by J. D. Jensen
Nassara could sense the menace of the two. Then the headman clapped his hands, expressed a command, and Ahmood gestured at two of the whip-boys, who pulled Ugimba roughly to her feet and dragged her from the courtyard, away to the inner precincts of the palace, the headman following.
For a moment or two those left in the courtyard fell into an uneasy silence, servants and slaves contemplating the ways of their masters. Nassara was near the limits of her own endurance, every muscle in her body aching dreadfully, her lips so dry they felt like sand on leather.
Ahmood shouted an order.
‘It is ended now, girl,’ Babbushan consoled, slowly drawing the bolt from her, pulling gently by its chain until the final extremity of the shaft emerged from its dark bed into the light of day. ‘You are not hurt. Now you can rest.’ The stretched muscle of her gladdened portal at once closed in a settling spasm of contentment, the alien occupation no more within the confines of her body. Only a cold emptiness lingered there, as if the void required displacement. She ached, feeling the throbbing soreness.
Achoochi’s face danced suddenly into her vision. He carried a pitcher of water, holding it to her lips with a sad, anxious smile.
‘Drink, my little mistress,’ he said in faltering words that Nassara understood. It was the first time she had heard him speak, and she even managed to return his smile before eagerly gulping at the sweet, cool water, gasping as she drank. Never had she tasted anything as good.
Getting shakily to their feet, their limbs stiff and aching, the slaves stood uneasily in shocked contemplation.
‘What purpose is there of inflicting this cruelty upon us, to humble us so?’ Belithza risked whispering. ‘Is it to know how our masters possess us inside and out, having flayed our skins and wounded our minds? Now they invade our bodies and steal away even our inner private dignity. What fiends are these?’
Nassara wondered whether Belithza had the slightest notion of the purpose for their bolting, as she herself suspected in her own departed innocence, albeit that the hazy images were as yet vague in their impurity of detail, not wanting to reveal themselves to the fullness of clarity yet. But Nassara did not want to lift the suppressing veil of innocence from Belithza’s mind. It would be lifted soon enough. Then it would no longer be a shaft of metal, but her master’s own foul shaft of flesh.
Belithza did not wait for Nassara’s reply. ‘That servant master, the headman, his name is Mustaf-Kalig. I think he has taken Ugimba to couple with her, to soil her with his seed. Did you not see his eyes, how they look at her? By first whipping her he humbles her, making her powerless to resist his rotten flesh.’
Belithza paused, thoughtful for a moment, before continuing in a matter-of-fact tone, the expression on her face as sour as if the world itself disgusted her. ‘Maybe he will flay her again first. I have heard the whip-boys’ whispers that Mustaf-Kalig likes to feel his fingers on flesh recently flogged, and after he has loosed his vile fluid into her he takes her and whips her again.’
Nassara nodded, saying nothing, thinking only of blissful ignorance. The relieved slaves were dispersing, going to their respective quarters. She saw Zheeno glance back at her, smiling wistfully. Immediately love surged within her, seeing him walking stiffly, grimacing with every step. But Ahmood was watching, vigilant as ever, not allowing the male slaves to dally. As if knowing where Nassara’s eyes might focus he cast a disdainful look in her direction, and she quickly averted her eyes.
How dangerous were careless thoughts and careless glances.
Chapter 8
Nassara slept well that night, once the quiet sobbing of some of her companions eventually died away in the gloom. She awoke only once. It was still dark outside, the oil lamps dimmed in their depleted wicks. In the silence of the dormitory, only the steady breathing of the slave girls could be heard. Yet she felt uneasy, her sleepy eyes suddenly alert, instinctively seeking out the overhead grille. For an instant she saw the fleeting movement behind it and knew he was there, looking down at her.
Eventually she slept again and dreamed of Zheeno, but the dream was filled with jumbled images. He had the handsome face she knew and loved, but when she bent to kiss his forehead he reared up suddenly on the hoofed, hairy legs of a beast. He opened his mouth to her but the tongue was not of flesh, but of rounded metal thrusting out towards her. His terrified eyes seemed to beg her to pull it out of him.
‘Be still, do not move, I will take the evil thing from your mouth, Zheeno,’ she comforted, her mind full of both love and guilty repulsion, and try as she might to take hold of the protruding metal she could not grip its slippery shaft. It fell away from her, backwards and into him, sliding into his gullet, deeper and deeper. Then, with hurt eyes he looked from her, before turning and galloping away on clattering hooves, the end of the pole protruding from under his raised tail. Meanwhile the statue of the man with fierce eyes sat like a waiting hawk on his white horse, and came alive, laughing, as he watched Nassara’s weeping face.
Then she screamed.
Ahmood’s lash caught her on one buttock and she jumped, waking instantly, the agony already searing into her flesh.
‘Arribaja!’ he snarled down at her, raising the whip again to strike. ‘Arribaja!’
She scrambled to her feet, panting, a cold sweat already glistening on her body, quickly cowering out of his way. She had not even heard the bolts being drawn on the heavy doors, nor the usual stirrings of the alien palace, nor the youthful attendants bringing the platters of food and pitchers of juices.
‘You slept like you had already passed into death, and I felt joy for you, Nassara,’ Belithza mumbled to her as they hastened together to where the platters were being laid out, Ahmood still scowling at Nassara, ‘thinking that your body and mind were at peace; no more to suffer here.
‘What fresh evil must we suffer this day?’ she continued. ‘I feel our minds may soon be ripped from our bodies so we no longer control how we walk or talk. We shall become slaves without need of human comforts, like cattle in the fields, feeling only the whip on our hides or metal bolts in our flesh.’
But at least for that day, until sunset, there were no new acts of cruelty upon them, nor any duties to perform, nor even any dreaded assembly of prostration to endure. The slaves were left to themselves to wander the courtyard, or the galleries of their quarters, or to rest beside the trickling fountains.
Although always skulking in the shaded archways, the whip-boys appeared relaxed, scarcely with any semblance of watchful vigilance. Ahmood was nowhere to be seen, however, and there was only one of the black guards at the gates that led into the interior of the palace.
Ugimba was most in need of time for recovery, both in mind and body, a distant look on her face. She shuffled without purpose, every movement causing discomfort. The welts were raw across her buttocks, with scarcely a finger’s breadth of undamaged skin between them. Nassara’s pitying eyes studied the mottled purple and yellowed hue to the otherwise natural ebony glow of Ugimba’s flesh, noting how the discoloration had spread over each definable ridge. Only the sheltered slopes of her anal valley were untouched, but deep within it was another lingering cause of her discomfort, one that all the slaves endured, a dull presence of impurity it disturbed the inner sanctity of their loins and the void beyond.
But there had been much more to Ugimba’s sufferings before that night was out, beyond the gates to the inner precincts of the palace. Mustaf-Kalig, the headman, had taken her, even in her ravaged state and sore wretchedness, and quickly she learned her purpose. Fresh heights of wickedness came thick and fast upon her body, and her soul.
Like Jammina and Safarah before her – although by other fiendish masters – the searing thrusts tore Ugimba’s gossamer veil of innocence, groping hands clasping roughly at her damaged flesh, her mind trying to shut out the images of reality, the master smothering her with his sweating, smelly body. For what seemed an
eternity she endured his writhing, possessive movements on top of her, until finally he grunted, pushing her aside like some discarded piece of offal.
Once or twice she cried out, but the master desired no false complicity in the performance of slaves’ duties, appearing only to derive greater satisfaction from their torment. Newly lashed flesh was preferable to flesh as nature intended it, the cruel rod of bamboo having some turgid affinity with the impure rod of his flesh.
Nassara thought of Zheeno with fresh concern, wondering about the state of his external wounds, hoping they would be no worse than Ugimba’s. That morning she had not seen him, nor any of the male slaves, and there was always that dull throb of anxiety in the pit of her belly each day until she could confirm he was still there, and not spirited away during the night to some unknown fate.
As for Ugimba, Nassara gently tried to comfort her, going to her side and speaking in her ear in soft tones, hoping she would understand her words. Although communication was still difficult between the slaves, by now they had formed amongst themselves some basic semblance of a common language of necessity, learning each other’s words, and of course, learning more each day of the masters’ guttural tongue. Belithza was always the quickest to learn, and each day she listened intently to the servants and to the whip-boys, hoping to glean from them the slightest piece of information that might allow her to prepare for any new threat to their existence.
The two younger girls, Safarah and Jammina, had at first seemed so fearful and timid when they arrived, later tearfully enduring their ordeal of defilement of their innocence, but now they adapted quickly to the harsh regime, as though youth itself had made them easily resigned to it. Perhaps as each new hardship was endured the next became somehow easier to bear. Or had their minds simply become numbed against the mental and physical anguish, unable to perceive the wickedness they faced? Like young chickens in their coop, knowing the certainty of their imprisonment, might they not meanwhile take the plump kernels of grain fed to them and lie upon the warm hay?
Whatever the source of their resilience, the two girls had formed a bond, like sisters. They went together as a pair, whispering together, occasionally with secretive, excited giggling. Sometimes they even laughed aloud, and talked admiringly of the many rich things that adorned the palace, their eyes sometimes open in awe at the glittering jewels, gold, silver and rich trappings, even admiring their own golden bodily adornments. Such deceptive beauty, Nassara thought ruefully.
Thinking of that hostile place beyond the inner gates, she cast her mind back to that image of Jammina being towed there to her fate by the cruel leash, like a scampering dog. How the girl had held back, refusing to move forward until that first jerk of the leash pulled at her vulnerable flesh. With vivid pictures flickering into her mind, Nassara imagined first Jammina’s ordeal, then Safarah’s, then Ugimba’s, somewhere in that dark, evil domain of the palace interior, as virgin flesh was violated in such vileness of entry by demon men.
Yet time healed, Nassara realised, glancing across at Jammina, seeing how the girl’s fingers were absently fondling the slender chain and ring of one of her nipples. She ambled leisurely amongst the greenery of the courtyard beside Safarah, talking to her in low tones, her face bright and fresh, as if confident that the day itself held no hint of menace for them. Nassara remembered the dreadful look of shocked dejection upon the girl’s face when she was returned to the dormitory, seeing the traces of her own defilement between her legs.
Yet here were these same girls, happy together in the sunshine, their nubile bodies moving without any trace of concern for their prospects. Such resignation to their lot seemed amazing to Nassara, and she wondered whether Ugimba could so easily succumb to the inevitability of acceptance of the masters’ ways.
Nassara thought back to her home, and to her stepfather, not wanting to visualise the moment of his first treachery upon her. She wondered instead if there were any places on the vast plains beneath the moon and sun where evil did not lurk, and once evil had been encountered, could it thereafter be more easily endured?
Encroaching suddenly on Nassara’s thoughts, Belithza nudged her. ‘See how that Jammina girl walks like a young chicken that sees not the farmer’s hands reaching out to twist its neck?’ she said. ‘Like a chicken that happily fills its belly with its master’s seed, but without seeing how the seed fattens its body, making it plump and delicious for devouring, already forgetting the master’s cruelty.’
‘The girl is young, Belithza,’ Nassara replied. ‘Perhaps her life before was even worse than the extremes of this cursed place. See how her eyes feast on the rich robes of the masters, the fine satin cushions we sleep on, the silver platters heaped with food and fruits, the perfumed scents of luxurious lotions, and the glitter of gold all around us. Perhaps she has never seen such things before, and knows there is always a price to pay. If evil cannot be avoided, cannot its fruits therefore be eaten along the way?’
Belithza glanced at her with shocked disdain. ‘Nassara, how can your mind think this?’ she countered. ‘Should we enjoy, too, the whip on our flesh and the thrusting of the masters inside us? I shall only ever feel hatred for them and their rich things. I spit on them all. When they shall take me to foul my innards I shall curse them with silent words, my mouth twisted with my bitter hate, my eyes black with loathing.’
‘But you will not resist, Belithza? You will let your body be taken, and the masters will do with you whatever is their desire, and if you want to survive…’
‘I shall survive. I shall only let my body be defiled by these men because I cannot fight their will. But I shall not allow my mind to be taken and corrupted by such monsters. When the time comes for them to soil me, Nassara, look upon my face. See the sneering hatred I shall have for them as they whip me, or defile me. Even as they enter me with their vile flesh I shall curse them and hope the depths of my body are like poisoned wells to them, and that my juices and my blood will make their flesh whither and die!’
Nassara did not answer, wondering whether it would be as Belithza said, hoping that if so, for her sake, her master’s eyes would not witness such dangerous dissent of mind or rebellion of heart. She hoped Belithza would survive, and that her eyes of blazing hatred would go unnoticed at the moment of her defilement, and soften with fear and acquiescence in that final moment.
‘I hope poor Ugimba will find a way of healing her mind, even if the suffering of her heart is beyond healing,’ she eventually said. ‘She has suffered such dreadful agonies.’
‘But she will not be like Jammina, I hope,’ Belithza said. ‘Ugimba will have only hatred in her heart, and it is good to hate. Hate will be like food to our brains, making us strong.’
Nassara felt no less hatred in her heart, but there was also love – love for Zheeno – and love was more powerful than hate. Deep down within the weak embers of hope glowed. If they could survive long enough in this place, then there might after all be a slender chance somehow, sometime, to escape, to be together… butterfly and bee.
Even if hers were only a feeble, mocking dream, it was at least a dream to sustain her spirits, letting her survive another day. Whenever her time came, when the master eventually summoned her, then she would tightly close her eyes, making her spirit float above the act of her defilement. She would think of a flitting butterfly and a bee and let the pain of her flesh seep beneath her, into the lush silk of the bed cushions. Making her mind and every nerve of her body accept the act of her debasement, and in the reality of pain and revulsion, her soul would rise above the torrid scene and make her shut out the closeness of the master’s hateful body against her youthful innocence. Instead she would think of Zheeno, letting that wonderful contemplation protect her from the vileness of impure movements upon her unwilling frame, even from the sounds of those impure movements, even the smell of the master’s flesh on hers.
Then, just when her thoughts began to slide again i
nto the dark valley of despair, she caught sight of Zheeno and her heart leapt with joy and relief.
He was standing alone and silent beside a fountain, stooped slightly as before by the hobbling shackles, but dignified and graceful nonetheless. He smiled at her, keeping himself concealed from the nearest whip-boy’s view.
He emerged from behind the tall shrub as she moved nearer to him, furtively glancing around, and when he turned slightly, so as to keep a wary eye upon the whip-boy, Nassara saw how the ravages of the cane had dealt such terrible welts across his buttocks. She wanted to run to him, to kiss and embrace him, but she knew she must not. Ahmood would be lurking nearby, she was sure.
She smiled back at Zheeno, willing her spirit to fly to his. There were a dozen paces or more separating them, but she felt the radiant warmth and strength from his smile. It seemed she could almost hear his heart beating with love, and hope, and when he had to melt back into the bushes, a whip-boy strolling lazily in their direction, Nassara dared blow him a kiss, which before slipping away he blew back to her.
Several sunsets came and went after that first assembly of intrusive defilement. The slaves were left much to themselves again, as if allowing them to dwell contentedly in an extended period of respite, to be rested and to recover, readied for their next ordeal. Unsightly wounds must heal and bodies glisten again with youthful vitality, to be fresh for their masters’ capricious desires.
Yet the days had not been entirely free of duties. Each morning there had been another assembly. With dread in their hearts each time, the slaves prostrated themselves before the brooding figure of Mustaf-Kalig, whose cold eyes would briefly scan the two humbled lines, his only glimmer of interest seeming to be whenever he focused upon Ugimba’s nakedness. His eyes would sweep over the thrusting peaks of her recently flayed buttocks, gloating at the healing but still swollen welts across her flesh.
