"The Lady Mira, of Venna?" asked Pumpkin.
"The blond woman, given to you by the red savages after the battle," I said. "I think you were going to call her 'Turnip.'"
"Turnip, of course," said Pumpkin.
"How is she doing?" I asked.
"She is fitting in very nicely," he said. "She has embraced the teaching zealously. She is now a happy and confirmed Same."
"And what if she were not?" I asked.
"Then," said Pumpkin, "regrettably, we would have to put her out of the compound, into the Barrens, without food and water."
"You would kill her?" I said.
"No, no!" said Pumpkin. "Waniyanpi are not permitted to kill. We would only have to put her out."
"You would, then, let the Barrens do your killing for you," I said.
"She might survive," he said.
"Possibly," I said.
"It always makes us sad to have to put someone out," he said.
"I can imagine," I said.
"Surely you cannot expect us to permit the existence of false ideas in the compound?" he asked.
"Why not?" I asked.
"I do not know," he said.
"Perhaps you fear your beliefs, if presented with plausible alternatives, might fare badly?"
"No, no," he said. "Truth does not need to be afraid of falsity. Truth is not fearful and weak."
"I am glad to hear it," I said. "So what is wrong with having a few false ideas around?"
"It is against the teaching," said Pumpkin.
"Why?" I asked.
"I do not know," said Pumpkin.
"Perhaps it is feared someone might believe one," I said.
"How could anyone do that?" he scoffed.
"Perhaps some depraved or benighted individual," I suggested.
"Perhaps," he said.
"Thus," I said, "ignorance is the bulwark of truth."
"Perhaps," granted Pumpkin.
"But here is an interesting thought," I said. "What if your beliefs are not true, but false. How would you ever find out about it?"
"I suppose we might not," said Pumpkin. "Thus, it is fortunate for us that our beliefs are true."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"It is one of our beliefs," he said.
"Sameness is a lie," I said. "And it is not even a subtle or plausible lie. It is obviously and patently a lie."
"It is not to be questioned," said Pumpkin. "Even if it is a lie it is a lie which lies at the very foundation of our society. It is the premise of our world. All worlds have their myths. The alternative to the myth is chaos."
"The alternative of falsehood," I said, "is not chaos, but truth."
"One must believe something," said Pumpkin.
"Try truth," I said.
"Would you like to see Turnip?" he asked.
"Is she here?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "We did not wish to bring her, but the boy who was in charge of us picked her out to come along, thus giving us, appropriately, an exactly equal number of males and females."
"Why 'appropriately'?" I asked. "If you are all the same, what difference should it make? Why not all males or all females, or any ratio?"
"I suppose you are right," said Pumpkin. "We ourselves do not distinguish between males and females."
"That, at least, if peculiar, is consistent," I said. "But you have noticed, surely, that there seem to be some differences between males and females."
"We try not to notice that," said Pumpkin.
"Have you noticed," I asked, "that males are better at dragging heavy weights across the prairie than women?"
"We notice, of course," said Pumpkin, "that not all Sames are of equal size or strength."
"And have you noticed, further," I asked, "that there seems to be a correlation between the stronger Sames and those the red savages regard as males, and between the slighter, weaker Sames and those the red savages regard as females?"
"I try not to notice such things," said Pumpkin.
"Were you harnessed to a travois?" I asked.
"Yes," said Pumpkin.
"How many pulled it with you?" I asked.
"I, alone, drew it," he said.
"And what of some of the other travois," I asked, "those drawn by the smaller, slighter Sames. How were they harnessed?"
"Five to a travois," shrugged Pumpkin. "But the trek is long, and the weight is heavy."
"I see," I said. "Where is Turnip?"
"I will show you," said Pumpkin. "She is with one of the groups. You will be pleased to see how she has turned out."
I followed Pumpkin through, and behind, several lodges. Then, in a few moments, we came to a place where a low, sloping shelter, of travois poles, sticks and canvas, had been erected. I could see some similar shelters in the nearby vicinity.
"Have these women been brought to the camp to be bred with other Waniyanpi?" I asked. "It seems they have been prepared for what you folk refer to as 'the Ugly Act.' Is the day of Waniyanpi Breeding at hand?"
"No," said Pumpkin, laughing. "It is done for other reasons."
The five women sitting near the shelter, in their drab garments, all had sacks tied over their heads, knotted under their chins. For the day of Waniyanpi Breeding, male Waniyanpi from one compound are marched, hooded, to the vicinity of some other compound. Near it they are led to hooded, stripped Waniyanpi women, selected for breeding, from the other compound, lying bound in a maize field. There, then, between hooded couples, under the whips of red masters, are fulfilled the offices of the day of Waniyanpi Breeding. This is supposedly the only physical contact, incidentally, which takes place between Waniyanpi men and women.
As would be expected, their tiny, pathological culture, implicitly or explicitly, to one degree or another, is opposed to sexuality. For example, sexual inertness and frigidity are praised as virtues. Similarly, an attempt is made, through such things as verbal abuse and ridicule, to make individuals with truly powerful sexual drives succumb to irrational guilts and shames. "True persons," which is a euphemism for conformists to the social norms, are supposed to be "above sex," or, at least, to recognize its "relative unimportance," or to understand that it may be acceptable, if at all, only at some time, or in some "place," or other, which is never clarified. That a given individual of strong passions could scream with the need for sexual release is something that they cannot understand or which, somehow, terrifies them. They are flowers and, it seems, lack the senses which would enable them to understand such things as hungers and storms. Buttercups and lions will perhaps always be mutually unintelligible to one another. Most simply, perhaps, sexuality is regarded by the Waniyanpi as being inimical to Sameness, as being subversive of the Identity thesis so essential to its madness. Too, in an interesting concession to putative sexual difference, sexuality, by the Waniyanpi, is regarded as being demeaning to women.
It is not clear, historically, whether the values of slaves were imposed on the Waniyanpi by their masters, or whether the Waniyanpi invented their ethos to dignify and ennoble their own weakness. It may be mentioned that, interestingly, since the Waniyanpi repudiate nature, and natural relationships, that there is, in the compounds, an unusual incidence of homosexuality, both of the male and female varieties. This is perhaps a natural enough development considering the conditioned obstacles placed in the way of more usual relationships. It also fits in better with the values of Sameness. To be sure, officially the Waniyanpi disparage all sex, despite the relative countenance tacitly afforded by their ethos to the homosexual relationship. Where natural sexuality is prohibited there is little alternative, obviously, but to choose among competitive alternatives. The prescribed choice for the Waniyanpi, of course, is lofty abstinence, pretending no problems exist. The reason that Waniyanpi breeding takes place in a maize field, incidentally, seems to be that, in the medicine beliefs of the red savages, the example of their breeding is supposed to encourage the maize to flourish.
"What are the other reasons?" I asked.
"There are two," said Pumpkin, regarding the hooded women. "The first is that we thus hide their faces from the red savages, and thus reduce the probability of their being taken away from us."
"Their clothing," I said, "to a large extent, hides their figures."
"Yes," said Pumpkin, embarrassed.
"Frankly," I said, "I do not think they are in much danger. The red savages have their pick of many women, lovely, vital women, many of them nude and collared, and trained, like she-kaiila, to service their pleasures. I do not think they would be likely to be much interested in Waniyanpi females." Such females, I adjudged, from seeing Radish, and the men, would be unpleasant and rigid, or, more likely, dismal, miserable, drab, lackluster and uninteresting. It would be difficult, in a slave market, even to give away such women. It was interesting to speculate whether under a proper regimen of whipping, bonds and training something might be done with them. "What is the second reason?" I asked.
"We do not want them to see red-savage males," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"It makes it harder for them, sometimes, then," he said, "to be content, again, in the compounds. It makes it more difficult for them, sometimes, to continue to accept and practice the teaching, for them to adhere to the truths of Sameness."
"I understand," I said. That true men existed was something which, for most purposes, was to be kept from the Waniyanpi women. It was better for them, perhaps, not to know of their existence. Let them continue to think of men along the lines of the despicable, pathetic males of the Waniyanpi compounds. That would surely make their life easier. How miserable and frustrated they might be, to see a real man, and, their womanhood awakening, to know that they, Waniyanpi females, must continue, as though nothing had happened, to devote themselves to gardening and hypocrisy. It made sense that they should be hooded in the vicinity of the camp, particularly a summer camp. Surely it would be embarrassing, too, to Waniyanpi men, such as Pumpkin, if one of their females should tear off her clothes and throw herself naked to the feet of a red warrior, begging for the tightness of his ropes and the slash of his quirt.
"That one is Turnip, is it not?" I asked, indicating one of the seated women.
"Yes," said Pumpkin.
"Why is Radish not hooded?" I asked.
"She is so strong that she does not need the hood," said Pumpkin. "Too, for most practical purposes, she is first in the compound. It was on her orders that we hooded the other women."
"She did not trust them," I said.
"Of course she trusts them," said Pumpkin. "They are all wonderful Sames."
"Then why are they hooded?" I asked.
"Even a Same," said Pumpkin, "might occasionally have a moment of weakness."
"I see," I said. "It has been nice speaking to you, Pumpkin. You may now go."
"Of course," said Pumpkin. "I trust her. She is a wonderful Same." He then withdrew. I watched him leave. I rather, for no reason that was clear to me, liked Pumpkin. This time, in speaking to him, he had seemed somewhat less dogmatic than he had the first time, a few weeks ago, in the vicinity of the battlefield. He had a strong native intelligence, I suspected, which, for too long, had been somnolent. He had kept himself from thinking for years. Now, I suspected, he might be wondering whether or not he might think, and, if so, what might come of it. This can be an exciting time in the life of any human being. Somewhere beneath the gray garb of Pumpkin, I suspected, might lurk the heart of a heretic.
I walked over to the vicinity of the hooded Waniyanpi women, those near the closest shelter of sticks, poles and canvas. There were five of them. They were seated, mostly cross-legged, on the ground. Gray sacks had been tied over their heads, knotted with cords under their chins. I went and stood before she whom I took to be Turnip, the former beautiful agent of Kurii.
In moccasins my approach was undetected.
I cleared my throat, that they might know of my presence.
She whom I took to be Turnip, and the others, as well, lifted their heads in the sacks.
"Pumpkin?" asked the woman whom I took to be Turnip.
I did not respond. The women had remained seated, as they had been. Assuming that I must be a Waniyanpi male they did not, of course, show me respect, let alone submission.
"Carrot? Cabbage?" asked the woman.
I had cleared my throat, to announce my presence to the women. This sound, polite, almost apologetic, had been performed deliberately. It would be a way, I conjectured, in which a Waniyanpi male, courteously, might announce his presence to his lovely, hooded colleagues. I wished to see their reactions. They had been as I had expected, in effect, nothing.
"Squash? Beans?" she asked, her voice now slightly faltering.
I did not, again, respond.
"Surely you are of the Waniyanpi?" she said. It did not occur to her that one who was not of the Waniyanpi would approach them, drab Waniyanpi women.
"No," I said.
Hurriedly, then, the five women knelt. They knelt with their knees pressed closely together and their heads inclined. Deference, thus, slaves, did they display, knowing themselves in the presence of one who was not of the Waniyanpi. Only their own men it was whom they needed not, and did not, show respect. How different, I mused, would have been their responses, from the beginning, had they not been females of the Waniyanpi, but Gorean pleasure slaves. To be sure I had not announced my presence to them, and by design, as might have a typical Gorean male. Such a male, entering among hooded slaves, in particular, pleasure slaves, might have signified his presence by smiting his thigh once, or by twice clapping his hands, sharply, perhaps, at the same time, calling, "Position." Such women, then, had they been hooded Gorean pleasure slaves, and not Waniyanpi females, would have scrambled to kneel, and beautifully and vitally. Too, they would have knelt with their knees widely spread, exposing the soft interiors of their opened thighs, indicating thereby, and sensitively and beautifully, their vulnerability to male might and their submission to male power.
Gorean pleasure slaves, incidentally, are occasionally used hooded. The hood, of course, can increase the female's sense of vulnerability and sexual helplessness. She does not know, for example, where she will be next struck or caressed. Similarly the hood is sometimes used when the master lends or consigns the slave to others, she being hooded, perhaps, before the guests arrive, or, perhaps, after she has served them their supper and liqueurs. She may then, perhaps with other slaves, hooded, too, be turned about, and then knelt at the feet of one or another of the guests. She, and the other slaves, too, of course, must then serve the guest, or guests, to whom they have been assigned with perfection. Too, their use may be gambled for, or lots drawn for it.
I crouched before the woman whom I took to be Turnip. I held her by the upper arms. She raised her head, in the sack.
"No," she said, "you are not Waniyanpi. I can tell by your touch."
"Oh?" I said.
"That you touch me, as they would not," she said, "but, too, how you touch me, how you hold me."
"How is that?" I asked.
"With authority," she said, "as a man holds a woman."
"I see," I said.
With my hands, and thumbs, then, gently, I pressed back the sack, closely, about her face, that the outlines of her features might emerge through the cloth.
"You are she," I asked, "who was once the Lady Mira, of Venna?"
"Yes," she said, "yes."
"Formerly of the merchants?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. I saw her lips move under the cloth.
"Formerly a mercenary," I said, "formerly an agent in the service of Kurii?"
"Who are you?" she asked, frightened.
"You may respond to my question," I informed her. My thumbs, then, were at her throat. She felt their pressure.
"Yes," she whispered. "I was formerly a mercenary. I was formerly in the service of Kurii."
"What are you now?" I asked.
"Only a Waniyanpi slave," she said.
/> "It is true," I told her. I removed my thumbs from her throat.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"We met," I said, "a few weeks ago, in the vicinity of the field of battle. You had been stripped and yoked by your red masters. You were tethered to a wagon axle. It was before you were taken to a Waniyanpi compound."
"It was you," she said, "who struck me with a quirt and forced me to give you an account of the battle."
"Yes," I said.
"You were merciless," she said. "You made me speak as though I might have been a slave."
"It was appropriate," I said. "You were a slave."
"Even then?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She reached out her hand, timidly. She touched, and felt, the collar at my throat.
"You, too, now, are a slave," she said. "We are both the slaves of red masters."
"Yes," I said. "We are both perhaps fortunate to have been spared. It is their country."
"Perhaps there could be a little tenderness between slaves," she said.
"I understand that you are now called Turnip,'" I said.
"Yes," she said. "I am Turnip."
"I am Tatankasa, Red Bull," I said. "I am the slave of Canka, Fire-Steel, of the Isbu Kaiila."
"You have at least a single master," she said. "We belong to the band, to the Isbu Kaiila."
"How are you faring?" I asked.
"What a silly question!" she laughed, rather pronouncedly. "I am faring very well, of course!"
"I am glad to hear it," I said.
"Becoming of the Waniyanpi has changed my life," she assured me, speaking clearly and a bit loudly. "I cannot tell you how fulfilled and happy I am. It has wrought a most wondrous transformation in my existence."
"I see," I said.
"We are joyful dung," she said. "We are sparkles on the water, making the streams pretty. We are flowers growing in the fields. We are nice. We are good."
"I understand," I said.
"I am now a convinced and happy Same," she said. "I am now not a not-the-Same. That must be clearly understood. I am not a not-the-Same. I am a Same."
"I understand," I said.
"I have fully and happily embraced the teaching," she said. "It will not be necessary, as first it might have appeared, to put me out into the Barrens, without food and water. All is one, and one is all, and the same is the same. The teaching is the truth, and the truth is the teaching."
Blood Brothers of Gor Page 20