The First Tribe

by Candace Smith

  She was wrong. The Kirabi merely stood watching from the edge of the trees. It was not long before horrible squealing screams caused Sabra to stumble in fear. To the side of her, a familiar slitted gaze was gliding on quick legs directly into her path. Instinctively, her eyes were drawn to the beast’s hooves. They were huge, with thick armored covering that looked like sharpened rocks. At the very least they would bruise and batter her. At the worst, they could easily break bones and kill.

  Sabra stopped in her tracks. The beast slowed to a walk and stared at her, pawing the ground. When Sabra stepped forward, it lifted its leg and prepared to strike. Somewhere in front of her, Palla screamed in pain. Sabra turned back towards the glade, and she heard the beast step closer behind her. She was being herded back to the Kirabi camp.

  Anali was walking beside her. Palla came lurching by, limping on a favored leg that was already bruising. The banta behind her pushed against her shoulder with its head. Sabra and Anali cringed at the sight of how close its jaws were to Palla’s neck.

  All four girls were guided back to the camp. Dasheen grabbed Sabra’s hair and yanked her across the clearing. There were five carts with wooden cages set on the plank bed. One stood with an open door, and Dasheen grabbed Sabra’s wrists. Still holding her hair, he swung her inside, and Sabra scrambled to the opposite corner.

  Anali, Palla, and Seela were all tossed in next to her. The door was closed and a heavy metal clip sealed together, locking it shut. Sabra saw the anger in Dasheen’s face, but at least he had walked away.

  After the girls calmed enough to speak, Sabra said, “We can’t escape. The bantas will catch us.”

  “Did anyone manage to hide their knife?” Palla asked.

  All of them shook their heads. Seela whispered, “They’ve taken us for sexual perversion and rituals, Palla, haven’t they?”

  For a time, Palla had wanted to study to be a daughter for the Mother of Life. The quiet solitude became unbearable, and she rejoined the gatherers. Palla still knew the rituals and legends better than the rest of them. There were secrets the daughters were not supposed to divulge… secrets that were too horrendous for the gentle tribe to listen to over the fires at night. She was silent for a long time, asking Mother for a sign that it was all right to speak of it. Palla wished she did not know these other pleasures of the Kirabi. Now, she did not want to be alone in her fear.

  There was a distant roll of thunder from the Vastara mountains, and Palla sighed with relief. Mother had spoken. “Yes, Seela. They will not waste us as gatherers or laborers. Their other captives are much larger and stronger, and more capable of doing the work.”

  “But… but, the mating ritual,” Seela cried. “I have been joined with Tarsa, and Sabra and Anali are still pure.”

  “They don’t believe in our rituals, Seela. They are not bound by our spiritual laws. They will take their pleasure in painful measure. It is their way. All that you have heard is true, and much more.” Palla shivered. “They will fix bands around our necks and ankles. They have already banded our wrists. We will become trained beasts like the bantas, and be forced to bend to their will.” Palla stared into their shocked faces. “If a banta can not escape this destiny, neither can we.”

  The girls were silent after that. Anali and Sabra huddled together, comforting each other as the major sun left the sky and their world was lit by the gray shadowed light of the smaller moon. Jocular revelry from across the camp made them angry and fearful. The Kirabi celebrated long into the night. Sabra and Anali fell asleep, gripping the wooden bars behind them.

  At dawn, they woke to a bang against the cage door. One of the hunched creatures had struck the wooden bars with a big stick. She pushed a bowl of fruit through the slats and stared at Sabra. The creature had slitted eyes that gleamed dangerously. She was naked, and Sabra stared at the bulbous, melon-sized breasts swinging below her.

  Dasheen’s Fista studied the new female. With a twist of my hand, I could snap your neck. It made no sense for the beast rider to collect such a weak animal, yet the man seemed pleased. After his hunt, his passion should have been heightened. The Fista expected to be ordered to satisfy his craving, but instead he had waved her away.

  The creature turned to return to her chore of feeding the caged animals. She turned once more to stare at the small animal crouched in the corner. It had taken much time to become Dasheen’s favorite, and a primal seething jealousy began to build inside her primitive mind.

  The creature’s gaze made Sabra nervous. It seemed angry with her, yet she did not understand. It was not her choice to be captured. As the decision of her mate was made when she was born, there was no jealousy within the Vastara tribe. The leaders had decided that it was an unnecessary, wasteful distraction from learning. This was the reason that the prearranged marriages had become ritual, eons ago.

  The sun had risen fully by the time the Kirabi left their tents. Sabra followed Dasheen’s movement around the camp. He had ordered the creatures to pack, and the tents were quickly tied into large square bundles and strapped to the bent backs. She watched as he made sure the supplies were secured and he spoke with other beast riders.

  Dasheen was taller than many of the other men. His black hair shined down his back in a long tail, secured with a leather strip. There was a fine brush of dark whiskers across his chin and upper lip. The Vastara men had no facial hair, and Sabra thought it made Dasheen look even more ominous. The imagination of her youth had fallen short of just how vicious the men appeared in life. As if he sensed her watching him, he turned and walked towards her.

  Sabra scrambled away from him until her back pushed against the bars. He reached through the slats and gripped her ankle, sliding her bottom across the floor of the cage while he pulled her towards him. Sabra sobbed and tried to kick him. Dasheen ignored her struggle and grabbed the collar of her dress. Her breasts mashed against the bars while his other hand reached behind her and he unlashed her wrists. The bands were left on, but now she could move her arms.

  Without a word, he walked away. Dasheen thought it curious that the women had not released the securing lashes during the night. Several of the beast riders commented on the fact that they all remained in the cages with their arms tied behind them.

  “Do you think I’m supposed to free your hands?” Sabra asked.

  Palla shook her head. “We had better wait for the beast riders to do it. We have already angered them by running.”

  It was another hour before Masan made his way to the cage to unlash Anali’s wrists, and another half hour before Palla and Seela’s hands were freed. Shortly after that, one of the hunched male creatures slipped his hands through the straps on the cart’s guiding poles. The girls were thrown towards the back when he tilted the cart and pulled it behind a file of workers.

  The kilara horn sounded, and a few moments later the bantas came thundering into the glade. The beast riders saddled them, and the procession began to march south. On Dasheen’s order they stayed in the shadows. The trek through short brush and low rocks was more difficult, but he wanted to keep the captives out of the sun. They would use the tarps later, when they crossed the desert.

  One of the female creatures… not the one who seemed to dislike Sabra… brought them water throughout the day. At the noon stop, the girls were allowed out of the cages to relieve themselves. They sat on the grass and ate the fruit that was brought to them. They were silent, each left to their frightened thoughts as realization of the permanency of their position began to set in. They climbed back into the cages and the procession moved on.

  In the evening, the workers began assembling their campsite. The Vastara traveled between a spring and winter home, but they were still more permanent settlements. Sabra was fascinated by the continual rebuilding and dismantling of the Kirabi’s nighttime lodging.

  Just before sunset, Dasheen walked over to the cage. He unclipped the door and ordered her out. Sabra stared at him, but her legs would not move. When he reached for her, s
he screamed. With her hands freed, she slapped and batted at his arms.

  “Stop that,” he demanded. When the girl did not relent in her struggles, he twisted her ankle and flipped her over.

  Sabra kicked and tried to crawl her way back to her friends who were crouched in terror across from her. She heard a loud crack and felt a pressure on her bottom. A moment later, a hot stinging burn assaulted her cheeks and she shrieked. Dasheen spanked her again, and his eyes narrowed on how easily his captive marked. The clear pink outline of his fingers was now on her bottom. “Stop that, Sabra. Come.”

  Sabra sagged onto the floor for a moment. She was afraid he would strike her again, and she backed slowly towards the door. Dasheen could see her shoulders shaking with her silent sobs while she stared at the ground. He tugged at her arm. “Come.”

  Sabra was pulled into his tent. She looked around, studying the small skin enclosure. Dasheen led her to a small chest and he released her arm. She stood, staring around the hut while he dug through the contents. There were sleeping furs to one side, and a small fire pit had been assembled in the middle, surrounded by rocks. Sabra had never seen a fire under a canopy before. She considered the stinging tears and stifling heat, and her eyes traveled towards the roof. There was an opening for the smoke.

  Her attention was diverted when Dasheen began tossing leather straps onto the sleeping furs. He stood again, and her eyes widened and dropped to the ground when he began removing his leather vest. Dasheen sat on the closed lid of the chest. “Remove my boots.”

  Sabra knelt, and her trembling fingers searched the laces. It was confusing. Her tribe only wore footgear in the snow, and they simply pulled the pouch shaped sacks onto their feet. She tugged at the little X’s, but they would not come free. Sabra fought to remove the boot, pulling at the heel and toe. Her eyes were filling with tears at the thought of being punished for not following his simple request.

  Dasheen sensed her frustration and rising panic. “Pull the loose ends of the string at the top.”

  Her shaking fingers found the ends of the leather and she tugged. The little loops pulled free, and she worked her fingers under the laces, loosening them down the front of his shin. At last, she could work the boot off his foot.

  Dasheen studied her, smiling at her concentration. He watched her tight expression slowly soften as she succeeded with the task. So little was known about the Vastara. It was becoming apparent that without the shared knowledge of other tribes, they had continued to keep with the older, primitive ways.

  Although she had tried her escape and balked at his orders, Dasheen had expected much more rebellion from his captive. She was certainly frightened, but not as terrified as she had been earlier. He reached for a sweater. Though the temperature was not chilled, it was still much cooler than the balmy climates he was used to. The girl seemed unaffected by the change as the sun sank low. She was still wearing only the short dress made from thin pera fur.

  Sabra removed the other boot, and her gaze stopped on his sweater. Trembling fingers reached out and she stroked it. “What fur is this?” she asked quietly. It was soft and dark, with flat hair.

  “It is woven from different animals. I believe this is kilara, though I’m not sure.”

  “Woven? Like your nets?”

  “Something like that.” Dasheen was amused by her perplexed expression. “The Vastara don’t weave?”

  The series of knots seemed quite complicated. Sabra shook her head and continued to stroke the garment. She had no idea the effect her wide green gaze and gentle brushing was having on the beast rider. “Why don’t you just use furs?”

  “This is easier to move in.”

  “What about your leathers? They seem pliable.”

  “Those are for riding,” Dasheen announced. He stood and began to remove his breeches.

  Sabra gasped and scrambled back, turning to face the side of the tent. Whatever else she imagined, it was not that the Kirabi would completely disrobe in front of her. No man would do such a thing until the marriage ritual was performed with his wife. She heard a rustling sound.

  “Come,” Dasheen ordered.

  Sabra slowly turned her head, and she gave a sigh of relief when she found he had pulled on lighter leather breeches. She crawled back to where he sat on the chest, and sat down. He had picked up the leather straps he had tossed onto the sleeping furs.

  “Lift your hair.”

  Sabra eyed the band in his hands with wary apprehension, but she followed his order. He wrapped it around her neck and reached behind her. His fingers ran up and down the back, and when he finished the band was secured. Sabra reached around and felt the same strange lacing that had been up the front of his boots.

  “The collar is never to be removed.”

  “Yes, Dasheen.” The band had no meaning to her. It was a bit confining, but as the Vastara had no pets she had no idea as to its purpose. Even Palla’s short speech did not to explain the purpose of the bands.

  “Hold out your wrists.”

  Sabra held them out, and he removed the thin straps that had been tied to her wrists when she was captured. She watched in fascination, trying to remember the ins and outs of the lacings. The red emblem from his vest was also on all of the bands. Next, he placed straps on her ankles.

  Sabra was distracted when the flap on the tent opened and the hunchbacked creature with stringy black hair approached them. The woman glared at Sabra again, and she gasped and scrambled back onto the sleeping furs. The creature placed a bowl of food in front of Dasheen and another smaller, empty bowl beside it. She left after giving the beast rider a long look.

  Dasheen placed some food in the small bowl. “Come. Eat.”

  Sabra crawled forward. There was fruit with sweetening herbs… and a bloody slice of flesh mingling with the juices. Sabra’s hand flew to her mouth while her stomach gripped and retched. She could not bear to look at the disgusting meal. A hand threaded through her hair and lifted her head. “Eat,” Dasheen demanded.

  Sabra watched him rip a piece of meat with his teeth and begin to chew. Oh, Mother of Life. Sabra’s eyes filled with tears and she slowly shook her head. Her throat had closed again.

  “Then starve,” Dasheen shrugged. He let go of her hair and shoved her back onto the furs. He dismissed her completely while he finished his dinner. Dasheen reached for the nayello skin hanging from a peg on one of the tent bracers. The cream colored pouch was made from the animal’s stomach and was used to hold liquid. He took a long draw of water, and thought about offering some to his captive. Her eyes were still fixed on her food bowl and she continued to silently cry.

  Sabra struggled to make sense of what she had seen. Rumors of Kirabi eating meat were the things terrifying nightmares were made of. To actually watch the beast rider gnaw and rip at the flesh while a strange passion filled his eyes as he consumed another animal… consumed, oh Mother of Life… Sabra could only fathom that it was another brutal ritual of the vicious people. The slight calmness she felt earlier had disappeared, and she trembled and wanted to crawl beneath the soft furs and hide.

  Dasheen watched the fear and panic fill her eyes again. He had no idea what had caused the reaction until Masan ducked into the tent. Anali was tethered by a strap, attached to a sturdy leather ring in the front of her collar and gripped in the fist of the beast rider. She reared up, wailing and twisting her shoulders in a frantic attempt to break free. Sabra could see that her wrists were secured behind her.

  “Sabra,” she cried out. She cringed when Masan turned and lifted her to her toes by the collar.

  “Silence,” he demanded, and Anali‘s lips sealed shut with such force they turned white. Masan turned to Dasheen and threaded his fingers through his wild black hair. “They do not eat meat.” He nodded towards Anali. “According to her lunatic ravings, they consider it an abomination and sacrilege. She thought I was performing some ritual in preparation to roast her.”

  The two Kirabi looked at each other for a moment. Das
heen glanced at Sabra, and her sudden fear now made sense. He turned back to Masan, and the two beast riders began laughing in deep rolling gasps. “There are many misconceptions our new slaves need to dismiss. I guess if what they wish to consume are fruits and vegetables, it might be wise to allow them to do so. It might be another reason their skin remains soft.” Dasheen shrugged. They were just learning that the burning rays of the sun toughened their hide. He stared at Sabra. “I will not forego juicy red roasts to appease your delicate appetite.”

  Sabra did not care, so long as she was not required to follow their bloodthirsty ritual. The vision of the Kirabi tearing the flesh of whatever poor creature’s remains lay on his plate had cost her any hopes of calming her stomach. In a quiet voice, she said, “It is your ritual, beast rider, but I will not eat if I must watch you perform this disgusting feat. My stomach rebels and every fiber within me is repulsed by the scene.”

  Dasheen rose so quickly that Sabra bolted back into the skin side of the tent. He gripped her collar and pulled her to a stand, and then he bent so the black anger in his eyes pierced through her frightened green stare. “You don’t dare rebuke me, slave. Perhaps I should leave you tied to Shiru for the night.”

  Sabra let out a cry. Alone in the darkness and tied to the banta? Her mind pictured Dasheen tearing at his meal, and the picture was replaced by the sharp teeth of the banta ripping through her limbs. Her voice trembled. “Still, I cannot force an appetite if I must watch you.” Sabra was terrified, but even now, with his horrifying threat, she could not force the sweetest shifon fruit into her mouth, not without her stomach rebelling and tossing it back out.

  Dasheen gazed into the wild green stare. The girl was obviously terrified, and yet she persisted in her Vastara nonsense. Masan interrupted the strange impasse. “I tried to push veran and lipsa passed Anali’s lips. What she did not spit back soon spilled out of her stomach with what I suppose were the remnants of her lunch. This idiotic belief has apparently manifested itself in a very physical response.”