongst the girl slaves.

  At first the poor black girl was slow to comprehend, perhaps still dazed by the dreadful visions of the merciless flogging. But slowly the terrible realisation dawned, and her eyes growing wide with fear she glanced helplessly towards Nassara, seeking some kind of reassurance that she might be mistaken.

  ‘Arribaja!’ Ahmood snarled, and raised his black leather whip threateningly. Ugimba struggled to her feet, looking around vainly for help. Ahmood shouted again, gesticulating with the whip for her to move towards the contraption.

  Nassara felt a helpless compassion for the girl, wanting to say words of encouragement to her; knowing she could not.

  For a second or so Ugimba seemed rooted to the spot, before Ahmood pushed her roughly, making her chains and bells jangle briefly. She stumbled forward a couple of paces, her glistening breasts heaving as her breathing came in shortened gasps of terror, the full horror of the moment swamping her tormented mind.

  ‘No… no… kind master,’ she gabbled anguished, faltering words. ‘No beat me… I beg no…’ She began to ramble in a strangely disembodied tone, as if on the very edge of sanity. But Ahmood only pushed her forward again, beckoning impatiently for two other whip-boys to come and seize her arms, and they dragged her to the waiting contraption. The other whip-boys gathered round, collectively hauling the girl’s wrists up to the leather straps at the top of the frame. The leather belt was pulled tight around her waist, so that her body could now only writhe hopelessly. She kicked out blindly at her tormentors, Ahmood growing incensed by her continued stubbornness, but finally her feet were pinioned and her weary protests faded, as if she recognised the futility of further resistance, her body suddenly limp, the whip-boys completing their work before standing clear of the girl, made ready at last for the punishment to begin.

  The girl seemed resigned now to the inevitability of her fate. She hung from the straps in the sunlight, almost languidly, her arms stretched above her. Only the nervous twitching of her fingers and the tremor to her body gave any sign of the acuteness of her distress. At one point she turned her head back towards the headman, as if to appeal one final time for clemency, but her stricken eyes were drawn instead to the two whip-boys who stood on either side of her, canes raised, sizing up their target.

  She wailed again, turning away, her buttocks clenching. She began to sob, but the headman only nodded and the whip-boys drew back their long canes. The tapered ends bobbed expectantly in their tensile elasticity, poised in readiness for the onslaught to begin.

  Ugimba’s magnificent buttocks thrust back like two ebony domes. Firm and rounded, they sloped up from her flanks, sweeping smoothly down again and inward to the shapely trunks of her thighs. The dark, velvety flawlessness of her skin glistened in the sunlight, and a small pond of perspiration that had gathered in the small of her back seeped down the scarps of her valley.

  ‘You poor, poor creature, how fearful they have made you, these wicked masters,’ Nassara muttered to herself, unaware that her whispered words might be heard. ‘What mothers did these fiends have to allow their sons to be so cruel?’

  ‘Shhhh, Nassara,’ Belithza breathed urgently. ‘The masters are demons with ears that perhaps hear the protests of our very souls. Do you wish to be dragged to that thing of torture and flayed?’

  Ugimba was straining her head round to see, as though strangely compelled to watch the work of her beaters, her eyes almost curious to witness the first downward thrust of the canes. They began their first descent, and in that second Ugimba’s eyes widened, her buttocks contracting again in anticipation of the dreadful impact.

  Thwack! Thwack! The canes slammed into her in quick succession, makin
g her buttocks quiver and contort, the courtyard filled with lingering echoes.

  They swung back again, quivering there for a second before again lashing down in two further almost simultaneous onslaughts, zipping against the air as they flew. Then again, out and back they came, the momentum gathering pace with every completed strike. The bending rods seemed to mould themselves around the contours of her writhing peaks, biting deep into them before rebounding again, away from each newly drawn furrow on her flesh.

  She screamed and struggled, the shock taking her breath away, but the ferocity of the flogging only increased. Nassara could no longer count the number of strikes raining down, perhaps already as many as those of the fingers on both her hands. With Ugimba’s pitiful cries ringing in her ears, she came close to looking away from the cruel spectacle, remembering just in time to keep her eyes fixed upon its progress. The vigilant stares of the other watching whip-boys were constantly upon the slaves.

  When finally it was over Ugimba hung motionless from the frame, unconscious since the last few lashes had flayed the punished cheeks of her bottom. The red rawness of the welts stood out starkly against the contrasting ebony darkness of her surrounding flesh; not that there was much that remained unmarked by the chastisement.

  For some seconds a dreadful silence hung over the courtyard. Eyes that were cruel, eyes that were aghast and frightened, eyes that were casual, as if accustomed to such displays, contemplated the girl’s streaked flesh.

  Finally Ugimba stirred, returning to consciousness. She moaned aloud, gasping for breath, limbs straining against the straps. Then, as if knowing the ordeal was at last over, she began to tremble as though seized by some terrible ague, and even the frame of cruelty itself seemed to quiver from her trauma.

  At first her moans were scarcely more than whispered, incoherent mumblings of protest and disbelief, as her mind struggled to come to terms with the shock and agony, not understanding why she’d been beaten so. Then, as the natural numbing anaesthesia of the body’s defences gradually diminished, so each buttock began to throb and sting mercilessly as they became alive once more, her moans grew louder, echoing in the poignant stillness of the courtyard.

  After they took her down from the frame, two whip-boys supporting her, they led her away to the cellars, one of the fat men following sombrely behind.

  The headman slowly surveyed the silent slaves for a moment, as if to reassure himself that the demonstration had served its dreadful purpose, the mind’s of slaves forever etched with the images of the masters’ cruel power and inhumanity and understanding the futility of dissent or rebellion. Then he clapped his hands to signal that discipline had been completed. A new dawn would surely bring with it the slaves’ resolve of absolute obedience, knowing beyond doubt that their only destiny was to serve the masters… in life or death, as it pleased them.

  The assembly was dismissed and silently the slaves wandered away, each in his or her dejected thoughts, scarcely daring to search out each other’s eyes, not wanting to talk or dwell upon the events of the day.

  Nassara glanced at the grotesque frame, thinking of the dead slave, of poor Zheeno, and poor Ugimba.

  Their faces downcast, seeming as troubled and fearful as those of the slaves themselves, several servants came to remove the frame, Achoochi among them. Timidly he glanced at Nassara, his expression one of sorrow and fear, quickly averting his eyes from her.

  Chapter 7

  The first weak rays of morning sunlight filtered through the window grille. Nassara had been awake for some time, listening to the occasional alien sounds from beyond the dormitory walls, and the miserable whimpers that came from poor Ugimba, who lay on her front all night, groaning with every fresh wave of pain. The livid welts crisscrossed her buttocks, lining the base of her back and the tops of her thighs.

  During the night, in the semi-darkness, Nassara knew for certain that she saw the watching figure of the master, Sulliman-Mahadji, behind the grille high up in the wall. She had instinctively felt his intense eyes upon her, and it was this, more than anything, which disturbed her thoughts, resisting her desire to sleep.

  The oil lamps were always dimmed each night, the flickering light scarcely sufficient to see the features of the slumbering slave girls, enough only to bathe their naked bodies in a soft, golden glow. Perhaps the master had the eyes of a cat, waiting slyly, observing its prey, biding its time.

  But even though she craved sleep it was already too late. The hated sound of sliding bolts from the other side of the heavy doors heralded the start of another uncertain day. Ahmood threw the doors open, and immediately the whip-boys were amongst the sleeping girls, goading them to wake with ugly guttural commands, loud and rude upon ears that were still drowsy. The whip-boys prodded and kicked their reluctant charges, whips raised, always eager to strike down.

  ‘Arribaja! Prezza! Prezza! Ashami!’

  The attendants scuttled in with platters of food and pitchers of fresh juices, busying themselves under Ahmood’s watchful eye. Achoochi was there, and gave Nassara a furtive glance before quickly averting his eyes again, a timid trace of a smile on his lips, being careful to avoid Ahmood’s gaze.

  Soon all five slave girls were being ushered down the stairway, Ahmood as usual striding arrogantly in the lead. Ugimba, stooped and wincing at each twinge of pain, came last in the procession. Nassara was just ahead of her, ready with words or gestures of encouragement each time her companion lagged behind too much.

  Jammina walked side by side with Safarah, who murmured quietly to herself, walking with almost mechanical steps. Belithza was in front, ever eager to catch some new phrase or word, listening for every sound and voice, knowing that knowledge might be the very essence of survival.

  Into the hazy peacefulness of the courtyard they were taken, and Nassara was surprised to see that Zheeno and his three remaining male companions were already prostrated on the flagstones, their shoulders and dipped backs already glistening with sweat as they strained forward in the unnatural posture of debasement.

  Her heart missed a beat as the ominous presence of the headman came into view. He watched the girls’ arrival, his emotionless eyes following them with mild curiosity as they went to their positions behind the line of male slaves. Nassara thought that Ugimba seemed to be the object of his particular attention, as if it were her whipped flesh that crystallised his lustful interest.

  ‘Abbaijsh!’ Ahmood growled. ‘Ashami abbaijsh!’

  The girls knew the familiar order, dreading the humbling posture and the discomfort that would come. Praying their unnatural position would not be for long this time, and feeling already the heat of the sun, Nassara knelt quickly, preparing her limbs for the straining posture she must adopt. The waiting and not knowing the purpose of the wait were the worst. But idle contemplation was a pointless anxiety, and a draining toll upon her resources of mental strength.

  As they settled into position the tinkling of golden trinkets fell gradually silent. Nassara tried to let her mind float above the courtyard, imagining she was a butterfly, rising to hover above the lush greenery. She imagined that her insect wings could take her up to the sky, to fly across the rooftop of this prison and to flee its paradise garden to another place… perhaps to a paradise of dreams, and not one of sad reality.

  Zheeno was in front of her, and daring to glance up she could see the ravages of the previous day’s beating, so obviously adding to his misery. But even in his humbling posture and the dreadful state of his buttocks, she felt a warm glow of love for him. Wanting to reach out and gently touch his punished flesh she almost moved her fingers towards him. How she wanted to soothe his thrusting buttocks, both so cruelly lined with livid welts.

  Her eyes descending to where the ringed pouch of his manliness hung limply between his legs, she remembered how he had hardened for her in that hellish ship. How she had marvelled at the rising texture of his arousal, remembering too ho
w her own body had seemed to come alive, her tummy fluttering despite the wretched misery of that disgusting hold.

  How much she wanted to be in his embrace again, and to lay with him amongst the lush foliage of some imaginary field of paradise a dozen sunsets’ march away from this place. She imagined guiding his risen shaft into her, almost feeling him there, warm and comfortable in the mutual passion of that first wondrous coupling. His lifeblood would infuse her with his strength as her flesh enveloped his, holding him to her, their young bodies owning the other. She could almost hear their own laughter and the rustling of their twinned nakedness in the grass, and picture the shimmering, pulsating halo above them as their spirits danced together in the sunlight.

  Even now she felt her body stir for him, imagining his muscled arms folding around her, and their entwined bodies writhing together in mutual, blissful ecstasy. Skin tight against skin, their loins would join as one, attached by a cord of everlasting, crushing love.

  But the stone of the courtyard was hard beneath her hands and knees, and it was not easy to divorce her mind from the discomfort of her straining body. Trying to lose herself to vivid fantasy she willed her thoughts to wander from unjust reality. She was a butterfly again and he was the noble bee, rising together on their fragile wings above the courtyard. There they could hover awhile, looking down at their tormentors before flying beyond the cruel palace walls… and away to paradise.

  Reality, however, soon smothered fantasy, and lumbering footsteps were all about them. Straining to see from the corner of her eye, Nassara caught a glimpse of Babbushan and a number of the other fat men gathering. Behind them in single file walked several attendants, their faces cast down as if somehow knowing the purpose of their summons. In outstretched hands each attendant carried a white porcelain bowl, containing some kind of short shaft of silver. Inserted into the uppermost end of each shaft was a ring attached to a slender length of chain. The objects rattled ominously in their white receptacles.