The First Tribe

by Candace Smith

  The Kirabi had to master many different, irritating problems with the various creatures they enslaved. Food and nourishment had never been an issue. All the animals were pleased to note they would not be starved. They were actually fed very well when compared to the existence they had been managing while living among the rocks and on the desert sands.

  If the Vastara refused to eat, they would die. Would the women actually starve themselves over this ridiculous complication? Dasheen was not willing to take the chance. “Pass the word. The women will be blindfolded for meals until they stop this nonsense.”

  Anali, still being gripped in Masan’s tight fist, glanced over to Sabra. Blindfolded? She had not had her eyes covered since she had been a young girl. It was one way the Vastara taught the gatherers to recognize food.

  Masan left the tent with his slave, and he proceeded to inform the other beast riders of Dasheen’s decision. Several men argued, preferring to force their timid slaves to witness them eat. The fear in their slave’s eyes was empowering. None continued their argument against Dasheen’s decision when Masan told them their slave might starve.

  Dasheen had regained his seat on the chest, and Sabra stared into the fire. Mother of Life, protect me. Look out for my friends and keep me strong to protect my beliefs.

  While the girl watched the flames, Dasheen was also lost in thought. He tried to remember the ancient tale of the Kirabi who had taken a Vastara woman as his slave. The legend said that he forced her to renounce her beliefs. The light left her eyes and speech left her lips. She became a silent shell… beautiful to gaze upon, but dispassionate and empty. This was not the sort of slave Dasheen desired.

  It seemed impossible that imaginative, fanciful doctrine could truly be ingrained so deeply that the woman’s mind would unravel. Sabra had many more generations of this irritating system forced upon her. Her mind was sharp, though. Dasheen was certain of this. How can she believe such nonsense?

  The ‘how’ was not the bigger problem. What was as equally certain as the girl’s intelligence was the irrefutable knowledge that she did believe in this irrational, spiritual mosaic of complications. It had worked to persuade her to join him on the back of his banta. Her belief that he meant to sacrifice her to the beast had overridden her fear, to an extent.

  Dasheen tied a leash to the front of her collar and he looped the other end around a securing cleat on a tent bracer. Their tribe did hold one belief. He would not be allowed to touch her until the leaders proclaimed he was her rightful owner. They were still a week from the southern camp.

  Part of the agreement to let Dasheen go on this wild mission was that he collected the plants and vegetation to last until next year. It was a mammoth undertaking, but, with the help of the beast riders who wished to join him, they selected the workers they would need. Only Fistas were chosen for their brawn and efficiency.

  Dasheen had finished the harvest within the first week of reaching the meadow. It had been a grueling rush to accomplish the task, and he was relieved they had been rewarded with their captives. The girl was curled up on top of the furs and breathing evenly. Dasheen draped a heavy fur on top of himself. If the girl wished to be covered, the furs were all around her.

  He watched the dwindling firelight shine off her hair. He pictured the fear in her green eyes when he spoke to her. He imagined the weight of her bountiful breasts… the soft texture of the skin on her bottom when he spanked her, leaving the imprint of his hand… “By the cold winds of Flagar,” he cursed quietly. His cock was throbbing in need, and he rose and left the tent in search of his Fista.

  Masan was stirring the ashes of the center fire, sending bursts of orange sparkles into the sky. “You too?” he laughed.

  “I find myself thinking with my cock when she is near me,” Dasheen admitted.

  “This will be a long week of travel. Perhaps it is even more intimidating than the marathon week of harvesting,” Masan chuckled.

  “Where is my Fista?” Dasheen growled.

  “You may as well sit, Dasheen. The wait is a long one this evening. Most of the beast riders are busy unloading their cocks.”

  Dasheen sat on a rock across from his friend. He found his own stick to stir through the embers, and the two men watched them climb to the sky with slight smiles on their faces.

  Chapter III

  “My son has found them, and they are returning with twenty three slaves. All of them are women,” Marel reported. She stood in front of the women’s table, facing the Kirabi leaders at the hastily called tribunal.

  Vison gazed at Marel. He had been the first to breed her, and their son, Dasheen, had in turn become a leader among the Kirabi hunters. He ignored the weary lines around her eyes. She was only one of three women who had captured and tamed a banta, and she must have ridden long days to reach the Kirabi settlement so quickly. The women had not called for a tribunal or even informed the men that they had sent her to spy. “And what is their appearance? Are they withering, pale creatures?”

  “No, Vison. They are small, as we predicted. They have retained their colored hair and eyes, and appear to be strong.” She arched an eyebrow. “The beast riders seemed to be quite enthralled with them.”

  Vison felt his face flush with an excited, building stir in his groin. “They are not pathetically fragile from fighting the cold?” With the snows barely melted up north, he imagined that if the Vastara were found they would be close to starvation.

  “No, Vison,” Marel insisted. She was irritated with his questioning. “They are the ‘ethereal beauties’ you men have obsessed over.” Marel turned to the women and they nodded in support. She returned her attention to Vison. “We have come to issue our demands.”

  “Your demands, Marel?” Vison replied with a warning edge in his voice.

  “Hear me out, beast riders. When these captives are brought to camp, it is going to cause dissension in the tribe,” Marel predicted. The women were well aware of how their men were led by their cocks. She observed the questioning looks on their faces. “It is true. You are going to have some who will say they were deliberately kept from joining the capture because Dasheen would not choose them. Others will simply refer back to our ancient law. This is what can work in our favor.”

  “What ancient law?” Bentil muttered. If it were his choice, the women would have no place in the tribunals.

  Marel appeased the ill-tempered man. “The ancient law that states all possessions of the tribe will be disbursed by the leaders. When Dasheen returns, we will take them to the training caves until you call a meeting to decide their ownership.”

  Bentil stared at her in outrage, and then a small smile curled his lip. “Your son will be angry with this treachery.”

  “Dasheen will have no choice but to abide by the First Tribe tradition. Bentil, by the cold winds of Flagar, these captives are going to cause a great disruption among the men. I found even my own thoughts wandering to training these creatures, and my fingers itched to grasp my whip or cane.” The men knew that Marel would never admit such a weakness if it were not true.

  “Are we just to enjoy having our brothers try to manipulate our support with gifts and favors so they will be chosen? If we give these slaves to beast riders based on who has strategized our support, would this not cause an even greater problem?” Vison asked.

  Marel once more glanced at the women. They nodded with conviction, and Marel turned back to the men. She stared into Vison’s dark eyes. “That is why the leaders will keep them.” The men turned to each other in quiet discussion, and Marel watched their expressions change from disbelief, to possibility, and then finally the sadistic shine lit their eyes. They were thinking with their shafts and hanging sacks.

  “What more do you suggest?” Vison asked. Marel had been a staunch supporter of Dasheen’s quest, and had allowed him his choice of Fista slaves to accompany the journey. There had to be something behind her motives that would benefit the women.

  “If what we suspect is true, t
he Vastara still hold to a ritual that mates them to a single partner. This will be as ingrained into their history as the rest of their nonsense. It will work to our benefit. In the trek up, I trust Dasheen to keep the beast riders from compromising them. I don’t think they will do anything that might risk their right for possession. Meanwhile, the captives will learn to trust and rely on the man who has chosen her,” Marel said.

  “All this, and you are the one suggesting the deceitful trap. Your mind is as treacherous as your whip, Marel.” Bentil smiled. Even his disagreeable nature appreciated Marel’s cold conviction.

  “You don’t understand. I want them to form a bond. It has been bred out from the Kirabi since beginning times, but these Vastara captives are much too small to try to dominate our men. They will awaken a protective instinct within the beast riders that will make them yearn to return to the mating rituals in our scrolls,” Marel insisted.

  She was not surprised when the men sat in stunned silence for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “Has your time up north turned you into a wandering philosopher too, Marel?”

  “No, Vison. But while you men are busy thrusting your cocks into any available hole, the women recognize the need for a more alluring outlet for both of our lusts. Between your leaders and our trainers, we will forgo working to turn the Vastara into laboring slaves. They would be quite useless, I assure you. What we can train them to do is bring a man the most intense sexual gratification he has ever achieved.” Marel noticed that caught their attention.

  “Think of it, beast riders. An ethereal beauty, a creature of color with no fangs or primitive traits, trained only to service your pleasure.” While the men squirmed at her words and imagined her description, Marel continued. “It will drive their captors mad with need for them… so wild with jealousy and rage at being stripped of their captive that they will escape with them.”

  Vison gasped. “This is your plan? To have the beast riders so angered with his Kirabi leaders for their decision that they split the First Tribe?”

  “That is exactly our plan. The beast riders have no tribes left to capture, Vison. They are bored, and have been subjected to pleasure with hairy beasts. If Dasheen and the others take their Vastara away, they will breed a new tribe. It will have both Kirabi strength and Vastara color. In less than a century, the Kirabi will have a new tribe of superior captives to enslave.” Marel finally returned to her seat.

  “By the cold winds of Flagar, that woman is cold,” Bentil muttered. “Still, their plan makes sense. We have bred the feeling and seduction out of our women. Although her melding of the captives and Kirabi does not completely alleviate us of this fact, the thought of providing a new tribe for our future generations to capture, with women who are visibly appealing, does have merit. Add to that, we get the advantage of playing with these slaves until their Kirabi men decide they have had enough and escape with them.”

  “We will be encouraging the breeding of slaves from our own Kirabi bloodline,” Vison noted nervously.

  “The Vastara were once First Tribe, Vison, and we think nothing of enslaving them,” Bentil reminded him. “The women have already decided this, and I think they planned this since Dasheen announce his quest. All they needed was to make sure the Vastara really existed. I say let the women have their folly. They are much more adept at this breeding business than we are. Personally, I look forward to whatever time I have with something other than a Fista’s fanged mouth around my cock.” Bentil waved his hand dismissively. “Call for the vote, Vison.”

  There were thumbs up around both tables, and while the women left to adjust quarters for training pleasure slaves, the men wandered out in search of an available Fista to ease the pressure in their sacks from thoughts of their future pleasure.

  * * * * *

  The caravan proceeded south, and Sabra watched the landscape change from her cage. Strange trees reached far into the air, but there were no branches to climb and the broad leaves offered very little shade to the travelers below. All the vegetation began to thin out until all that was left were sparse, infrequent patches of burned grass. Sabra looked out on an endless sea of sand. There was nothing… no vegetation at all… and the only animals were those traveling in their caravan. Sabra felt a terrible despair and loneliness. The Mother of Life was not in this burning land.

  “She would not desert us, Sabra.” Passal tried to sound confident, while her eyes scanned the sky for birds. There were none.

  The carts had stopped, and the Fistas began covering the top and sides of the cages with skin tarps. They left only the bottom six inches uncovered, and the bereft captives curled up on the floor, staring at the blinding sand with tears in their eyes. Even the rocking of the cart did not comfort them.

  They stopped at sunset, and Sabra wandered the camp while the tents were erected. Dasheen, as always, was busy making sure that the bantas were fed and the Fistas completed their tasks. He glanced over at his Vastara a few times and noticed her sadness. She knew she could no longer attempt to escape. “Sabra, come.”

  Sabra wandered towards his tent. She sat down and waited for him to finish tying the pera skin over her eyes. The first few times she had managed a few bites, but then the smell of the meat and the thought of the Kirabi tearing it apart caused a sour bile to build in her stomach. Now, she found she could concentrate on the interesting new flavors of the fruits collected before they walked onto the sand.

  After she finished eating, she crawled over to the end of the sleeping furs and curled up, facing the wall of the tent. Dasheen watched her. Usually, she spent a few moments asking him questions. “What is wrong?”

  Sabra did not answer. She did not like talking about her beliefs with him, because he tried to dissuade her and make her feel stupid. How could she tell him her fears of the Mother? He had warned her that the Mother of Life remained back in the land of the Vastara. This could not be true. The Mother was everywhere. Sabra felt an arm wrap around her and she jumped. She had not heard him move.

  “The sands take two days to cross, girl. After that, the land is even more lush than your forest.” Dasheen decided it was the monotony of traveling in the covered cart and the heat that must be depressing her.

  “Plants grow? There are animals?”

  Dasheen heard the trembling in her voice. “Ah… it is that phantom Mother you are seeking.”

  “She is gone. She is not in this place.”

  “Nonsense. The desert is barren during the heat of the day, but it comes to life at night.”

  Sabra turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide and still shining with her tears. “There are no plants. There’s only sand.”

  “No, Sabra.” Dasheen stood and pulled her up. “Come, see the night desert. This is a true mystery and magic.” He led her to the edge of their camp and sat down. “Sit. It should not be much longer.”

  Sabra sat next to him and stared at the gray blanket of sand that stretched to the horizon. It was lit by the two moons that were not quite full. Dasheen reached out in front of him and brushed the sand. He picked something up and held it out for her to see.

  “What is it?” Sabra whispered. The tiny creature had a bright blue rock covering its body and tiny, clawed feet stuck out from beneath it.

  “Watch.” Dasheen put the stip on the sand, and it dashed away in an instant.

  “Oh,” Sabra said in surprise. A few moments later, hundreds of the tiny creatures emerged from the sand, skittering and dancing sideways. Several feet in front of them, a stalk pushed up through the sand. When it stood to a height of three feet, the bulbous top peeled back and hundreds of thin white tendrils wavered in the gentle breeze. Several more began springing up further away.

  “How do they live?” Sabra asked. “There is no food.”

  “Watch the stips. The tendrils of the gilan have a sweet nectar, but they have to be quick,” Dasheen answered. He had not really watched the plant since he was a boy. He imagined his face had held the same fascination as his littl
e captive’s did now.

  Sabra watched the blue stips gather at the base of the flower. One dashed up the stalk and out to the end of the feathery petals. It stayed only an instant and dropped to the ground. A second and third followed its lead. The fourth had something wrong with one of its legs, and it made a cautiously slow trip out onto the flower. There was a whipping frenzy as the tendrils wrapped around the small creature. Sabra heard a cracking sound, and halves of the blue shell fell to the ground. The petals closed around the unprotected body and pulled it into the gaping hole on the top of the stem. The tendrils floated out again, enticing the stips on the ground.

  “They feed off each other?” Sabra asked in astonishment.

  “The sand would be littered with stips if the gilan did not take care of the old and injured animals.”

  Sabra thought of the hunters of the Vastara. They wore white feathers in their hair, and she thought they were not much different from the gilan. “Are there other creatures?”

  “Closer to the edge of the desert. The stips and gilan have this vastness to themselves.” Dasheen looked down at her and stroked her hand. “Your Mother of Life has not deserted you.”

  Sabra scowled. “You’re making fun of me again.”

  Dasheen sighed. “No, Sabra. It seems it is just a different way to think of things. I accept the stips and gilans because they are here. I can see them, and I can see how they survive. You need an invisible entity to be in charge of it all.”

  “Aren’t you grateful for all of this? Don’t you wonder where it all came from?”

  “The stips are interesting for a few moments. I don’t feel an overwhelming need to be grateful for them. They are difficult to remove from their shells and have a rubbery bland consistency.”

  Sabra stared at him. “You have eaten a little stip?”

  “They are hardly a bite, and tasteless. I suggest you change the subject before you get ill again,” he chuckled. “Why is it you don’t get upset to see the plant eat the creature but you are appalled to think the Kirabi do?”