by John Norman
“Why are you not on your mat?” he asked.
“I was not tired,” I said.
“You wanted to walk in the garden?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“It is the heat of the day,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why were you not in the shade?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said.
“One such as you must be careful,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. I did not fully understand him. I was frightened.
“You should guard your complexion,” he said.
“Yes!” I agreed, relieved.
“It would not do to become sunburned, to become reddened, or blistered.”
“No,” I said.
“Or worse,” he said.
“No,” I said, trembling.
How was it that he was here, a man, now? Who was he?
“You might then be less pleasing,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You are new in the garden,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. How could he have known that? I was sure he was not of the staff. Certainly I did not recognize his voice.
Could I be of interest to him?
Other, of course, than in the way in which one of my kind might be found of interest by any man?
“Position,” he said.
So said, so simply, I straightened my back, and knelt up, straight, but back on my heels, my knees widely spread, for this was in accord with my kind within a kind, the palms of my hands on my thighs. I kept my head bowed, however. This sort of thing, I had learned, tends to depend on the city, and the man. It is safest to keep it bowed, unless one knows that it is to be held otherwise.
“You may lift your head,” he said.
No, I did not know him. I did not recognize him. He was a strong, powerful man, of which here, in this place, on this world, there seemed no dearth. He was tall. He wore a street tunic, a fillet of wool holding back long, dark hair, a wallet. He did not appear to be armed. I was small, and soft, before him. I did not doubt but he, as one of his kind, would well know the handling of one such as I, one of my kind.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“I have had many names,” I said. It was true. A name for the purposes of training, a name for the purpose of kennels, and so on.
“You have an accent,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“What are you called in the gardens?” he asked.
“Gail,” I said.
He smiled. “An excellent name,” he said.
I put down my head, but raised it again, remembering that I had been given permission to lift it, a permission which suggested that it might be well to keep it lifted, unless otherwise instructed. Still, he had not commanded me to meet his eyes. Accordingly, gratefully, I tended to keep my eyes averted from his. It can be difficult for one such as I to meet the gaze of such a man.
“For one such as you,” he added. I was silent.
“That is an Earth name,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
He then was aware of at least a portion of what is called the “second knowledge.” He might, thustly, be of high caste.
“You were originally from such a place?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“But now you are only from here, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. It seemed that nothing could be more true than that.
He drew a sheet of paper from his wallet. On it was a design, or a world, or name.
“Can you read this?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
I was illiterate on this world. I had not been taught to read or write any of its languages. Such skills were not deemed needful for one such as I.
He turned the paper over.
“Do you recognize this sign?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “It is the sign of the city.” It was a simple mark. I had seen it before, even within the house, on documents and such.
My mind raced. I did not know what, really, I was doing here, in the garden, or why I had been brought here. To be sure, perhaps I had been brought here, really, no differently from others, nor for purposes essentially different from theirs. That was possible. But I was not sure of it. The ‘flowers’ here were of astounding quality and I was not at all sure that I, even given the fact that I might be of interest, even of remarkable interest, on this world, really belonged among them, at least on purely aesthetic grounds. Similarly I was not versed in song, I was not skilled with lute or lyre, I did not even know the special dances of the gardens. It is one thing to writhe naked before guards, one’s body obedient to the slightest tremor of the flute, and quite another, for example, to swirl in a belt of jewels on the dancing floor of one of the golden taverns, reached only from the high bridges. But then, perhaps, they are not really so different after all. But, in any event, I had not had special training, or, at least, no training more special than any one such as I would have, who is not intended to be, and sold as, a dancer.
Why should he be asking me these things?
Of course I could not read! Could he not simply look upon my lineaments, and my silk, and know that? Of course some of the flowers could read. That was true. But I could not! Would he not know that? Of course I could recognize that one sign. Was it not well known?
What did he want?
He returned the sheet of paoper to his wallet.
I looked up at him. I wanted to read his eyes.
“Have you been near the wall?” he asked, offhandedly.
I must have turned white.
I was now sure that he had seen! He must not tell. He must not tell!
“Brand,” he said, idly.
I knelt up, from my heels, and, still kneeling, turned to my right. I drew up the silk on my left side, with the fingers of both hands, to the waist, as one does, this exposing the tiny, graceful mark there, high on my left thigh, just under the hip.
“A lovely flank,” he remarked.
Many times before had I received such compliments. My flanks, I had gathered, were of interest to men, and other portions of my body, as well, and the whole, the whole.
But then I sensed it was the brand he was regarding.
“Yes,” he said, looking at it.
But surely it could mean nothing to him. It was, as I understood it, in its variations, the most common mark on this world for one such as I. It was only the common mark, nothing special, or different.
“Yes,” he said, again. He seemed satisfied.
He was not surprised, of course, that the mark was on me. It would have been utterly improbable that that mark, or some equivalent sign, would not have been upon me, and most likely in that place. That is the most common site for such a mark. Merchant practice, and social custom, tend to standardize such things.
I, too, regarded the mark. It is expected, indeed, in such a situation, that we, too, will regard it, as it is exposed on the flank, the silk lifted to the waist with the fingers of two hands. We are to turn our eyes downward and to the left, and look upon it, seeing it once again, understanding it once again.
I looked at him, and he was looking at me, a slight smile about his lips.
I looked down, again to the mark. What could be his interest in it? Surely one such as he, large, tall, strong, vigorous, of this world, one in whose demeanor I sensed an unconfused unity and will, one in whose loins I sensed considerable power, would have seen such a thing many times before, and would have seen such as I many times before. I did not think he would be unfamiliar with my kind, the uses to which we might be put, our diverse values, and such.
Perhaps he had only wanted me to expose my flank to him. After all, cannot it be pleasant, or amusing, for them to observe us, while we, under command, perhaps reluctantly, perhaps in tears, reveal ourselves to them? Perhaps it was only in I that he was interested, as he might be interested in any of my kind, he what he was, we what we are. But, no! He
had been concerned with the brand. But what could it have meant to him? It was only the common mark. It was a small, tasteful, beautiful mark, of course. I had no doubt it much enhanced my beauty. Too, of course, it had its symbolic aspects, in its design, and its reality, that it marked me. Indeed, sometimes, even thinking of it, I had screamed softly with passion. More than once I had, in my former places, bared it to a guard, in mute petition, calling thusly to his attention what I was and what I wanted from him, and what I hoped for from him, and what I needed from him, thusly pleading without words that he might deign to take pity upon me. But often they would not so spare my pride and would have me at their feet, licking and kissing, and begging explicitly. Then they would either take pity on me, or not, as it pleased them. Sometimes, of course, we would be denied human speech. At such times we must make known our needs by other means, such things as moans and whimpers, and tears. But the primary purpose of the mark, one supposes, is not to be understood naively in such terms as its simple factual enhancement of our beauty, nor even in terms of how it makes us, those who wear it, feel, but rather, more simply, in virtue of more mundane considerations, such as its capacity to implement certain practical concerns of property, and merchant, law. By its means, you see, we may conveniently be identified, and recognized.
But he had, I was sure, been interested in the particular brand I wore. This was hard to understand, of course, as it was merely one of the numerous variations on the common mark. There were doubtless many in the city, even thousands, I supposed, who wore the same, or a very similar, mark.
I looked up at him again, and then, sensing that I might do so, lowered the silk. I then returned to my former position, kneeling back on my heels, facing him, not meeting his eyes.
He had seemed satisfied, regarding the brand. It had seemed to mean something to him. I did not understand it. But surely he could not be interested n me, save as one such as he might be expected to be interested, if only as a passing whim, in one such as I.
“In what house were you first processed?” he asked. I looked at him, frightened.
“You have not been near the wall, have you?” he asked.
“Please,” I wept.
He regarded me.
Tears formed in my eyes. “I do not know in what house I was first processed,” I said. It was true.
“What was the name of he who over you first held total rights?” he asked.
“I do not know!” I said. I didn’t.
“In what city,” asked he, “were you marked?”
“It was done in the pens,” I said, “shortly after my arrival here. I was not permitted out of the pens. I did not know where I was.”
“You heard none speak the name of the city?”
“No,” I said.
He nodded. This response, it seemed, was the one which he had expected.
“What were the names of those who trained you, who taught you?” he asked.
“They did not speak their names before us,” I said. He smiled. That, too, it seemed he had expected. I remembered one especially, one whom I had never forgotten, he who was the first of the men of this world I had seen clearly, when permitted to look up, in the corridor. I, a woman from another world, a world not his, I, a woman removed from, torn from, my own world and brought as a mere captive, or less, to his, kneeling naked at his feet, fearfully, in chains, had looked up at him. I had quailed before him. I had not known such men could exist. It was he who, of all men on this world, I had first seen. It was he to whom I had thought that I might have been important. His whip had been thrust to my lips. The ceremony, so meaningful, in timid compliance, had been performed. I remembered him. It was he to whose whip my lips had first been pressed. I had thought that I might have been important to him.
Then, when I had kissed the second whip, I had realized that I was not. I was no more to him then another on the chain. I had often, in my training, piteously, tried to call myself to his attention, but he had paid me little heed. It was only too clear that I was nothing to him. Sometimes he even seemed to regard me, unaccountably, with rage. Never did he touch me, save to improve a posture, or to position me more appropriately. At such times he would handle me roughly, even severely, certainly more so than was necessary. He was not patient with me, as he might have been with the others. Surely, for some reason, he did not like me. I shook beneath his touch. I could hardly stand when he was near. Sometimes when I begged him, he would spurn me with his foot. Sometimes he would merely turn away, leaving me behind, on my knees, scorned, rejected. At other times he would throw me to another. I had never forgotten him. It had been he, of all on this world, on whom I had first, in my chains, from my knees, fully looked. It had been he to whose whip my lips had first been pressed. I could still remember the taste of its leather. I did not even know his name.
“How were you taken from the pens?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said. “I was drugged. As the drug began to take effect, I was hooded, and shackled.”
“How were you transported?” he asked.
Why was he asking such questions? What difference could it make to him, or to anyone?
“I am confused,” I said. “I was kept drugged. It was now doubtless mixed with my food. I think there was a ship, I think there was a wagon, for a long time. I could not see out of the wagon. It was metal, and locked. The roads were rough. I was kept closely chained in the wagon, and hooded. I could hear little. People seldom spoke in my presence. It was sometimes hot in the wagon. It was sometimes cold. I was in it for a long time. We may eventually have been in mountains. There seemed steepnesses which were being ascended. I know very little of these things. I was unhooded only to be fed and watered. I could hear the locks opening and closing. Mostly I slept. I could not stay awake. I was sometimes slapped awake, to be fed and watered, and was then allowed, once again, mercifully, greedily, to subside into unconsciousness. Then I seem to remember being bound being bound hand and foot, and then being unchained. Never, it seems, was I without bonds. Did they fear I might escape? I did not know where I was being taken or what would be done with me. Could I be of some importance? Surely not! One such as I is not important. But why were such precautions taken with me? I could see nothing for they would not remove my hood. I was then wrapped in several folds of a blanket, it tied about me at several places, the ankles, knees, belly, breasts and neck. Were it not for this precaution I fear I might have died of exposure. I was then placed in some sort of basket. I could feel the fiber though the blanket. I was fastened in the basket by straps, at my ankles and neck. The basket swayed frighteningly. I was muchly grateful for the straps which held me in place. The wind whistled though the chinks between the fingers. Muchly, too, then, was I grateful for the protection of the blanket. The basket, it seemed, clearly, was being borne though the air. At the time I did not understand how that could be. I had thought it must be part of the drug, part of the dreams. Sometimes I heard weird, wild, birdlike screams. Sometimes I was frightened. But mostly I slept.”
“How long was it, after you left the pens,” he asked, “that you were transported, or think that you were transported, in one or another of these possible modalities?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“Days?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” I said.
“Several days?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I would think so.”
“Weeks?” he asked.
“Possibly,” I said.
“I would suppose it would be hard to tell, in the state of consciousness you were in,” he said.
“Yes,” I said. Surely he knew how helpless we were in the grip of such substances.
What could be his interest in these things?
“There seems to have been a great deal of caution, or secrecy, in your transport,” he remarked.
“I knew nothing else, at the time,” I said.
“But that is clear to you now, is it not?” he asked.
“I
gather so,” I said, “from what I now know.” This was true. Normally there was little concealment, or secrecy, involved in our movements. We tended to be moved about, and shipped, usually, quite openly. More often, it seemed, we were moved about in wagons covered with blue and yellow silk, our ankles chained to a central bar aligned with the long axis of the wagon bed, a bar which can be lifted up and down, and locked in place. Sometimes we are moved in special ships, constructed for us, with narrow, slatted tiers, on which we lie down, chained, closed off from one another with narrowly meshed steel screens. Sometimes, on flatbed wagons, we are chained to frameworks, or kept in metal containers, roped in place, or in sacks, tied, too, in place. There are, too, of course, simple cage wagons, in which, as what we are, we may be viewed behind the bars. There are many ways in which we may be moved. Indeed, it is not unusual for us, even, in brief tunics, chained together, by neck, or wrist, to trek the roads, afoot, under the surveillance of mounted guards astride saddle tharlarion. If others should approach, say, a caravan, we commonly yield the road, kneeling beside it, facing it, in obeisance, until the dust, the bells, passes.
I suddenly looked at him, in agony. He must not tell about the wall, that I had been near it!
Surely he would not tell!
“Stand,” he said. I complied.
I was regarded then, as such men regard one such as I.
“Disrobe,” he said.
My hand moved to the loop at my left shoulder, and I drew upon the loop, and, in a moment, stepped from the silk.
He gestured to the grass, permissively.
I sat back, on the grass, leaning back, on the palms of my hands.
In this fashion one’s hands are rather behind one, and rather held in place, by one’s own weight.
This position is one we are taught. In it, as is clear to us, we are more vulnerable.
He crouched beside me.
I was frightened.
I looked behind me, and upward, to the wall. I feared that I might see the back of a guard there. Although where we were was hidden from the house, by the shrubbery, it would have been an ill-disguised location for an assignation in the garden, being easily visible, as most parts of the garden are, from the wall. To be sure, the guards were supposed to keep their eyes away, unless suspicions were legitimately aroused, from the interior of the garden. Indeed, at certain times, they were not even allowed on the wall. This was, however, the rest period. They might well be on the wall now. Too, we had sometimes seen them observing us, and not merely when it was time for us to swim, or bathe, in the pool, or to try on silks, or for some of us to learn dances, but even when we might be taking our exercise, strolling in the garden, before the one who was first amongst us, though we pretended not to notice. It was interesting how our behavior changes, and so remarkably, when we find ourselves under the eyes of a man. It is as though we must suddenly become more beautiful. I think this is true even of women quite other then we. I think that they, too, thusly, in their hearts, know to whom they belong.