by John Norman
I looked up, into the darkness.
I bent my knees. I put my chained wrists over my head. I could feel the chain there, behind me, leading up to the ring on the wall from my collar.
I was not strong, or powerful. I was not strong, even, let alone powerful, for the sort of creature I was. What, I wondered, then, could be the meaning of the chains I wore. Perhaps in them, I speculated, was a lesson. Oh, to be sure, they confined me. They kept me in a place. I could not rush at the door, if it were opened. I could not run. I could not use my hands freely. They might keep me from being something of a nuisance, I supposed, particularly at the beginning, if I were so inclined, or became difficult or hysterical. But their primary reason I suspected had less to do with security than something else. That they were on me, that I was in them, and helplessly so, I suspected, might be intended, particularly at this time, to be instructive. Let me begin to be familiarized with chains, let me begin to become accustomed to them. Let me learn, too, in this graphic, profound fashion, what I had become, what I now was. I supposed that later, too, such as I might find ourselves chained. But then, I supposed, apart from practical matters, such as security, and mnemonic considerations, and such, that that might be regarded as much a matter of appropriateness as anything else. I, and perhaps others, were such as to be appropriately chained. That was the sort we were. To be sure, beyond such things, there is no doubt as to the effectiveness of chains. They hold us, perfectly.
I rolled to my side.
I considered the simple, meager fare. What was I, I wondered, that such stuff had been deemed suitable for me. Too, I again considered the chains. What was I, I wondered, that I wore such?
I dared not conjecture, but knew.
I drew up my legs, and put my hands on my shoulders, huddling, making myself small in the damp straw.
I was cold.
The corridor was quiet outside.
I lay very quietly.
One feels some comfort, and security, perhaps oddly enough, in such a situation, being on one's chain.
3
I had looked again at the wall.
I had heard voices, coming from the house. As swiftly as I could, wincing, hurting myself on the stones, I had withdrawn from the wall. It was my intention to circle about, through the shrubbery, and the trees of the garden, to the vicinity of the fountain.
"Stop," I heard, a man's voice.
Instantly I stopped, my heart sinking. I turned, of course, immediately, and fell to my knees, putting my head down to the lavender grass, as was its color here, in this portion of the garden, the palms of my hands down, too, on the grass, beside my head.
It was a man's voice that had spoken.
I did not dare look, of course, upon he who had addressed me.
I had not received permission to do so.
But how could it have been a man's voice?
How could it be, a man's voice, here, in the garden, at this time of day?
Normally we vacate the garden when men enter it to work, as, for example, its gardeners. We are not for the eyes of such as those. And normally, if there are to be guests, if we are to entertain, information to that effect is issued to us hours in advance. We must, after all, have time to prepare ourselves. One must bathe. One must do one's hair. There are silks, perfumes and jewelries to be considered. One must be made up, and so on. On the other hand, ironically, our appearance, achieved at such cost, with so much labor, and so much attention to detail, seems most often taken for granted by our guests. Often they scarcely seem to notice us, as we serve. To be certain, we are taught, in such situations, to be self-effacing, and to serve deferentially. Such things can be changed, of course, at so little as a word, or the snapping of fingers.
How could there be a man here, in the garden, at this time of day?
I kept my head down to the grass.
I had not been given permission to raise it.
Sometimes when men are to enter the garden, suddenly, or with little notice, such as guardsmen, say, in the line of duty, as in inspections or searches, a bar is rung, and we must find our body veils, and kneel, head down, and cover ourselves with them. Such veils are opaque. We are not, after all, for the eyes of just anyone.
But I was not now concealed in my body veil!
Who could this man be?
I was in light silk. It was extremely brief, and was, for most practical purposes, diaphanous. Certainly it left little doubt as to my lineaments.
4
I do not know how long I lay in the darkness. Sometimes I slept.
I did not know what time it was, what day.
Indeed, I suspected that I would not be familiar even with the calendar.
Once or twice some meal, and another crust, was placed in the shallow depression beside me. This was done while I slept. No longer did I permit it to linger there. I devoured it, gratefully, eagerly.
But for a long time now there had been nothing more in the depression. The depression for the water, like a sunken bowl, was replenished from a slender, flat trickle of water. I could feel it with my finger. It was little more than a dampness. That trickle, I assumed, had its origin elsewhere in the darkness. It derived, doubtless, from the water which, as I could hear, slowly, drop by drop, fell into the chamber, perhaps from the ceiling, perhaps from some pipe or ledge. The water bowl did have a tiny run-off which might carry excess fluid away, presumably toward some drain, but the amount of water was so small in the bowl, and took such time to accumulate, that the run-off was not used. I learned to conserve the water, my tongue even licking the rough bottom of the depression.
But there had been no more meal, or crusts, of late, in the food depression.
I was ravening.
I wondered if my captors had forgotten about me. I wondered if I had been left here to die.
I mustered the courage to call out, piteously. "I am hungry," I called. "Please feed me. Please! I am hungry!"
But I doubted that anyone heard. There seemed to be no one about.
I pulled on the chains. They held me well.
How helpless I was!
I was ravening. I was ready to do anything, just to eat.
Then, again, perhaps a day later, when I awakened, I found a bit of meal, and a crust, in the depression. It might have been the rarest of viands. I fell upon them, like a starving little animal. For a day or two then such slender provender made its appearance in the depression. I knew that I had lost weight. This would doubtless make some difference with respect to my curves. But, more importantly, I think, I was learning to make do with what was given to me, and to be appreciative for it, whatever it might be. Too, of course, I had learned, and more keenly, and profoundly, than before, that I did not have control over my own food. I had learned that even for such a thing I was now dependent on another.
I awakened suddenly.
I thought that I heard a sound, outside.
I became instantly alert, frightened. There was a sound, outside! It came, I thought, from somewhere down the corridor, to the left.
I rose up, hurriedly, to my knees. I was wild, frightened. My chains made a noise.
I heard a door, heavy, grating, opening somewhere, away, to the left. I heard a voice. My heart almost stopped. I do not know what I expected. Perhaps I had feared that it would be merely an animal sound, not so much a voice, as a barking or growling. But it was a human voice.
I felt my body, quickly. I was frightened. I was unclothed. How much more slender seemed my body now!
I was frightened.
It was, you see, a man's voice.
I heard doors opened, on different sides of the corridor, it seemed, getting closer. I heard, now, more than one man's voice. Their tones seemed imperative, as though they would brook no question or delay. The voices themselves, though clearly male, and human, seemed unlike those of men with whom I was familiar. I am not sure, precisely, in what the differences consisted. It may be merely that they spoke somewhat more loudly than the men I wa
s accustomed to, for such things often vary culturally. But I think it was more than some possible difference in mere volume. Too, I do not think it had to do merely with an accent, though they surely had such, an accent which appeared distinctively, oddly, in words they uttered in various languages, languages some of which I could recognize, though I could not speak them, as the doors were opened, and which, on the other hand, seemed so natural, so apt, in their discourse among themselves. No, it was not really so much a matter of volume, or of accent, as of something else. Perhaps it was the lack of diffidence, the lack of apology, in their speech, which struck me. Perhaps it was this sort of simple, natural assurance which most struck me. Too, in their tones, intelligent, clear, confident, forceful, it was not difficult to detect a simple, unpretentious aspect of command. Indeed, in the tones of several, perhaps their leaders, there seemed something which might best be characterized as a sort of natural, unassuming imperiousness. This made me terribly uncomfortable. How dare they speak like that? Who did they think they were? Men? Did they think they were men? That is, of course, "men" in a sense long since prohibited to, or abandoned by, the males with which I was familiar. And could they be really such men? And, if so, what consequences might that entail for one such as myself? How could one such as I, given what I was, possibly relate to such creatures? In what modalities, on what conditions, would it be possible to do so?
I put my hands about my body, again. I was much more slender now. I could tell, even in the darkness. I had not been much fed.
The doors, opening, were coming closer now. They were heavy doors, doubtless like that on my chamber. That could be told from the sound of their opening.
Beneath my door now, visible in the crack between those heavy beams and the reinforcing iron band and the floor was a light. It was doubtless a dim light, but it seemed very bright to me, as I had been long in the darkness.
I heard a door across the way and a little to the left opened. I heard an imperious voice. Again I recognized the language, but could not speak it.
Then, a few moments later, I heard a key, large, and heavy, turning in the lock to my door.
I put up my chained wrists, suddenly, frantically, wildly, and, as I could, on one side and then the other, fixed my hair.
As the door opened I covered myself as well as I could.
I winced against the light, and could not face it. It was only a lantern held high in the threshold, but I was temporarily blinded. I looked away, my hands over my body.
"Be absolutely silent," said a voice, a man's voice.
I would not have dared to make a sound.
"I see that you do not need to be instructed to kneel," he said.
I trembled.
"You already know what posture to assume in the presence of a male," he said. "Excellent."
I squirmed a little, being so before a man. I fought the sensations within me.
He laughed.
I blushed.
"Put your head to the floor," he said.
I obeyed, immediately. There were tears in my eyes, from the light, you understand.
He entered the chamber.
The lantern, now in the care of another fellow, remained mercifully by the door. It was easy to tell its position, as its light was clear, even through my closed eyelids.
The fellow crouched down beside me. "Remain still," he said. "Do not look at me."
With the pain of the light I would not have wished to look at anything.
He threw my hair forward. I felt a key thrust into the lock on my collar, and then, in a moment, for the first time in how long I knew not, that confining metal band, close-fitting, sturdy and inflexible, with its chain, attached to the ring on the wall, was no longer on my neck. I was no longer chained to the wall!
I kept my head down, of course. I did not move. I did not look at him. I did not make a sound.
I then felt his hand in my hair. I winced as he drew me up, forcibly, to all fours. He also, almost at the same time, keeping me on all fours, pushed my head down. I was then on all fours, with my head facing the floor. He did not do these things gently. I was handled, and positioned, as though I might be no more than an animal.
"You will keep this position," he said, "until you receive permission to change it. Now, go to the corridor, where you will be appropriately placed, aligned and instructed."
I shuddered.
"Keep your head down," he said. "Do not look at us."
I fell, so frightened I was, trying to comply, caught up in the chains. I lay there for an instant, in terror, unable to move, feeling so exposed to him. My whole back felt terribly vulnerable. I was afraid, even then, even knowing as little as I did at the time, that he might not be pleased, and that I might be struck, or kicked. But he saw fit, at that time, at least, to show me patience. I regained the position and, slowly, carefully, my limbs trembling, crawled from the chamber. One may hasten on all fours, so chained, but it is much easier, of course, to move in a measured manner, bit by bit. It is not difficult, incidentally, to crawl on all fours in chains, even those such as I wore. It is just a matter of moving within their limitations.
I was to be appropriately placed, aligned, and instructed.
Outside the chamber I could see little but the stone flagging of the corridor hall. I was aware of the proximity of two or three men. I did not look up. They wore heavy bootlike sandals. One of them reached down and took me by the upper left arm, and guided me to a position in the center of the corridor. My body was then aligned with the long axis of the corridor. With respect to the interior of my chamber, I was facing left.
I heard other doors opening behind me, one by one, and heard the voices, in various languages.
I remained as I was, not daring to change my position in the least degree.
I was yet, it seemed, to be instructed.
I realized then, only fully comprehending it for the first time, one takes such things so for granted, that the voice which had addressed me had done so in my own language.
Other doors opened, farther down the hall, behind me.
Patterns of light moved about on the stones, the consequence, I suppose, of the movements of lanterns.
He had had an accent, of course. Whereas it is surely possible to speak a language which one has not learned in one's childhood without an accent, it is, as one might suppose, unusual. One's speech generally tends to retain a foreign flavor. Sometimes that the tongue one speaks is not native to one is revealed by so little as an occasional slip in pronunciation, say, the shifting treatment of a consonant, perhaps under conditions of stress, such as anger, or fear. He had made no attempt, as far as I could tell, to disguise an accent. That his speech might be intelligible to me was, perhaps, quite sufficient for him. I could not place the language these men spoke among themselves. It was no language I knew, nor even one I could recognize. Yet, oddly, it seemed sometimes reminiscent of other languages, which, to one degree or another, if only by sound, I was familiar with. At times I even thought I detected a word I knew. To be sure, similar sounds need not mean similar words. A given sound might have many meanings, and quite different meanings.
I kept my head down.
My eyes were now becoming adjusted to the light.
The only source of light in the corridor, as far as I could tell, was that carried by various men, which source I supposed was lanterns. Without that light the corridor, as far as I could tell, would have been totally dark. The corridor itself, I supposed, would be sealed off by some door or gate. Even if I had been able to get loose from my collar, that by means of which I had been fastened to the wall of my chamber, even if I had been able, somehow, to get through the heavy door which kept me in my chamber, I would, I supposed, have soon encountered another barrier, that which, presumably, closed the corridor. Too, as the corridor was in utter darkness, as soon as a lantern was lifted in it, I would have been rendered temporarily blind, and totally at the mercy of whoever had entered.
From the point of vie
w of most, I suppose, the corridor would have counted as being, at best, only dimly lighted, but, as such things tend to be relative, it seemed, by contrast, well illuminated to me.
I was aware of a fellow standing near me. He had the heavy bootlike sandals, as did the others. Other than the sandals, his legs were bare. He wore a tunic, or something like that. I did not understand his mode of dress. It was totally unlike things with which I was familiar. I did not think I knew this place. This place, I thought, is very different from what I am used to. His legs were sturdy. I found them frightening, and disturbing. What place is this, I asked myself. It is so different from places with which I am familiar. I am not in my own culture, I thought. This is not my culture, I thought. This is a different culture. This may be a quite different culture. Things may be quite different here.
And my speculations, as I would soon learn, would prove correct, profoundly correct.
It would be a world quite different from that with which I was familiar.
Then the man moved away.
But another, in a short time, paused near me.
I was much aware of him, but, of course, I kept my head down. He was, it seemed, like the other, large and strong. I found his presence disturbing, as I had found that of the other.
The culture here, though quite different from my own, I thought, seems all of a piece. Things seem to fit, the nature of my incarceration, the simplicity of things, the architecture, the mode of dress, the iron on my wrists and ankles.
I kept my head down.
What place was this? How had I come here? Surely I did not belong here! But then I trembled. Perhaps, I thought, the thought terrifying me, this is where I belong. Perhaps I was not where I belonged before. Perhaps this is exactly where I belong.
The fellow beside me moved away.
The last door had now apparently been opened. I heard no more of them being opened.
I lifted my head the tiniest bit. I saw small ankles before me, joined by chain, as mine were. I was only one in a line. It was then, I conjectured, as I had suspected. I was here as a result of selections, based upon some criterion or other. The matter was objective, not personal. It was not that I had offended someone and that my plight had been accordingly engineered for someone's amusement, or that it constituted perhaps, in its way, some sweet tidbit of revenge, one perhaps of many such, the subjects of which, left here, might later be dismissed from mind, and, in time, forgotten. No, the matter was impersonal. My position here was not a consequence of who I was, but, rather, of something else, perhaps of what I was. The primary reason I was here was, I supposed, because I was of a certain sort, or kind. But what sort, or kind, could that be? I did not know. I looked at the ankles before me, and the anklets, so close about them. Some of the links of chain between the anklets rested on the stones. I supposed that the metal on my own ankles, though I had not seen it in the light, was the same, or similar. Certainly there would be no reason for it to be different. No, there was nothing unique or special about me, or, at least, nothing any more unique or special than characterized the others in the line. It extended before me and, doubtless, behind me. How many were in it I did not know. There had been several doors opening and closing. Perhaps, I conjectured, there might be fifty of us in this line. There were several in front of me, and doubtless several, given the doors opening and closing, behind me. I thought I might be about two thirds of the way back in the line. Those before me and behind me, as nearly as I could tell, from the languages which had been addressed to them, did not speak my language, or, indeed, one another's language. Our placement in line, I suspected, might not be a matter of chance. I did not think that we had a language in common, as yet.