Plunder of Gor (17 page)

“To be sure,” he said, “a former free woman's first sale may bring a good price. Some men enjoy teaching them what they now are. This is particularly the case if she is beautiful.”

I had now heard of tharlarion, whatever they might be. I gathered, from the context, that it was not to a woman's advantage to resemble one.

“You must, indeed, be from far away,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Still I think she must have been a great beauty,” I said.

“The quality, and desirability, of slaves,” he said, “is seldom a matter of surfaces. Do not confuse the outside slave with the inside slave. They may not be identical. Cities have been bartered for a woman you might adjudge plain. One buys, and desires, the whole slave. There are many beauties. There is the beauty of a slave's joy, that of her passion, and service, that of her submission, that of her lively, vital intelligence, so stimulating to encounter, she kneeling before you, that of her emotions and feelings, that of the all of her, that of the entire fair beast, now collared.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

What man, I wondered, would truly prize such things, a Gorean, I supposed, before whom she knelt, her lips pressed to his whip.

The dealer then turned about, and left.

I was now prepared to accept the views of my instructresses, to avoid free women, and placate, cultivate, and please free men.

It would then be, as I would not have earlier surmised, a man who would be most likely to buy and free me.

I was pleased.

I had always managed men, quite well.

It was the next morning.

The tarpaulin that had been cast over my cage the night before had now been drawn aside.

The day, again, was bright, and the boards of the wharf, as I could tell, placing my hands through the bars, once again, were, like the cage and bars, warm to the touch.

I looked about, after my watering and feeding, and my use of the waste trough.

This fellow looked prosperous.

His robes were white and gold. His sandals were fastened with golden straps. A weighty purse was suspended from a broad belt, encircling a portly belly.

“I am a free woman, wrongly caged!” I said. “I crave rescue. Be understanding, be noble, be kind. Buy me, restore me to freedom!”

Small eyes peered down at me, from within folds of fat.

“I doubt we shared a Home Stone,” he said. “And even so, if we once did, we no longer do. That is all in the past. It is gone. It is wiped away. You are now nothing. You are now a slave. You are marked.”

I did not even know, as noted, what Home Stones were.

“But what if I were once a compatriot,” I said, “once of your city!”

“It matters not,” he said. “You are now no more than a beast, a slave.”

“What is going on here, Master?” inquired our dealer, politely, he also in robes of white and gold, though, I fear, his were rather ragged, and soiled.

The Merchant class is undoubtedly the richest of the Gorean castes, which doubtless has played its role in its pretensions to constitute a high caste, but there are low merchants as well as high merchants, poor merchants as well as rich merchants. To be sure, the sharing of caste remains important. Even a lowly peddler, I would learn, if a Home Stone is shared, thinks nothing of expecting a free meal and a night's lodging from a high merchant, who may own caravans, mines, and fleets.

“This one,” said the fellow I had accosted, “wishes to be purchased, and then freed. I see little profit in that. Is she insane, or stupid?”

The dealer looked at me, narrowly. Doubtless he remembered quite well yesterday's interlude with the free woman.

Had I then, despite his injunction, dared to address myself to a free person?

“Did she speak to you first, Master?” inquired the dealer.

“Yes,” said the portly fellow.

“More likely, merely naive, Master,” said the dealer. “She may not yet have noticed her thigh is marked.”

“She was recently free?”

“I fear so.”

“She speaks oddly,” said the portly fellow.

“She is from far away, a barbarian,” said the dealer.

“Interesting,” said the portly fellow.

“You can tell,” said the dealer. “There is a tiny bit of metal embedded in one of her back teeth. One must look carefully to detect it. It is not likely to be noticed. Would you like me to bring her out of her cage?”

“Look at her upper left arm, the scar,” said the portly fellow. “She is marred, disfigured.”

“But not seriously, Master,” said the dealer.

I did not understand what they were talking about. Later, I realized they might be referring to my vaccination mark.

“You deal in damaged goods,” said the portly fellow.

“Now and then, but at bargain prices,” said the dealer. “Would you like to look at her?”

“No,” said the portly fellow, and turned away.

“I am not pleased with you,” said the dealer, looking down upon me.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“You are a slave,” he said. “Do you think you will be freed?”

“No, Master,” I said.

“Then why speak of it?” he asked.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“Should slaves not be kept as slaves?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“So you should be kept as a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you think you should be freed?” he asked.

I hesitated, as though on some fearsome brink. I feared to look within my most secret thoughts.

“Speak,” he said.

I began to shake with emotion. I trembled. I shuddered.

“Must I speak?” I whispered.

“Yes,” he said.

What I said then startled me. I, a woman, had been in the arms of a master.

“No, Master,” I said. “I do not think I should be freed.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I am a slave, Master,” I said.

I had the sense then that an internal war was done, not that it mattered much, what I might think or feel, for I was marked and caged.

What did it matter, what I thought of such things?

I was powerless. I was a slave.

And yet, I had now acknowledged, openly and honestly, to myself, that I did not think I should be freed. How could I have said that? How could I have done so? Was I a true slave? Could that be? I feared it was so. I recalled the mighty arms of Kurik, enfolding me helplessly in the grip of the master, a helplessness and bliss I could not forget. I then understood, naked, and confined in that tiny cage, in which I could scarcely move, that it was right, and appropriate, that I be a slave. In that moment I knew I was, and should be, a slave. I was a woman, and was the rightful belonging of men. I had discovered myself, and was not discontent, but was overwhelmed with a sense of truth and joy, and, oddly perhaps, with liberation.

The internal war was done.

How fitting then that one such as I should be bought and sold, should be owned, and mastered!

How else could I find myself? How else could I realize myself?

Then misery surged up within me. Surely such things could not be true. I must not permit them to be true. I must deny them. I must pretend they could not be true! But they were true, I knew.

The internal war was done.

But must I not deny that?

But I could not do so.

I now knew myself, and had felt a master's arms.

I shuddered, a caged slave.

“Did you speak first?” he asked. “He said you did.”

“No, Master!” I said.

He looked to the other cages about.

“She did, Master!” said several voices. “We heard her! She spoke first.”

“Yes,” cried others.

The dealer turned back to me. “Did you?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said, weakly.

“Barbarian!” hissed the girl caged to my right. “Barbarian!” said others.

“Then,” said the dealer, “you have not only disobeyed, but you have lied.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “But please do not punish me!”

“You disobeyed, and lied, and do not expect to be punished?” he said.

“I am helpless,” I said. “You are a kindly, noble Master. Please be kind to me.”

He straightened up, and stepped back.

“Master?” I said.

“Would you like to bathe?” he asked.

How relieved I felt.

I had feared the whip might have been put to me.

I had been forgiven!

Surely I would rejoice to be permitted to bathe. Kajirae are to keep themselves clean, neat, and well-groomed, that they might be more pleasing to masters. They are not free women.

“Oh, yes! Yes, Master!” I said.

“Bathe her,” said the dealer to his two assistants, who stood about.

To my surprise, a stout rope was fastened to a ring on the top of my cage. The rope was some yards in length. It trailed back, on the wharf.

“Masters?” I said, uncertainly.

The two assistants to the dealer then lifted the cage and carried it to the edge of the wharf.

“No!” I cried.

The cage was swung back, and then heaved from the wharf. Metal, it sunk swiftly. I, its occupant, could do nothing to alter its descent. The cold waters of the river plunged through the bars, and swirled about me, and then, as I tried to rear up, and lift my head, as I could, it swirled about my head, and over my head. Some seconds later, three or four, sinking, the cage grated on sand, at the bottom of the river, near the pilings of the wharf. My eyes stung. I felt grit in my mouth, doubtless from where the bottom had been disturbed by the impact of the sinking cage. I fought, frenziedly, the desire to breathe. I shook the bars, helplessly. I was conscious of bubbles, emerging, bursting about me, near me, from my mouth. I must not breathe in. To do so would be to drown. I sensed I could not long hold my breath. A moment or two more, I was sure, and I would strangle. “Do not breathe!” I told myself. “Hold your breath! Do not breathe!” Things started to go black, within the blackness. If I fell unconscious, I knew I would automatically breathe, and that would be the end. I did not think they intended to kill me. Surely my offenses, however grievous in this world, had not warranted such a punishment. But might they kill me, as an object lesson to the others? I did not think so. Wild thoughts coursed through my head. The swirling water was cold. I felt my hair lifted about, in the current. Surely they would not wish to kill me. Was I not, in some way, however negligible, of some value, an investment of sorts, as the dealer had reminded the free woman? What if they miscalculated? What if I could not hold my breath as long as they expected? I began to despair. Strange memories, from the past, flashed about me, as though swirling in the water. I must breathe! Then I felt the cage shift, jerk, and begin to be drawn toward the surface. I must not breathe! I must not breathe! And then the cage broke the surface of the water and, sputtering, I expelled air, and sucked into my lungs the glory of an unpolluted world's air. I gasped. I tried to rub the water from my eyes. “No!” I cried out, as the cage, again, released, descended into the water. Three times I was wholly immersed for what seemed years, but could have been only a matter of two or three minutes, at most. At last, the cage was drawn upward to the point where it had emerged some four or five inches from the water. It was then, apparently, tied in place. If I turned my head to the side, and knelt in the cage, I could, between the laps of the water against the pilings, snatch a breath. But it was painful to kneel so, my head turned as it was, the right side of my head, and then the left side of my head, held closely against the steel ceiling of the cage. “Forgive me, forgive me, Master!” I cried, as I could, my mouth half full of water. I was conscious of men and women moving over the wharf, as before, above me. I trusted the rope would hold. If it did not, I would surely drown. I was helpless, confined in the tiny cage. “Masters!” I cried. “Be silent,” said a voice from above me. I think it was that of one of the assistants to the dealer. My ill-fated interview with the portly fellow in white and yellow, or gold, had taken place rather early, in the morning, not long after the tarpaulins had been removed from our cages, and our simple needs had been attended to. Toward noon, my misery was intense. I was cold from the river, and in pain, given how I must hold my body to access the narrow plate of air between the water and the ceiling of the cage. Often I had to spit out water. Then, a bit after noon, I shrieked with horror, for something, long, and snakelike, had slid between the bars and brushed across my body. “Help! Help!” I cried. Then the thing, with a snap of its long, smooth body, had darted away. “Help!” I screamed. “What is wrong?” asked a voice from above. I knew not who it was. “A snake,” I cried, “a water snake!” “There are no water snakes here,” called the voice. “The current discourages them. It is most likely an eel, a Vosk eel.” “Help!” I cried. “Call my master. Save me!” But I received no response to my cry. Toward nightfall another such intruder passed between the bars of the cage. I felt its body slide over my left leg. During the night four more such visitants traversed the cage. Once, during the night, something smote the cage, twice, prodding it, pushing against the bars, and then it withdrew, unseen. In the morning, shortly after dawn, I heard activity taking place above me, men walking, carts trundling. I also smelled food cooking, probably in pans, set on the small wheeled stoves some vendors moved about the wharf.

I heard the dealer's voice from above me.

“Are you bathed?” he inquired.

“Yes, Master!” I said. I had not slept, except for a momentary lapse, when my head sank beneath the water, and I awakened, and raised it again, immediately, to gasp for breath.

“Are you cold, and miserable?” he asked.