Savages of Gor

by John Norman

  "Yes?" I said.

  "Must I continue?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said. I did not see fit to show mercy to her. She was a slave.

  "This time," she said, "I crawled to them on my belly. I put down my head. I kissed the beast's paws. I licked and sucked them. I cleaned them of dust and dirt, and filth, and all, dutifully, frightened, with my lips, my tongue, and teeth, even the nails."

  "Excellent," I said.

  It is common for a female slave to clean the feet of a man with her lips and tongue. But here she was put not to the man's feet, which is an honor for a slave, but merely to the paws of his beast. A splendid lesson for her, I thought. A splendid way for her to learn that her life had changed, that she was now a beast, that she was now no more than an owned, degraded, servile beast, that she was now no more than another white female of red savages. And again I recollected what was spoken of as the Memory.

  She looked at me, dismayed.

  "Yes," I said, "excellent."

  She put down her head.

  The woman, of course, had been being assessed for slavery. First, she had been stripped. In this, once the garments, and the tiresome robes of concealment, had been removed from her, once she had been exposed to the view of masters, fully, it had been determined that her face and figure, in themselves, did not militate against the plausibility of her being embonded; they were desirable enough, other things being equal, to be of interest to men. They were good enough, other things being equal, to own. There are many beautiful women, of course. Beauty, strictly, is not even a necessary condition for bondage, let alone a sufficient condition for it. Many women, in fact, do not even become beautiful, truly beautiful, until after they have been collared.

  In the second portion of her test, she had been commanded. On her knees, stripped, held, the club being lifted, she had become aware of the consequences of failing this second portion of her test. She had then, in effect, petitioned that this second portion of her test be readministered to her. She had begged then, in effect, to be given a second chance to prove her suitability for slavery. This chance, in the mercy of her captors, had been given to her. She had crawled to the paws of the savage's kaiila and there, on her belly, cleaned them with her tongue and mouth. This was a behavior suitable for a slave, even one who was not, at the moment, desperately striving to save her own life. Her performance at the paws of the kaiila had apparently been adjudged adequate by the savages. She knelt now before me, alive.

  The significance of the test is clear. In performing such intimate acts, and on the mere beast of the master, the humbled suppliant, the captured girl, acknowledges to both herself and others, nonrepudiably and publicly, that she is proposing herself as a serious candidate for bondage, that she is begging to be enslaved. Too, of course, such performances give the master an opportunity to observe the touch, the sensitivity, the techniques and skill of the girl. If she cannot even function at the paws of a kaiila what should one expect in one's own furs? If she cannot even do well with an animal, what reason is there to expect that she could do better with a man? The most significant aspect of this test, of course, is that it gives masters a means for determining not only whether or not the girl is truly begging to be enslaved but, more importantly, whether or not she is, truly, a slave. No girl is regarded as having passed this test who has not, in her performances, made it clear to all, save perhaps herself, that it is truly a slave who lies at the paws of the kaiila. This revelation becomes manifest through subtle behavioral cues, usually physical, but sometimes verbal, as well.

  I regarded the woman kneeling before me. That her brains had not been dashed out by the club of the savage indicated to me not only that she had, intimately and lengthily, in her performances, petitioned to be enslaved, but that she had, in these same performances, proved herself a slave. I wondered if she knew that she was a slave. I surmised that she still thought herself free. This delusion could always be dispelled at the convenience of a master. In the beginning, incidentally, the cues which reveal slavery in a woman can sometimes be subtle. Later, of course, as she grows in her slavery, as she realizes that her deepest and most profound nature may not only be revealed, but must be revealed, that it is not only permissible to reveal her womanhood, but that it must be revealed, and fully, she, in accord with this liberation, undergoes a marvelous transformation; she tends to become vital and sensuous, and loving, and happy. This is a beautiful transformation to see in a woman. Happy is he who has a slave.

  "After your performances," I said, "doubtless you expected to be well and lengthily ravished."

  "Yes," she said, "almost from the first moment I felt the warm grass under my belly, almost from the first moment I put my mouth to the paws of that beast."

  "And were you?" I asked.

  "No," she said, angrily. "I was bound, and given to these people."

  "I see," I said. I had thought that it would be so.

  "Do not fear," said Pumpkin to the stripped beauty, kneeling in the primitive yoke, well fastened in it, "your trials and tribulations, your embarrassments, your hardships, your miseries, will soon be over."

  "Do not slay me," she begged.

  "That may be done to you, if Masters wish," I told her.

  She turned white. I saw that, on some level, she understood that she was a slave.

  "But you are very fortunate," said one of the Waniyanpi.

  "The masters have seen fit to show you mercy," said another.

  "At least for the time," said another.

  "Masters?" she asked.

  "Your masters, and ours," said Pumpkin, "Bondwoman."

  "Bondwoman!" she cried, struggling in the yoke. But she did not try to rise to her feet. I think this was because I was present.

  "Yes," said Pumpkin.

  "We are going to call her Turnip," said one of the Waniyanpi.

  "I am a free woman," she cried. "I am the Lady Mira, of the City of Venna!"

  I smiled to myself. How naive seemed the kneeling slave, Turnip.

  "By the instructions of our masters," said Pumpkin, "you are to be taken as you are, yoked and unclothed, to the compound."

  "Compound?" she asked.

  "Yes, Garden Eleven, our home," said Pumpkin.

  "You will be happy there," said one of the Waniyanpi.

  "We all are," insisted another.

  "Unfortunately," said Pumpkin, "you are to be taken there on a tether, marched across the grasslands, without clothing and in your yoke, much as might be any common Gorean slave, whose slavery is being impressed upon her."

  "And, doubtlessly," she said, acidly, "I will give you much pleasure on the trek."

  "We will look forward to the pleasure of your company," said one of them.

  "I see," she said.

  "I do not think you do," I said, "at least as yet."

  "Do not fear," said Pumpkin. "You will be treated, at all times, with total dignity and respect."

  "We will not even look at you, at least not directly," said another.

  "That is," said another, "until your shame has been covered."

  "Shame?" asked the girl.

  "Your beauty, your prettiness," explained another.

  "Not all the Sames, those who have the unimportant and negligible property of femaleness, are as—as healthy appearing as you," said another.

  "Thus you might make them feel that they were not the same as you, or that you were not the same as they," said another.

  "They would not like that," said another.

  "It is shameful not to make people feel they are the same," said another.

  "Because everyone is the same, really," said another, "of course."

  "Of course," said another.

  "Too," said Pumpkin, "it can trouble the Sames who have the unimportant and negligible property of maleness. It may make them have certain kinds of feelings."

  "Not me," said one of the Waniyanpi.

  "Nor I," said another. "I never have such feelings."

  "But not
all of us," said Pumpkin, "are as strong and good as Carrot and Cabbage."

  "I myself," said another, "can look on such things and not have the least feeling."

  A chorus of admiration thrilled the Waniyanpi.

  "Nor as Beans," said Pumpkin. "But for some of us your healthy appearance can be extremely disturbing."

  "It makes me sick," said another.

  "It makes me ill, too, to look upon it," said another. "I threw up when first I saw it."

  "Good," said another fellow.

  "It disturbs me," said another fellow. "I admit that it is true."

  "An honest confession," said Pumpkin. "You are to be congratulated on your candor and veracity. The next task is to seek improvement."

  "Yes," said the fellow who had spoken, contritely. "Perhaps if I were permitted to look upon it more often I might manage to steel myself against it."

  "Plunge rather into arduous, time-consuming, mind-occupying labors," said Pumpkin.

  "And bathe often in cold streams," advised another.

  The fellow looked down. I did not blame him. I myself did not relish bathing in cold streams. I preferred warm baths, being attended by a beautiful female slave. After all, should a free man be expected to apply his own oils, scrape the dirt from his own skin with the strigil, and rinse and towel himself?

  "You see," said Pumpkin to the captured girl, "your appearance, even if it were not so healthy looking, perhaps, can cause some of us to think certain thoughts and have certain feelings. It can even bring about movements in our bodies. This makes it harder to be Sames. And it is shameful not to be Sames."

  "For we are Sames," said another. "Everyone knows that."

  "And thus it is," said Pumpkin, "that your appearance can cause shame, and as it causes shame, it must be shameful."

  "Too," said another, "it can distract one from truly important things."

  "Such as being Sames," said another.

  "Yes," said Pumpkin.

  The girl shuddered, convinced perhaps that she was in the presence of lunatics. Madness is an interesting concept. As some define it, it is a function of the social conventions obtaining at a given time. In the country of the mad, thusly, only the sane will be accounted insane. Acquiescence to contemporary axiological conventions, of course, is not the only possible conceptual approach to such matters. Another approach might be to envision a world compatible with reality and congenial to human nature, a world in which science, even social science, might be free, a world in which truth would not be against the law, a world designed not for the crippling, distortion and torture of humanity but for its fulfillment.

  "But do not fear," said Pumpkin to the girl, "for, soon, when we reach the compound, you will be decently clothed."

  "Like you?" she asked. She regarded the long, gray, coarse, clumsy dresses on the Waniyanpi with distaste.

  "These garments help us to suppress our desires and keep us humble," said one of the Waniyanpi.

  "We are reminded by them that we are all Sames," said another.

  "That we all, when all is said and done," said another, "are naught but Waniyanpi."

  This seemed to make sense to me. The human being has a tendency to be consistent, no matter from what eccentric premises he may begin. He will normally behave in a way, accordingly, that befits his clothing. This is perhaps the deeper sense of the English expression that clothing makes the man.

  "Better to be stripped and have a string of hide tied on one's neck!" said the girl, angrily.

  A mere string of hide may serve, of course, as a slave collar. A collar need not be as light and beautiful as the common, narrow, flat-band collars common in the high cities or the loose, light, rounded loops commonly referred to as Turian collars. A slave collar need not even lock, though it is better for the girl's understanding of herself, of course, if it does. Some collars are of leather, and merely lace shut, those in the Barrens, for example. Peasants may even use a length of rope. Collars of light, attractive chain may also be found, usually closed with a padlock. The nature of the collar, per se, except for purposes of identification and security, and such, is not of great importance. It could be as simple as a narrow roll of knotted scarlet silk, or white, if the slave is at that time a virgin, or a piece of string or cord, or strip of leather, tied shut, perhaps looped six times about the throat, each time for one of the letters in the word 'Kajira', the most common expression in Gorean for a female slave. With each loop one may spell the word letter by letter—'K-A-J-I-R-A'—and then tie it shut. This is a simple collaring ceremony. The girl understands what is being done, loop by loop. And then, when the knot is jerked tight, she knows she is Kajira. What is of great importance is not the nature of the collar, or such, but what it betokens, its meaning.

  "What is done to those in your compound who are not the same?" I asked.

  "We attempt to convert them," said one of the men.

  "We plead with them. We reason with them," said another.

  "And what if you cannot convince them of the glories of sameness?" I asked.

  "We then drive them out, into the Barrens, to die," said another.

  "It grieves us to do so," said another.

  "But it must be done," said another.

  "The contagion of their heresy must not be permitted to infect others," said another.

  "The good of the whole must take precedence over the good of the parts," said another.

  "You kill them?" I asked.

  "No!" cried one.

  "We cannot kill!" said another.

  "It is against the Teaching," said another.

  "But you banish them, on the supposition that they will perish in the Barrens," I said.

  "Thusly, it is the Barrens which kills them, not us," said another.

  "We are thus innocent," said another.

  "Such banishment is acceptable to the Teaching?" I asked.

  "Of course," said another. "How else is the compound to be ridded of them?"

  "You must understand," said another, "it does not please us to do that sort of thing."

  "It is done only after every other alternative has been exhausted," said another.

  "Difference strikes at the root of sameness," said another. "Sameness is essential to civilization itself. Difference, thus, threatens society and civilization itself."

  "It must thus be eradicated," said another.

  "There is, thus, only one value, one virtue?" I asked.

  "Yes," said another.

  "One is one," said another, profoundly, "self-identical and the same."

  "Sixteen is sixteen, too," I said.

  "But sixteen is only sixteen times one, and thus all reduces to one, which is one," said another.

  "What about one-half and one-half?" I asked.

  "They add up to one," said another.

  "What about one-third and one-third, then?" I asked.

  "Each of those is but one number," said another, "and, thus, each is one, and one is one."

  "What of the diversity you see about you," I asked, "say, of kaiila and sleen?"

  "One kaiila and one sleen are both one, which is one," said another fellow.

  "What about zero and one?" I asked.

  "Zero is one number and one is one number, and thus each is one, and one is one," said another.

  "What about nothing and one?" I asked.

  "One is one, and nothing is nothing," said another, "so one is left with one, which is one."

  "But you would have at least one nothing, wouldn't you?" I asked.

  "Nothing is either nothing or one," said another. "If it is nothing, then it is nothing. If it is one, then it is one, and one is one," said another.

  "Thus, all is the same," said another.

  "You are spouting total gibberish," I said. "Are you aware of that?"

  "To the unenlightened profundity often appears gibberish," said another.

  "Indeed," said another, "and to some who have lost their enlightenment it can also appear gibberish."

/>   "The more absurd something seems, the more likely it is to be true," said another.

  "That seems absurd," I said.

  "And, thus," said the fellow, "it, in itself, by the same proof, is shown most likely to be true."

  "Is that supposed to be self-evident?" I asked.

  "Yes," said another.

  "It is not self-evident to me," I said.

  "That is not the fault of its self-evidence," said another. "You cannot blame its self-evidence for that."

  "Something which is self-evident to one person may not be self-evident to another," said another fellow.

  "How can it be self-evident to one and not to another?" I asked.

  "One may be more talented in the detecting of self-evidence than another," said another.

  "How do you distinguish between what merely seems self-evident and that which is truly self-evident?" I asked.

  "The Priest-Kings would not deceive us," said another.

  "How do you know?" I asked.

  "That is self-evident," said another.

  "Have you ever been mistaken about what is self-evident?" I asked.

  "Yes, frequently," said Pumpkin.

  "How do you explain that?" I asked.

  "We are weak, and frail," he said.

  "We are only Waniyanpi," said another.

  I regarded Pumpkin.

  "To be sure," he said, "there is a place for faith in all of this."

  "A rather large place, I conjecture," I said.

  "Large enough," he said.

  "How large is that?" I asked.

  "Large enough to protect the Teaching," he said.

  "I thought so," I said.

  "One must believe something," said Pumpkin.