Norman Invasions (40 page)

He wondered if it had been a mistake to acquire her.

It would seem a shame if she were to be sold for sleen feed.

“You are unclothed,” he said.

She drew the furs up, even more closely, about her throat.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you object?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she said.

“Do you know why you are unclothed?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “no!”

He saw she knew little of men and women

Or perhaps she was not being candid.

Lying was not permitted in such as she, but quite possibly she was not yet keenly aware of that, or of the terrible risks implicit in the smallest of endeavored deceptions.

Men found pleasure in looking upon her.

And so they would.

That was why she was unclothed.

Was that so hard to understand?

“Do you know what you are?” he asked.

“I am some sort of prisoner, or captive,” she said. “Is that not obvious?”

“You have examined your left thigh?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“There is a mark there, is there not?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said, angrily.

“It is an attractive mark, is it not,” he asked, “small, lovely, tasteful, delicate—and
feminine
—obviously and unmistakably
feminine
?”

She was silent.

“And it is on you, is it not? Well fixed, clearly and indelibly so, unmistakably so, in your thigh?”

“Yes!” she said, angrily.

“It is a brand,” he said. “It is recognized throughout this world. It proclaims what you are.”

He regarded her evenly.

She looked away.

“What are you?” he asked.

She did not meet his eyes.

“A captive, a prisoner,” she said, sullenly.

“Aii!” she wept, for he had torn away from her the furs within which she had huddled, seeking to shelter herself from his gaze, and, by the hair, had cast her prone on the furs. He then, as she wept, lashed her, five times, with the switch he carried. “Please, stop!” she cried, covering her head with her hands. “What are you?” he demanded, savagely. “A slave,” she cried, “a slave!”

“A slave, what?” he demanded.

“Master,” she wept, “a slave,
Master
!”

He reached to her hair and twisted her head about, to regard him. He regarded her with disgust. She turned her head away.

“Position!” he snapped.

Swiftly she went to position.

“I wonder,” he mused, “I wonder—”

She looked well in position.

He wondered if there were any point in working with her.

She did look well in position, but does not any woman?

She had obviously not had much training. It would have been better if they had had longer to work with her. But the enemies had seemed to be apprised of the trove's location. It had been necessary to scatter the merchandise, and there had been little time to do so.

In a way that was unfortunate.

“Turn about,” said he, “put your head to the furs.”

She did so, shuddering.

“What are you going to do?” she said.

“Whatever I please,” he said. “Keep your head down.” Such a position is good for a woman. It helps her to overcome pride. It helps her to understand that she is a woman. “How many letters are there in the expression ‘kajira'?” he asked.

“I do not know!” she said.

“Six,” he said. “How many times were you struck?”

“I do not know!” she wept.

“Recall each blow,” he said. “Remember each stroke.”

“—Five,” she said.

“What are you, in
Gorean
,” he said.

“
La kajira
!” she said.

“In English!” he said.

“I am a slave woman!” she said.

“No,” he said. “You are too luscious, too desirable, too slim, too shapely and exciting for that. Too coin-worthy for that! Too, ‘woman' is a term of dignity, of status, one to which you are not entitled. What are you, in
Gorean
!”

“
La kajira
!” she wept.

“And in English, the best translation?” he said.

“I am a slave girl!” she said.

“Girl?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said. “
Girl
.
Girl
!”

“What sort of girl?”

“A slave
girl
!” she cried.

“And how many letters in ‘kajira'?” he asked.

“Six,” she said.

“And how many times were you struck?”

“Please let me change my position,” she begged. “I have no dignity like this! You are humiliating me! How can you view me with respect, as I am?”

Her question was answered most eloquently, with a laugh.

“—Five,” she said.

“It seems then that in our small lesson, to which I trust you are attentive, that you require for parity of admonition and instruction, for mnemonic purposes, for an informative symmetry, so to speak, an additional stroke.”

“No!” she said. “Ai!” she wept.

“There,” said he. “Six letters, six strokes.
Kajira
. I think now you will better remember what you are.” Such simple artifices, in their small way, with their perhaps initially attendant embarrassments, can help a girl adjust to the new network of relations in which she finds herself, can help her to come to grips with what she now is. The sooner she realizes her new condition and reality, the new she she is, and its uncontroversial and inalterable nature, the better for her.

“Remain as you are,” he cautioned her. But she had not endeavored to change her position. This gave him some reassurance. He did not care to waste his time. Too, she was, in her way, beautiful. He did not want it to be a waste, that she had been brought here.

His women, Gorean women, were familiar with such as she, with their duties, their place in society, and such, and, commonly, understood the transitions involved, and, on the whole, adapted quickly to their new condition, particularly if translated to a foreign city with an alien Home Stone. He was surprised that women of Earth, without these familiarities, without this cultural background, without an awareness of the customs and practices involved, coming from a world so different, so cold, polluted, lonely, sterile, and mechanistic, yet in a short time accommodated themselves, and well, to what, for them, must initially at least be perceived as radically alien, perhaps even frightening, realities and conditions. Why did the women of Earth sell so well in the markets? Why did they soon prove to be amongst the most desired, the most coveted, items of merchandise? Doubtless there were at least two reasons. One, their dreams, their fantasies, their hopes, their yearnings, had prepared them for this world. Two, they were women, no different from their Gorean sisters, with the needs, the desires, the dispositions, the sensitivities, and awarenesses, the beautiful depths and profundities of the human female.

Too, of course, the women brought to the world were not randomly harvested, not picked as chance or convenience would have it. They were selected with values in mind, such as merchandisability, indexed to not simply beauty, intelligence, and health, but to a sensed set of needs, and readinesses, sexual and otherwise, to which an experienced assessor eventually becomes sensitized.

They were brought here for the collar, as much as for anything else, because they belonged in the collar, and wanted it, in the depths of their hearts.

A skilled assessor could glance at a woman, on the street, in a store, in a public conveyance, she wholly unawares, and sense the slave in her, the waiting slave; and so, casually, idly, speculatively, he deprives her of her garments, and sees her as she might be, as a naked, chained slave, sees her, too, as she might be on the block, vulnerable, exposed, exhibited, denied even a concealing thread, all eyes upon her, being vended, provoking interest, worthy of being sold, sees her, too, as she would be, later, kneeling before a man, stripped, submitted, claimed, owned, wearing his collar, her lips pressed gratefully, fearfully, to his feet.

She is added to his list.

He looked again at the woman kneeling away, before him.

He wondered if she were a mistake.

If only there had been more time to train her.

He then, suddenly, struck her three more times, sharply.

“Do you ask for a justification of those strokes?” he inquired.

“No!” she said. “No!”

“What are you,” he asked, “in
Gorean
, then in English.”

“
La kajira
!” she said. “I am a slave girl!”

“Position,” he snapped.

Swiftly she turned about, and assumed position, before him.

Yes, she was beautiful.

He put the switch under her chin, for her head was down, and lifted her chin, gently, that she might look at him. She was frightened.

She understood now that she was subject to discipline, that she would be punished if she were not pleasing.

This insight, in itself, can be transformative in a female.

Did she have possibilities?

She was beautiful enough to have possibilities.

He hoped she had possibilities.

“You may sit or recline, as you wish,” he said, “and you may cover yourself with the furs, as before.”

She moved quickly to the back of the alcove. He noted that she knelt, which he found of interest. She clutched, as before, defensively, the furs about her, high, covering even the collar, by means of the chain of which she was secured within the alcove.

“What do you want of me?” she asked. “Have you paid your coin?”

“No,” he said.

“You have not paid your coin?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I would like to talk with you,” he said. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I wonder if you realize the danger you are in,” he said.

“Danger?”

“Have you ever seen a sleen?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“Leech plants?” he inquired. He himself involuntarily shuddered, as he thought of those thick, matted, restless, thorned, fleshly growths. He had once seen a man fall amongst them.

“No,” she said.

“There have been use complaints from customers,” he said.

She shrugged.

“The taverner is not pleased.”

Again she shrugged, and looked away.

The enemies had detected the ship, though it had been well hidden. It had been destroyed. They had not seemed much concerned with us. It was the ship they had wanted. There were other ships, of course. We had scattered. Some, I suppose, were caught. One does not know. It had not been possible to anticipate the attack, but we had had a few moments warning, enough time to leave, to break camp, to move the goods, the coffles. We knew this sort of danger. The work is well paid, however, in various ways.

She had not even been conscious when she had been sold. The taverner had examined her in the light of a lamp, while she slept in the warehouse. He had selected her largely on the basis of her features and lineaments. He had not seen her move. He had not seen her perform. He had not paid much for her. She had been cheap. They had wished to dispose of her, and several others, quickly, privately. Who knew where, or whence, the enemies? She had thus been deprived of the experience of her own sale, a presale training, a presale indoctrination, the coaching of the auctioneer, and such. Then she had been chained and hooded, and brought here. Her Gorean was sparse, as yet, the result of no more than a few weeks of instruction, in the establishment itself, by other girls. She had been put out on the floor only five days ago. It was unfortunate that the taverner had been so eager for a bargain. Had he seen her awake, had he seen her move, he might have better understood the problematical nature of his projected investment. I think he might then have left her for another, or for the mills, or laundries. One needs girls in such places, but they do not wish to stay there, and they strive desperately to be relieved as soon as possible of the lengthy and laborious tasks associated with charges so dismal and onerous, strive to escape them in the only way available to them, by recourse to the ways of the woman. What is a woman's beauty for but to be exchanged for the goods of the world? But, alas for them, others, not they, own their beauty, and exchange it on their own behalf for the goods of the world. On the world called Earth, a woman owns her own beauty and may barter it, or sell it, to the highest bidder, to advance herself as she will, but on this world her beauty is commonly owned by another who can barter it, or sell it, not for hers, but for his purposes. Sometimes, incidentally, it is pleasant to take a haughty woman of Earth who has such intentions, those of cynically using her beauty to advance herself, and bring her to Gor, stripped and on a chain. She will then see her beauty, not quite what she had perhaps thought it to be, now that it is objectively compared with that of others, exchanged not to her benefit but to that of others. This is a useful lesson for a woman. She will then learn sounder values, at the feet of a master, and will be then once again concerned to use her beauty in her own best interest, but now, fearfully and desperately, to please her master.

“Have you done well in the alcove?” he asked. He had, of course, the reports of the taverner.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes?” he inquired.

“Certainly,” said she, “I am helpless. I am naked. I am on a chain. Many have had their way with me. How can I help that? I have been handled with authority and scorn. I have been handled like meat. Frequently have I been treated with abruptness and disdain. Many a time I have been thoughtlessly, arrogantly, perfunctorily brutalized.”

He considered her. There are times when such things are good for a woman, when she is learning her condition, when she needs reassurance, when she is to be reminded of her status, and such. But there is more, so much more.