Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  I turned my head and, moaning, looked down. The rocks were hundreds of feet below.

  “It is enough,” he said.

  I closed my eyes, and put my head back, tightly, against the chest of the jailer, trembling.

  “You realize you could be easily hurled to the rocks below?” inquired the man in the chair.

  “Yes, Master!” I said, not even opening my eyes.

  “Sleen come there at night, looking for bodies,” said the man in the chair.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, keeping my eyes shut.

  I was then carried down from the wall and deposited, again, before the dais. I lay on my side. How welcome was the stone flagging of the terrace floor!

  I looked up, fearfully, at the man in the chair.

  “You understand something now of what it might be to be a slave in this place?” asked the man in the chair.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “You will try to be a good slave, will you not?” he inquired.

  “Yes, Master!” I cried. “Yes, Master!”

  I lay there, on my side, bound. They then attended to other business. I was sure that they were through with me now, at least for all practical purposes. Why then was I not carried away, or conducted somewhere?

  Somehow, now, I was no longer so certain that my disposition, apparently already determined, would be as lofty and certain as I had hitherto conjectured.

  I did not even want to go near the wall again, not even to the parapet. The board I had trod earlier was wide and, objectively, it was easy to tread, even hooded as I was. Certainly the folks of this world seem to have little fear of such narrow places. They are accustomed to them. They think little more of treading them than I might have of treading a sidewalk on my old world. Much depends on what is familiar to one, what one grows used to. Many of the “high bridges” in a city such as this would be regarded as quite alarming, at least initially, by most of those of Earth, as they might range from a foot to four or five feet wide, and arch over frightful drips, sometimes to a maze of bridges below, but these people, who have grown up with them, seldom give them a thought. The point of the high bridges seems to be twofold, first, they are lovely in their traceries against the sky and between the cylinderlike buildings, and such things are important to these people, who seem to have an unusually developed aesthetic sense and, second, they have military value, inasmuch as they are easy to defend. Each of these cylinders, in its way, can constitute a stronghold, a fortress or keep. To me, of course, traversing these bridges, particularly in the beginning, constituted a nightmare of terror. I would sometimes crawl on them, scarcely able to move. I would sometimes go to great lengths to avoid them, even though I must then hasten, gasping, running, on my errands, the message tube tied about my neck, my hands braceleted behind me, that I might not have been thought to have dallied. I am still uneasy on such bridges. My fears sometimes occasion amusement among the masters. But my fears, I have been told, are not unprecedented, and, indeed, are not unusual among girls of my sort, girls from my world. Brought here as slaves. But fortunately insouciance and thoughtlessness on the high bridges, common to those of this world, are not required of us. It is other things which are required of us.

  I lay there on the flagging, on my side, helpless, bound hand and foot, for some time, while business was conducted. I could see the tiny tunic to one side, where it had been dropped. I made no effort to call attention to myself. It would be done with me as others pleased. I was slave. I did, at one point, see one of the men looking down at me. I pointed my toes a little, even with my ankles bound, and sucked in my waist, that the line of my legs, and the nature of my figure might be accentuated. I do not think that this was particularly because I realized that the means at my disposal to improve my life and condition here were largely limited to my beauty, heat, and service, but, rather, simply, because, under the eyes of a man, such a man as one of these, I could not help myself but behave as a slave, and perform as a slave, and present myself as the slave I was. He laughed, and I blushed, and, shamed, looked away.

  Shortly thereafter the fellow who had conducted Dorna away, she preceding him with alacrity, returned to the terrace. With him was a grimy fellow in a leather apron with a tiny kit of tools.

  Seeing he who had conducted Dorna away I thought immediately of her. Tonight, I recalled, she was to serve as the slave she was. Perhaps even now she was preparing herself, or perhaps, as she was high slave, she was being prepared by lesser slaves, for her “test.”

  I was certain she would strive humbly and zealously to pass that test. I gathered it would not go well with her if she failed.

  Somewhere else, I gathered, at another time, she had been a free woman and, it seems, an important personage. They had even spoken of a mask of silver, or gold, or such. Here, of course, her face was naked, and she was only another slave.

  The man with the fellow who had returned to the terrace was, as I would later learn to recognize at a glance by his garb, a member of the leather workers. In many of the Gorean cities there is a caste structure which is significant not only socially but politically. The leather workers are a “low caste.” The high castes are normally accounted five in number — the Warriors, the Builders, the Physicians, the Scribes, and the Initiates. The Initiates are sometimes thought of as the highest of the five high castes, and the Warriors commonly produce the administrators and ubars for a city. It is not easy in a world such as this to deprive those who are skilled with weapons their share of authority. If it is not given to them, they will take it. There are some ambiguities in the caste structure. For example, some rank the Merchants as a high caste, and some do not; and some rank the Slavers with the Merchants, and some see them as a separate caste, and so on. It is usually a very serious thing to lose caste in this society. To be sure, not everyone has caste. Priest-Kings, for example, whoever they may be, have no caste. They are said to be “above caste.” Similarly, outlaws and slaves have no caste. Outlaws are thought to have relinquished caste, and, in a sense, thus, to be “out of caste,” and slaves, of course, as animals, are “below caste,” or, perhaps better, “aside from caste” or “apart from caste.” To be sure, I think there are others who also lack caste, really. Some may not have been raised “in caste,” some may decline or flee their castes before the initiations, and so on. Similarly, there are entire groups of people, as I understand it, barbarians, savages, and such, whose social arrangements are not based on caste. Very little on this world, and, I suppose, on others, is simple.

  “Dorna is now a pierced-ear girl?” asked he in the chair of the fellow who had returned to the terrace.

  “Yes, Captain,” said the fellow.

  The man in the chair smiled. There was laughter from the men about. Some smote their left shoulders in approval. I had gathered earlier that the piercing of the ears was regarded on this world as somehow rather significant. That surmise was now confirmed.

  “Slave,” said he in the chair to me.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I looked up at him from my side, where I lay. He had not ordered me to kneel. It seemed it was his will that I should retain my low position. It is difficult, of course, to get to one’s knees, bound as I was, but it can be done. If ordered to do so one strives to do so as quickly and gracefully as possible. We are expected to obey unhesitantly and swiftly, subject, of course, to the proviso that we should do so as well, as beautifully, as possible. These people have, as I have suggested, a highly developed aesthetic sense. They require beauty in their slaves, both in appearance and movement.

  “Dorna,” said he, “has been a slave longer than you so it is fitting that it would be her ears which would first be pierced.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Accordingly,” he said, “even though she is a high slave and you are a low slave, you are, at this moment, as your ears have not been pierced, a thousand times higher than she.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I was, of course, puzzled
by this. One thing seemed clear, once again, the apparent cultural momentousness of ear piercing on this world.

  “But,” said he, “as soon as your ears are pierced, you will be, again, a thousand times lower than she.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He turned to the fellow in the apron. “Pierce her ears,” he said.

  I could not resist, of course, bound as I was.

  The leather worker put his tiny kit of tools down beside me, and, undoing a string, opened it, and spread it out.

  “Kneel her,” he said.

  A fellow seized me my the hair and pulled me up, painfully, to a kneeling position.

  “Spread your knees,” he said.

  I obeyed.

  “Hold her head,” said the leather worker to the fellow who had knelt me.

  He crouched behind me and fastened his hands in my hair, tightly. I could not move my head in the slightest without great pain. It hurt even as he held me. “Take her arms, you, and you,” said the leather worker to two other fellows. “Hold her down, on her knees.” The two fellows addressed them, one on each side of me, seized an arm. I was then held in place, bound hand and foot, down, on my knees, one man holding my head, by the hair, another holding my left arm, and another my right. Their grips were tight. I had little doubt that marks would be left on my arms. To me, of course, these precautions seemed not only unnecessary, but excessive. I did not much fear having my ears pierced. I gathered, however, that on this world many women might. Perhaps they would shriek and struggle, however futilely. I began to sense then, even more, how momentous ear piercing was on this world. This made me uneasy. If I had truly understood the meaning of ear piercing on this world perhaps I, too, I supposed, might have regarded it with horror, and striven to resist, however meaninglessly, however stupidly, however unavailingly and ineffectually. But I doubted it. As a slave it seemed to me fitting that my ears would be pierced, and that men would do with me as they wished. It was not lost on me, of course, that I was knelt. This was to make it clear, I gathered, that ear piercing was something that was done only to slaves. Too, the fellow who had pulled me up to my knees had told me to spread my knees. Thus, I would be kneeling as a certain sort of slave, when this was done to me. I would thus, I suppose, associate these two things, my ear piercing and the sort of slave I was.

  I saw the leather worker with a bright, long needle.

  I felt my left ear lobe drawn downward, taut. It was then pierced. There must have been a drop of blood, as the worker rubbed the ear with his thumb. He then inserted a tiny object, like a droplet with a steel pin, though the wound and, on the other side of the ear lobe, snapped on a tiny disk. These operations were then, with suitable adjustments, repeated with respect to the right ear lobe, even to the wiping away of what must have been another drop of blood. I was then released and allowed to lie on my back. The leather worker was then wiping his needle and returning it to his kit, which he then did up, as it had been. There had been very little pain, though I had felt a prick each time, and I could now feel the tiny rods through my ear lobes. It was a strand feeling. My ear lobes felt a little sore. This soreness, I realized, would quickly pass.

  “You are now a pierced-ear girl,” the fellow in the apron informed me, grinning.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I sensed, frightened, he liked me that way.

  “You are not to disturb this work,” said the man in the chair.

  “No, Master,” I said. I gathered that some women, doubtless would of this world, might, perhaps in hysteria, try to tear such things from their ears.

  The man in the apron stood up, and caught a coin in one hand, tossed to him by the fellow who had conducted him hither. The man in the apron then bowed, and, with another look at me, lying on my back, bound, on the flagging, took his leave.

  One of the men looked down at me. “Pierced-ear girl,” he sneered.

  I turned my head away. I did not dare to look at him.

  I suddenly sensed a new, pervasive, remarkable interest in me. I sensed powerful heat. It was almost like waves of flame. I lay there, small and helpless, a naked, bound slave at the mercy of masters. Was there now so much that was now so different about me?

  “Tenrik,” said the man in the chair, sharply.

  “Yes, Captain!” said the jailer.

  “This is not the time for us to amuse ourselves with a slave,” said the man in the chair.

  “No, Captain,” said Tenrik.

  In a moment it seemed that order was restored.

  Whereas the remark had been ostensively addressed to Tenrik it had obviously not been intended for him, or for him in particular, but, by means of him, so to speak, had been a remark addressed to all.

  I gathered the remark, of course, that there might well be times when such as I might be given up for the amusement of men, but that this was not such a time.

  Too, I gathered that there was discipline in this place, and here I do not speak of such things as the correctives and admonitives, however sure, strict and sever, to which an errant slave might find herself subjected, but of sterner stuff, the discipline of the military, that of the Warrior, that discipline necessary for the raid, the engagement, that required for decisive and coordinated action in highly dangerous circumstances, and, even, too, that other sort of discipline, the long, slow, staying sort of discipline, that which might be required for weeks and months, even years, that tenacity, that sturdiness, needed for the sometimes seemingly endless rigors and privations of campaigns, and wars.

  I rose a bit, on my elbows, my wrists tied behind me.

  I looked about a bit. Some of the men were still regarding me. But they would not act, not now.

  I was safe now, at least for a time.

  I looked away from the eyes of a man, frightened. His eyes might as well have been those of a lion.

  But I was safe now.

  The eyes of others, too, were as those of lions.

  I shuddered.

  How fearful it must be for any woman to be among such men, let along one such as I, a slave!

  I felt as though I might be a delicacy, one which, had it not been for a word from he in the chair, would by now have been seized and devoured. But on this world there were doubtless many such delicacies, silked and perfumed, combed and belled, deliciously curved, trained, eager to please. Might they not be encountered in any tavern? Indeed, I had at one time thought that I might be sent to such a tavern. Girls such as I, from my world, are apparently popular purchases with tavern keepers.

  I lay there before the dais, helpless, but now, apparently, quite safe.

  But I felt somehow angry, somehow vaguely dissatisfied, even irritated.

  What sort of girl was I?

  How pleased I was that I was now safe!

  They could not touch me now!

  But my belly seemed aflame. My ears had been pierced! I had some sense now as to what that might mean to men such as these. I could feel the tiny rods in my ear lobes.

  But I was safe now. How pleased I was!

  But I was somehow angry.

  I went to my back, lying on my crossed wrists, they below the small of my back. This arched my body somewhat, lifting my belly up, having my head a bit down. I breathed quickly, deeply, prominently, two or three times, and moved my shoulders a little, twisting them, and lifted my knees a bit. I did this though I knew the eyes of several were upon me. How foolish this was, for would it not call attention to the slave at their feet? But surely this was all quite innocent, and quite unintentional, or, at least, must be seemingly so. What woman would dare to stir thusly before such men, even in all innocence, in all inadvertence, almost like a restless, frustrated, yearning, begging slave, on attempting to call attention to herself, surely only one naive, or one reckless, or one oblivious to, or heedless of, what she might be doing. Did she not understand how such things might be viewed? Had she not considered the danger of provoking them, of even in some subtle way perhaps igniting their heat
s and needs? How foolish must such a woman be! Might not such movements, all innocent and unintentional as they might be, be misconstrued? Might they not even been understood as slave moments? I glanced to one of the men. I am not sure then precisely what happened. I think an expression of irritation, or of annoyance, may have crossed my features, perhaps fleetingly, ending perhaps in a tiny smile, perhaps in an as-if-triumphant little smile, as I turned my head away. I was safe from him. He could not have me now! This was all subtle, you understand. Even now I am not quite certain of everything that occurred in that moment, or half moment. What I think I may have done was to convey, or seem to convey, my contempt for them, subtly, challengingly, that I had not been seized and ravished and, at the same time, slyly, vaunt my immunity from their predations. I was, I suppose, in my way, taunting them. This was, of course, a mistake. It was not one I would make again.

  “Slut!” cried a man.

  “Oh!” I cried in pain, kicked.

  “Throw her to sleen!” called another.

  “No, please, Masters!” I wept. “Oh! Oh!” I cried, twice more kicked.

  “Take that, slave!” cried another.

  “Oh!” I wept.

  “And that!” cried another.

  “And that!” cried yet another.

  “Oh! Oh!” I wept.

  “Bring the whip!” cried a man.

  “No, Masters!” I begged.

  “I have it,” cried another.

  “Please, no, Masters!” I begged.

  Down came the lash!

  “What have I done?” I cried.

  “Stupid slave!” cried a man.

  “Lying slave!” cried another.

  Again and again the lash fell.

  “Forgive me, Masters!” I cried, writhing bound under the last. “Forgive me! Forgive me, Masters!”

  “It is enough,” announced the man in the chair. “She is new to her collar, and yet naive.”

  “She must learn quickly,” snarled a man.

  “Kneel, slave,” said the man in the chair.

  I struggled to my knees and knelt before the dais. I put my head down to the floor before the first step of the dais.