Captive of Gor (30 page)

to sleep.”

After a time, we lay down, side by side, and I, holding to Ute’s hand, kissing

it, fell asleep.

12
   
I Gather Berries

(pg. 206) How good it was to be out of the slave wagon!

Standing in the grass, in the sunlight, I stretched, and laughed.

I wore my new camisk. I was much pleased.

I had sewn it in the wagon, the first day out of Ko-ro-ba. My old camisk, long

ago, had been burned near the compound of Targo.

I suppose girls of Earth might find the camisk a shameful, scandalous garment,

but I was much pleased to have it. We had not been permitted camisks in the pens

of Ko-ro-ba. In the stinking straw they might have been soiled. Also, it is

thought by slavers that it is, upon occasion, good for a girl to find herself

naked and behind bars. But now the dimly lit cells, the steel and cement, the

stomach-wrenching heat and dampness, the close, foul air, the soiled straw, the

stink, the crowding, the heavy bars, were behind us. Sometimes free women fall

desperately ill when brought to the pens. Inge and I had vomited for more than

an hour after we had been forced into the pens, and locked in our cells. But now

the pens were behind us.

I stretched again.

It was a day in the early summer, the second day of En’Var. In the chronology of

Ar, that city for which we were bound, it was said to be the year 10,121.

I could feel the grass at my calves, the sun on my face and arms and legs, the

warm, fresh, root-filled earth beneath my bare feet.

I was happy.

(pg. 207) I lifted my face to the sun and closed my eyes, letting its warmth and

light bathe my face and closed eyes.

Elinor Brinton, the rich girl of Earth, was happy.

I felt the pull of the strap on my throat, and opened my eyes. By a long,

leather strap, some ten feet in length, I was fastened by the neck to Ute. We

were picking berries.

Elinor Brinton, the Gorean slave girl, quickly bend down and, with her fingers,

pulled berries from the twigs of a small bush, and put them in her leather

bucket.

Ute had her back to me, and the guard, too. He, drowsy, was leaning on his

spear.

We were perhaps a pasang from the caravan. I, by standing on my tip toes in the

grass, on the low hill on which we were gathering berries, could see the

squarish tops of the wagons, with their blue and yellow canvas coverings.

We were nine days out of Ko-ro-ba.

It would be weeks before we could reach Ar, where we would be sold.

I was pleased with the summer’s day, and the breezes.

Surreptitiously, I moved, picking berries here and there, closer to Ute.

She was not facing me, nor was the guard.

My hand darted into her leather bucket and seized a handful of berries, and

quickly put them in my own. Neither she nor the guard noticed. Ute and the guard

were stupid.

I slipped one of the berries into my mouth, taking care that no juices showed on

my lips or face.

How clever I was.

How good it was to have the stench of the pens behind us!

I bent down and rubbed my ankles, and then stretched my legs. I ached from

riding in the slave wagon. Girls are given only a foot of chain fastened to

their ankle rings, which is looped about the central bar, locked in place, in

the slave wagon. There are only some folds of canvas to serve as a cushion

between your body and the hard boards of the wagon. But now I was out and, save

that I was tethered to Ute, could move as I wished.

(pg. 208) How good it was to have the stench of the pens behind us! How good it

was to be out of the slave wagon!

I, Elinor Brinton, formerly a rich girl, now a slave on a distant planet, was

happy.

I had more than one reason, too, I reminded myself, to be happy.

I laughed.

I recalled the morning we had left Ko-ro-ba.

We had been called from our cells well before dawn. Each of us had then been

forced to eat a large bowl of heavy slave gruel. We would not be fed again until

that night. In the courtyard of the pens, under torchlight, with brushes we were

forced to scrub the stink of the pens from our bodies. We were than admitted to

the wagons. We sat in the wagons, five to a side, our feet toward the center.

The central slave bar was then locked into place. A guard then entered the

wagon, with ten sets of chains and ankle rings, over his shoulder. Beginning at

the front of the wagon, backing toward the back, girl by girl, he fastened us to

the bar. He then slipped from the wagon, and lifted up the back gate of the

wagon, shoving its bolts in place, securing it. The canvas was then tied down.

We found ourselves alone with ourselves, in the darkness, chained in the wagon.

“Hi!” cried our driver, and we felt the wagon, creaking, begin to move.

We were merchandises on our way to Ar.

The caravan, wagon by wagon, made its way slowly toward Ko-ro-ba’s Street of the

Field Gate, which is the southernmost gate of the city.

But we had been unable to move as rapidly as we had wished. the streets, even at

that hour, were crowded. We could sense that there was a holiday atmosphere.

“What is it?” I had asked Inge.

“I do not know,” she had said.

We heard the driver cursing and shouting at the crowds, but we could make little

progress.

Indeed, other wagons, we gathered, merchant wagons and those of peasants, too,

were blocked in the streets.

(pg. 209) Foot by foot we moved toward the Street of the Field Gate, and then,

at last, came that street.

In the wagons, with the canvas tied down, chained, we listened to the crowds.

By this time it was full daylight outside, and much light filtered through the

wagon canvas. We could see one another quite clearly.

The girls were excited.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I do not know,” said Inge angrily.

I cursed the canvas.

We heard music in the distance, trumpets, drums and cymbals. We looked at one

another, scarcely able to restrain ourselves.

“Move to one side and stop,’ said a voice outside, one who spoke with authority.

Our wagon pulled over to one side of the broad avenue, Ko-ro-ba’s Street of the

Field gate.

We felt crowds surge about the wagon. The music was coming closer.

There was much shouting.

“It is the catch of Marlenus!” cried a man.

My heart leapt.

I turned about, kneeling, twisting the ankle chain, and dug with my fingers

under the edge of the rain canvas.

The drums, the cymbals, the trumpets, were now quite close.

I lifted up an edge of the canvas and peeped through.

A hunt master, astride a monstrous tharlarion, holding a wand, tufted with

panther hair, preceded the retinue. He wore over his head, half covering his

face, a hood formed of the skin of the head of a forest panther. About his neck

there were twined necklaces of claws. Across his back there was strapped a

quiver of arrows. A bow, unstrung, was fastened at his saddle. He was dressed in

skins, mostly those of sleen and forest panthers.

Behind him came musicians, with their trumpets, and cymbals and drums. They,

too, wore skins, and the heads of forest panthers.

(pg. 210) Then, on carts, drawn by small, horned tharlarion, there came cages,

and poles of trophies. In certain of the cages, of heavy, peeled branches lashed

together, there snarled and hissed forest sleen, in others there raged the

dreadful tawny, barred panthers of the northern forests. From the poles there

hung the skins and heads of many beasts, mostly panthers and sleen. In one cage,

restlessly lifting its swaying head, there coiled a great, banded hith, Gor’s

most feared serpentine constrictor. It was native only to certain areas of the

forest. Marlenus’ hunting must have ranged widely. Here and there, among the

wagons, leashed, clad in short woolen skirts, heavy bands of iron hammered about

their throats, under the guard of huntsmen, cowled in the heads of forest

panthers, walked male slaves, male outlaws captured by Marlenus and his hunters

in the forest. They had long, shaggy black hair. Some carried heavy baskets of

fruits and nuts on their shoulders, or strings of gourds; others bore wicker

hampers of flowers, or carried brightly plumaged forest birds; tied by string to

their wrists.

The other girls, too, watched excitedly, all of them coming to my side of the

wagon, wedging among us, lifting up the rain canvas, peeping out.

“Aren’t the male slaves exciting,” said one of the girls.

“Shameless!” I scorned her.

“Perhaps you will be hooded and mated with one,” she hissed back.

I struck her. I was angry. It had not occurred to me, but what she said was

true. If it should please my master, I could, of course, be mated, as easily as

a bosk or a domestic sleen.

“Look at the huntsmen!” breathed Lana, her eyes bright, her lips parted.

Just at that moment one of the cowled huntsmen, a large, swarthy fellow, looked

our way and saw us peeping out. He grinned.

“I wish such a man would hunt me,” said Lana.

“I, too,” said the Lady Rena, excited.

I was startled that she had spoken so. Then I recalled that she, too, was only a

female slave. The Lady Rena of (pg. 211) Lydius, like the rest of us, was only a

naked girl, a slave, chained in a wagon, destined for the touch of a master.

I rejoiced that I did not have their weaknesses.

I peeped again through the tiny opening between the canvas and the wooded side

of the wagon.

More carts were going by, and more huntsmen and slaves. How proud and fine

seemed the huntsmen, with their animals and slaves. How grandly they walked. How

fearful they appeared, in skins, cowled in the heads of forest panthers, with

their hunting spears. They did not bear burdens. They led or drove those that

did, inferior, collared, skirted men, slaves. How straight walked the huntsmen,

how broad their backs, how straight their gaze and high their head, how large

their hands, how keen their gaze! There were masters! They had made slaves even

of men! What would a mere woman be in their hands?

I detested them. I detested them!

“Ute,” said Inge, “how would you like such a master?”

“I am a slave,” said Ute. “I would try to serve him well.”

“Ah, Ute,” breathed Inge. “You have never forgotten your leather worker, who

sold you.”

Ute looked down.

“What of you, El-in-or?” taunted Inge, though she was of the scribes.

“I detest them,” I told her.

“You would serve such a one well,” Inge informed me. “He would see to that.”

I did not answer her.

Inge was now looking again, out of the tiny opening between the canvas and the

wood. “I want to be owned,” she said. “I want to be owned.”

“You are of the scribes,” I whispered to her.

She looked at me. “I am a slave girl,” she said. “And so, too,” she added, not

pleasantly, “are you.” She looked at me. “Slave,” she said.

I struck at her, but she caught my hair and pulled my head down to the canvas. I

could not reach her hair, nor could I disengage her fists from mine. I was

helpless, and held painfully.

(pg. 212) “Who is the most slave in the wagon?” challenged Inge.

I wept, trying to pull her hands from my hair.

“Who is the most slave in the wagon?” repeated Inge, angrily. She gave my hair a

vicious yank, twisting my head on the canvas. I lay twisted among the other

girls, chained. Inge knelt. “Who is the most slave in the wagon?” repeated Inge

again, again yanking my hair, twisting it.

“El-in-or,” I whispered. “El-in-or!”

“Let us all hear who is most slave in this wagon,” said Inge.

“El-in-or!” I cried out, in pain, weeping. “El-in-or!”

When Inge released me, I scrambled back from her. I had no desire to fight her.

I looked at her. There was triumph in her eyes. Every muscle in her body seemed

vital and alive. I sensed then, knew then, that she had been waiting a long time

for such an encounter. She had wanted a pretext to fight me. I now knew I could

no longer bully Inge.

“Let us fight!” she challenged.

“No,” I said. “No.” I shook my head.

I had thought myself stronger than Inge. I now realized that I was not. I had,

as I thought I could with impunity, struck at her. Then, suddenly, cruelly,

decisively, she had bested me. I looked at her. The shining eyes, the vital

body, her eagerness to fight. I lowered my eyes, my head. Inge’s days of being

bullied by me were now at an end. Suddenly I was afraid of her. I had thought

myself able to beat her, if I might choose, but now I knew that she, if she

chose, could beat me. I had been clearly bested, and I sensed that I could be

again, if she wished. I was now frightened of Inge. I hoped that she would not

bully me. Almost immediately I sensed the shift of power in the wagon, among the

girls. I no longer ranked as high as I had, and Inge ranked higher. I sensed

that Inge was regarded with new respect, suddenly, and I, who had often been the

bully, the aggressor, would henceforth be regarded with little or no respect.

That made me angry.

Then we heard more music from outside, as more musicians, near the end of the

retinue, approached.