Kajira of Gor (12 page)

“You are not so clever as you think, Ligurious,” she said.

“Do you think I do not see that you, in stripping her, would be, in effect, and

to your lust and amusement, stripping me, and before my very eyes?”

“Forgive me,” smiled Ligurious, first minister of Corcyrus.

“Pull the lower portion of the coverlet down further,” she said. “You have

revealed too much of her thighs.”

“Of course,” he smiled, and adjusted the coverlet, drawing it down, over my

knees.

“Men ate beasts,” she said.

“You well know my feelings for you,” he said.

“They will go unrequited,” she said. “Content yourself with your slaves.”

I feared the woman bending over me. I could sense now that even if she seemed

superficially much like me, at least in appearances, she was in actuality quite

different. She seemed highly intelligent, doubtless more so than I, and severe

and decisive. She seemed harsh, and hard and cold. She seemed merciless and

cruel; she seemed arrogant, impatient, demanding, haughty and imperious. Such a

woman I thought, as I am not, is perhaps a true Tatrix. Surely it seemed more

believable that such a woman might hold power in a city such as Corcyrus than I.

The lamp again approached more closely. Again my head was pulled back,

helplessly, firmly, forcibly.

“She is not as beautiful as I,” said the woman.

“No,” said Ligurious. “Of course not.”

Then my hair was released and the two figures took their way from the room.

I had then twisted on the couch, freed myself of the confinements of the

coverlet, and, sensible of the effects of the wine, or perhaps a containment of

the wine, had fallen into a dreamless sleep.

I heard movements outside the door. The guard was being changed.

I could not lock the door from the inside. Yet I lay nude, on my back, on the

great couch. I wondered if this was brazen. I rolled to my side and pulled my

legs up. I bit at the silken coverlet. I wondered if there was a Tatrix within

me. I did not think so. There was something else in me, I feared, something that

I had only become clearly aware of on this barbaric world, this world in which I

must be true to my femininity, and in which there were true men.

I then understood, I thought, the strange dream I had had.

It was not contrasting now, I thought, perhaps two selves, or, more likely, two

women, muchly resembling one another, but rather it had been calling to my

attention, in its figurative imagery, in the symbolic transformations common to

dreams, a discrepancy between what I in actuality was and what it was expected,

doubtless, that a Tatrix should be. The contrast, I realized, had been clear, I

helpless, sobbing under the domination of Ligurious, little better than a slave,

and she above me, far superior me, haughty, decisive, imperious, cold and

powerful. I sobbed. I knew then from the dream, or from what had seemed a dream,

that there was no Tatrix in me. I was not a Tatrix, not in my heart. I was, at

best, something different. Angrily I arose from the couch. I went to the window.

I put my hands on the bars. Many times, secretly, I had tried them. They were

heavy, narrowly set, reinforced, inflexible. I laid my cheek gently against

them. They felt cool. I then drew back and, my hands on the bars, looked out,

across the rooftops of Corcyrus, to the walls of the city, and to the fields

beyond. The city was muchly dark. Some of the major avenues, however, such as

that Iphicrates, were illuminated, dimly, by lamps. In many Gorean citim when

men go out at night, they carry their own light, torches or lamps. I then looked

upward, into the humid night. I could see two of the three moons of this world.

I then, suddenly, angrily, shook the bars. They were for my own protection, I

had been informed. But I could not open them, or remove them, say, with knotted

clothing or bedding, to lower myself to the levels below. They might indeed

serve to keep others out, perhaps climbing upward, or descending on ropes from

the roof above, but they surely served as well, and as perfectly, to keep me

within! What is this room, I asked myself, is it truly my protected quarters, or

is it, rather, my cell? I walked back to the center of the room, near the great

couch. I looked at the bars. Then I went to the long mirror behind the vanity. I

looked at myself, in the mirror, in the dim moonlight, filtered into the room.

She is rather pretty, I thought. She may be pretty enough, even, to be a slave.

Susan, I recalled, had thought it possible that a man, some men at least, might

find her of interest, really of interest, of sufficient interest to be worth

putting in bondage. I wondered if she could please a man. Perhaps if she tried

very i hard to be pleasing some man, in his kindness, might find her acceptable.

I turned before the mirror, studying the girl that I was thusly displaying. Yes,

I thought, it is not impossible that I she might be considered worthy of a

collar. “Mistress would look well being sold from a block,” Susan bad said. “Are

you free, Tiffany?” I asked the image in the mirror. “Yes,” I told myself. “I am

free.” I turned my left thigh to the mirror, I my chin. I studied the girl in

the mirror. I wondered what she would like, with a brand, with a collar. “You

see, Tiffany,” I said. “You are not branded. You are not collared.”

I looked at the girl in the mirror. I wondered who I was, what I was.

“I am the Tatrix of Corcyrus!” I said.

But the girl in the mirror did not appear to be a Tatrix. She appeared, clearly,

to be something else.

I forced from my mind the memory of the slaves I had seen earlier, the girls in

the street, in their one-piece, skimpy garments, heads down, kneeling, chained

together by the neck, the girls in the market, in their chains, stark naked,

kneeling, too, their heads down to the warm cement, being publicly displayed for

sale.

“What are you?” I asked. “Do you not dare speak? Then show me. Show me!”

Slowly, numbly, frightened, I turned about and went to the foot of the great

couch. I knelt there, and, putting my head down, tenderly lifted up, in two

hands, a length of the chain that lay coiled there. I kissed it. “No!” I cried

out to myself, replacing the chain. But then I rose up and, timidly, softly,

went to the wall where the whip hung. I removed the whip from its hook and knelt

down with it. I wrapped its blades back about the handle. Then, humbly, my head

down, submissively, near the point where the five long, soft blades join the

staff, holding it in both hands, I kissed it. “No!” I wept, in protest. Then I

replaced the whip on its hook. I went then again to the mirror. The vanity was

low enough, meant to be used by a kneeling woman, and I was back far enough,

that I could see myself on the tiles, completely. I saw the girl in the mirror

kneel down. “No,” I said. I saw her kneel back on her heels. I saw her

straighten her back, and lift her chin, and put her hands on her thighs. “No!” I

said. I saw her spread her knees. “No,” I said. “No! No!” I had seen girls in

the palace do that, for example, when a free man had entered a room. Sometimes,

too, in identically this same position, they would keep their heads submissively

lowered, until given permission to raise them. This variation, and similar

variations, depend on the specific discipline to which a given girl is

subjected. The head is usually kept raised; this precludes the necessity of a

specific command to lift the head; in the headlifted position she has no choice

but to bare her facial beauty to the viewer; too, her least expression may be

read; too, of course, she can see who is in the room with her and is thus better

able, even from the first instant, to discern his moods, anticipate his needs,

and resp I leaped to my feet, furious with the girl in the mirror. She, lied!

She lied! I fled to the wardrobe. I flung back the sliding doors. I am Tatrix! I

tore my yellow robe, that of brief silk, from its carved hanger. I put it on me,

swiftly, angrily, belting it, tightly. I ran to the door leading from my

quarters. I reached to the handle and jerked it wildly towards me. I had opened

this door a hundred times. I cried out in surprise, in misery. This time it did

not yield. I jerked twice again, both of my hands on the handle. The door,

somehow, was fastened on the other side. It seemed, or something on it seemed,

to strike against some obstacle or barrier. I struck at it, pounding on it. “Let

me out!” I cried. “Let me out!” I heard two sliding sounds. On the other side, I

knew, were four pairs of brackets. Never, however, as far as I knew, had they

been used. Two of these pairs of brackets were on the door itself, one at the

lower part of the door and one at the upper part. Matching them in height, but

in the wall, were sets. One of these pairs, its the other two pairs of brack

bars located on opposite sides of the door, corresponded to the brackets, and

the other pair, its members opposite one another, one on each side of the door,

corresponded to the lower-door brackets. The door was thus, if beams or bars

were to be inserted through these brackets, prevented from swinging inward, its

natural opening motion. The door opened. Five guards were there. Two of them I

noted, at a glance, were laying heavy beams against the wall. It was these,

then, obviously, which had secured the door.

“The door was locked!” I said.

“Yes, Lady,” said the leader of the guards. He was of the third rank, like

Drusus Rencius. He, like the others, seemed surprised. Obviously he had not

expected to see me at this time of night, or this early in the morning.

“Why was the door locked?” I demanded.

“It is always locked at this time of night,” he said.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Orders,” said he.

“Whose orders?” I asked.

“Those of Ligurious,” he said.

“Why would such orders be given?” I asked.

“It is custom,” said the guard.

“Why?” I asked.

“To protect the Tatrix, I suppose,” said he. “Surely we would not want her

wandering about the palace at night.”

“There is danger in the palace?” I asked, angrily.

The guard shrugged. “Perhaps an assassin might have gained entrance,” he said.

“I would be safe enough accompanied by guards, I am sure,” I said.

“At this Ahn,” he said, “it is customary for the Tatrix to be within her

quarters.”

“I am leaving them,” I said. I made as though to brush past him. But his arm,

like a bar of iron, barred my way. “No, Lady, forgive me,” he said, “but you may

not pass.”

I stopped back. I was startled.

“I am Tatrix!” I said.

“Yes, Lady,” said he.

“Get out of my way!” I said.

“I am sorry,” he said. “You may not pass.”

“Call Ligurious!” I said. I was determined to get to the bottom of this matter.

“I cannot disturb the first minister at this Ahn,” he said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“He is with his women,” said the man.

“His women!” I said.

“Yes, Lady,” said the man.

“I see,” I said.

“If you wish,” said the guard, “I can call Drusus Rencius.”

“No,” I said. “No.” I then withdrew into the room. I saw the door close. Then, a

moment or so later, I heard the two beams, one after the other, slid into place.

“I am the Tatrix!” I screamed, angrily, from behind the door.

I then took off the robe, angrily, and threw it to the tiles. I could not go

out. What need did I have of it?

Then, trembling, naked, with my finger tips, in the half darkness, in moonlit

room, I examined the door. I even felt the great hinges, with their pins, like

rivets, on my side of the door. The lower ends of the pins had been spread,

beaten wide, so that they could not be forced upwards, freeing them. I sank to

my knees behind the door. I lifted my head and put my finger tips to the heavy

wood. “I am the Tatrix,” I whispered. Then I rose to my feet and went to the

side of the great couch. I looked back to the mirror behind the vanity. I saw

the frightened girl there. She was, indisputably female, with all that that

might entail on a world such as this.

“I am the Tatrix,” I whispered.

Then I crept onto the great couch. I lay on my stomach on the couch, on the

silk, near its foot. I supposed that sometimes girls might even be chained in

such a place, like a dog at a man’s feet, or perhaps even on the hard., cold

tiles, under the slave ring. If I were so chained, I thought, I would quickly

learn to be pleasing.

What manner of world was this, I wondered, on which I found myself. It was a

world, I thought, on which men had never relinquished their sovereignty, on

which they had never submitted to the knives of psychic castration.

From Earth, I could scarcely believe the men of this world, in their power and

naturalness.

Where were such men on Earth, I asked myself. They must exist there, some few

perhaps, somewhere. Thousands, perhaps millions of women on Earth, I thought,

must secretly pine for such men. How, without submitting themselves to such men,

how without satisfying the complementary equations of sexuality, could their own

femininity be fulfilled? I had wished to go forth in the palace. I had not been