Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Eleven



From the coast, it took four days, through the forest, to reach Tarncamp.

Although my burden was not heavy, it seemed to become so, as we trekked on, Ahn after Ahn. My arms began to ache. I was sweating. I became more and more conscious of the loop of rope on my neck, holding me in place. After a time, even the tunicked slaves began to stumble.

“Burdens down, rest,” was the command we longed to hear.

We were not draft tharlarion, not pack kaiila!

But slaves often function as porters, as beasts of burden. This is particularly so within cities, where distances are short. It is not unusual to see burdened slaves in the vicinity of markets, docks, loading platforms, warehouses, granaries, and stables. We are cheaper than men. Among the peasants it is not unknown for us to struggle against our harness, dragging our master’s plow. As the slave is owned, she, as any other animal, may be put to any purpose the master pleases. Indeed, some men enjoy treating us so, putting us to manual labor, even when there is no need. It is useful as a discipline, and, surely, it reminds us that we are slaves. And even lighter labors may serve this purpose. What slave has not scrubbed floors, naked, in shackles?

How weary I was, in my place, carrying my burden!

Surely it was not for this that I had been taught in the house to cook, clean, launder, and sew, to tie a tunic, to move with grace, to speak as a slave, to kneel, belly, lick, and kiss, to eat and drink from pans, to gratefully receive scraps from a master’s hand, to apply cosmetics, to fetch a whip or slippers in my teeth, to bedeck myself with beads and armlets, to wear bells, to beg in a hundred ways, to present myself in chains, to please men in the furs.

“Burdens down, rest,” we heard.

Gratefully I lowered my burden, and sank to my side, in the fallen leaves. As I lay, I could see, on the trunk of a nearby tree, a yellowish stain, at about what would be the eye level of a large man. I recalled that, once or twice before, not thinking about it, I had seen a similar stain. I supposed it might be a form of unusual moss, or some sort of parasitic growth.

“Kneel to be watered, and fed, pretty beasts,” we heard.

That came from the front of the march, near the first of the tunicked slaves. I lay as I was, for it was not our turn.

Ahead of us, too, were the men.

I wondered what might be in the large boxes, borne by four men each, as a palanquin might be carried.

There was little mystery about the other burdens.

My legs ached.

“Kneel to be watered, and fed, pretty beasts,” we heard, this time closer.

We of the rope coffle struggled to our knees, wearily, put our heads back, and each grasped her left wrist behind her back with her right hand.

In my turn the stem of the bota was thrust between my teeth, and I drew in, eagerly, gratefully, my ration of water. I then, a bit later, opened my mouth, widely, and a handful of slave gruel, or moist mush, was thrust in my mouth. One swallows it a tiny bit at a time, that one not choke. It is bland, and largely tasteless, but filling, for what one gets of it, and apparently nutritious. It was a far cry from the provenders I had been taught to prepare in the house, ranging from roasted, seasoned bosk and tarsk, and fresh plate breads, with honeys and butters, to frosted pastries and decadent, creamed sauces which, in some cities, were outlawed by sumptuary laws. For what it was worth, the free men with the small caravan did not seem much better off. The rations of Gorean warriors, in the field, I am told, are often austere. A small sack of grain, commonly Sa-Tarna, the Life Daughter, is often carried in the pack, or at one’s belt. Two handfuls of this, the hands cupped together, may then be dampened in a spring, or stream, and eaten. The Pani are fond of rice. It is sometimes boiled in a helmet.

Each Ahn we stopped. At night the coffle rope was tied between two trees, and our hands were tied behind us.

I was puzzled why, in this lovely, lonely forest, with no one about, or I supposed no one was about, the men lit no fires. I wondered, too, how they found their way through the forest, as it seemed trackless. Certainly there were no signs that we were following a familiar path. I saw no sign, either, of anything resembling a compass, or other form of direction finder. There had been a compass on the ship, as I had seen it when on deck, when we were being aired. It was fastened on a pedestal between the two helmsmen. There was the sun, of course, whose progression could be marked through the canopy of foliage, often far above us. I had gathered that many ships had been voyaging to the north, for whatever reason. Perhaps there were many paths to our destination, which I took to be a camp of sort, Tarncamp. Again, I was puzzled how the men found their way through the forest. Doubtless some of those with us, who had been at the shore, were guides, and familiar with such things. I trusted we were not lost.

“Up, up, burdens!” called a fellow.

I lifted my burden, and stood, and was ready to move. It does not do to dally. The rope before me looped up to Eighteen, and, behind me, looped up to Forty-Three. I was taller than she, as Eighteen was taller than I. There were seventeen in our coffle. We would be distributed variously at Tarncamp.

Suddenly, briefly, we heard a succession of thunderous snapping noises from above the canopy, and we looked up, and leaves fluttered about us, and we were cast into a flight of shadows, as though swift, fierce, jagged clouds would blot out the sun, one following another, but these shadows were cast by no clouds. Something alive was above us! A shrill scream penetrated the canopy, and several of the slaves screamed. They understood, I took it, as I did not, what might be occurring. I could utter no sound, so startled, and terrified, I was. Girls looked wildly to one another. Then there was yet another shadow, and another sound like the cracking of suddenly tightened silk, by giants, and another scream, and another body had rushed above us. By such a scream, I supposed, might one announce the march of Ubars, or claim worlds.

“That is the drover,” said a fellow.

“How many?” asked another.

“I counted twenty,” said a fellow.

“Twenty-two,” said another.

“They are ugly brutes,” said a man.

“They are beautiful,” said another.

“You may have them,” said another.

“Keep them at their distance,” laughed a man.

“Climb to their saddle,” laughed another.

“Better to sup with larls,” laughed another.

One of the men looked at me. I fear I could not but shudder.

“Tarns,” he said to me. “They kill men. Men fly them.”

I looked up, at the canopy. A leaf or two, late, dislodged, fluttered downward. They struck me on the shoulder, and fell to the side.

The men were kind to us, but there is always the lash. A slave does not forget that. She hopes to be pleasing. Here, on this world, women, at least if they were such as I, slave, found themselves in the order of nature. Here we belonged to men. Here men would have us as they wished, and do with us as they pleased.

Here, on this world, I discovered what I had long suspected on my former world, the meaning of my smaller, softer, so different body, its slightness and curves; here I found the explanation of a thousand dispositions, needs, and hopes I had been commanded to ignore or deny on my former world.

So here, on this world, men would have us as they wished, and do with us as they pleased, at least if we were slaves. I did not object; I was grateful, as I had not been on my former world; where there were true men, I knew I would be owned; where there were true men, I knew I belonged in a collar, and would be collared; I hoped only to be well-collared, and to please my master.

I thought of my former world.

How artificial, how contrived, and false now seemed that world. How hollow its lies and pretenses. How estranged from nature it was! Was nature so fearful that it must be denied, and betrayed? In whose interest was this treason? Was the biography of a world so terrible that gates must be barred against it? Were there not green fields, bracing winds, and a warm sun outside the gates? You can burn books; you cannot burn truth. Who is accountable for the tragic routes leading to misery and want, to unhappiness and deprivation? Whence the monstrous distortions which would turn an animal against itself, and teach it to suspect, repudiate, and lacerate its own being? Who spoke to their own advantage, and proclaimed as truths self-serving inventions, concealing imperatives and demands in the cloak of statements? Who was it who, so ill-constituted and envious, jealous of health and joy, so exploited the credulity of the innocent, honest, and trusting? Will most humans not believe whatever they are told, any of a thousand inconsistent, competitive fabrics, each proclaimed as the one and only truth?

I was grateful for the men, who had weapons. The forest was dark, lonely, and beautiful. It was particularly frightening at night. What can one do to defend oneself, if one is bound, and on a rope? One might as well be a tethered verr. Indeed, sometimes bound, tethered slaves are used as bait. Watches were kept, of course. Twice panthers had prowled about the camp’s periphery. Happily, most carnivores, if young, if fresh in their skills and strength, if healthy, are unlikely to attack humans, as the human is not their natural prey. They may, of course, if they are starving, or feel their territory is threatened, attack a human. In any event, the human is an unusual quarry for an animal, and is seldom its first choice for prey. If it feels threatened, intruded upon, or hunted, of course, it can be extremely dangerous. The greatest danger to a human is usually an animal which is older, or in poor health, one which is unable to, or finds it difficult to, secure its more natural prey. To be sure, there is always the unusual animal. Too, once an animal, any animal, has fed on human, it will be likely, thereafter, to include it in its prey range.

“Straighten your body,” said a fellow.

“Yes Master,” I said.

“Not stiffly,” he said, “lithely, gracefully!”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you think you are a free woman?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“You are kajira,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are a barbarian, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I hoped not to be struck.

“You are no longer permitted to be ashamed of your body,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“It is acceptable,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“It has been seen fit to be collared,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“So be proud,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Besides,” he said, “it is no longer your business.”

“Master?” I asked.

“It is no longer yours,” he said. “It belongs to your master. You must display it as your masters will have it, beautifully, shamelessly, brazenly, proudly, excitingly, vulnerably.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And even if in the presence of free women,” he said, “though it means the lash.”

“Yes Master,” I wept.

“Show them what it is to be a woman,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He then, to my relief, stepped back.

But he continued then, and was joined by two others, to regard me. I kept my head up, my eyes straight ahead.

“A pretty beast,” he said.

Yes, I thought, I am a beast, but, perhaps, a pretty one.

“As the others,” said another.

“That is why they are here,” said the other.

How they looked upon me!

How owned I felt then!

How owned I was!

I knew myself an animal, an owned animal.

That night, in the camp, bound, and on the rope, I squirmed in the leaves. I wept. My body flamed, each inch of it.

“Be still,” said a coffle sister.

“She wants a master,” said another.

“So do we all,” said another.

“Are we to be sold, or distributed, in Tarncamp?” asked another.

“What does it matter?” whispered another.

I could see two of the three moons through the foliage above. A few yards away a guard was crouching, bracing himself on a spear. There was another elsewhere, somewhere. One could see occasional clouds drifting past, solitary, lonely, unhurried, above, in the night.

I recalled an incident, from my former world, which had occurred in an unlikely venue, the aisle of a large, crowded emporium, when I had been seen, and looked upon, and looked upon, though I was fully clothed, as a slave might be looked upon. Had that gaze not, as though mighty hands, parted and torn away my clothing, revealing, as though for a master’s consideration, what had impermissibly dared to conceal itself within? I had sensed myself more than regarded; I had sensed myself considered, appraised.

How strange how a single moment, a chance encounter, can alter a consciousness and transform a life, reordering an existence and its meaning. Even then, I supposed, somewhere, there reposed an iron by which my thigh would be marked, chains which might encircle my limbs, collars which might enclasp my throat. Was there not, even then, a large, heavy, towering block waiting, somewhere, whose sawdust my bare feet might tread, from which I might be vended?

I stirred, bound.

I recalled how I had lain at his feet, supine, stripped and tied, hand and foot, looking up at him, in something like a warehouse.

I had seen him but once more, through the bars of an exposition cage, prior to my sale, in a place called Brundisium.

I had no doubt it was he who had brought me to Gor, to bondage, and the sales block. I supposed I should have hated him, but instead I knew, rather, I wanted his collar.

Surely he had seen me as a slave.

Would that he had seen me as his slave!

He had summoned me to the bars of the exposition cage, and looked upon me, but had then dismissed me, casually, as the slave I was.

That night I had been sold.

I had not seen him since.

I would never see him again.

One of the girls had said I wanted a master. That was doubtless true. What slave does not long for her master? And what man does not long for his slave?

I had begun to sense, frequently now, stirrings in my belly, discomforts which I feared might grow intolerable and insupportable. How fearful, I suspected, are the needs of a female slave, and how helpless she is in their grasp. Surely I must resist the growing of slave fires within me! How merciless are the men to us! And how amused they are at what they have done to us. Was it not better to be a free woman of ice, refined and composed, at ease with her body, untroubled, inert, and serene? What is it about the collar, and finding oneself owned, as a beast is owned, which so transforms us, which puts us so piteously and helplessly at the feet of masters? From the school I could remember the moans and cries, the scratchings and beggings, of slaves. I must never let myself suffer so, must never permit myself to become no more than the negligible, pleading toy of an imperious brute. But, resist it as I could, and dread it as I might, I feared it could be done with me, and would be done with me. I was kajira! But, I wondered, are free women, really, so different? How many, I wondered, in their loneliness, sob and twist within their coverlets, moan, and pummel their silken, tear-dampened pillows with frustration?

It was late.

In the house I had been taught something of the pleasing of men, and the guards, under supervision, as is customary, had tried me out, testing me, and seemed pleased with my responsiveness, rudimentary and incipient though it might have been. The last time I had begged him not to leave me, but he had thrust me from him, laughing. Certainly by the time I reached the block, I had some understanding of what I was, and what would be expected of me. The guards in the dungeon were more merciful, and I, and the others, sometimes vied to please them.

I twisted about in the leaves, under the moons.

Surely my body was telling me of my need of a master. I supposed, in time, it would beg for a master.

I remembered one man beyond the others, beyond all others.

But he had not put me to his pleasure.

How foolish that a girl should desire a certain master, that there should be one to whose feet she most desired to press her lips.

Does she not know she is a mere slave, an object, a utensil for a male’s pleasure, for any male’s pleasure?

I would never see him again.

In the exposition cage I had been dismissed. We were now somewhere, far to the north. Brundisium was far behind us. I did not know our destination, save that it was spoken of as Tarncamp.

I would never see him again.

I wept, an unwanted, neglected, barbarian slave.

I pulled a little at the ropes. It was meaningless, of course. I had been tied by a Gorean male. I was helpless, utterly so.

I heard the guard being changed, and then I fell asleep.