Iwoso leapt among the dancers, scolding and shouting, thrusting them away. There was much laughter from the Yellow Knives and the dancers.
Iwoso then crouched down and, taking a braided, rawhide rope from her waist, presumably the same one I had seen her with earlier, even before the first attack on the camp, tied it about the neck of the helpless, terrified slave. She then drew her, on her hands and knees, back to her place. She made her lie down there, on her side, with her knees drawn up. She struck her twice with a switch. The slave cried out, squirming under the blows, but kept her position. The mistress then resumed her place, sitting down, cross-legged, with the men, in the great circle. She retained the slave's leash in her hand, looping it, shortening it, so that it was only about a yard in length. The lance dancers, in their serpentine pattern, swirled away.
"I did not know that Bloketu was so beautiful," I said. It is difficult for a woman to conceal her beauty when she is permitted to wear only a collar, or a collar and leash.
"I wonder if Iwoso is even more beautiful," said Cuwignaka.
"Perhaps someday masters will know," I said.
Cuwignaka looked at me, and smiled. "Perhaps," he said.
"It is dangerous to remain here," I said. "I suggest that we withdraw."
Cuwignaka's attention was again on the great circle.
"It is dangerous here," I said. "Perhaps you can manage to take your eyes off Bloketu."
"She is beautiful, is she not?" said Cuwignaka.
"Yes," I said. "It is my speculation that the perimeter of the camp and the areas about the camp may still be under surveillance, the perimeter being guarded to prevent the return of Kaiila to the camp for such things as food, the fields to detect the movements of possible fugitives. Similarly I think it would be difficult to obtain kaiila and escape without abandoning Hci and the kaiila, in any event, as we have determined, are well guarded."
"She is so beautiful," said Cuwignaka.
"Accordingly, it is my recommendation that we remain in the camp tonight. I think this is in the best interests not only of Hci but of ourselves. We must then attempt to depart in the morning, after the watches have been recalled or relaxed, or the camp, as a whole, has been left."
"Quite beautiful," said Cuwignaka, admiringly.
"So, what do you think?" I asked.
"About what?" asked Cuwignaka.
"About remaining in the camp tonight," I said.
"Of course," said Cuwignaka. "I could not, in any case, leave the camp before morning."
"Why not?" I asked, puzzled.
"Surely you know what day this is," he said.
I looked at him.
"This is the very height of the time of our feasts and festivals," he said.
"Yes?" I said.
"So what day is it?" he asked.
"I do not know," I said.
"Have you forgotten?" he asked.
"It seems so," I said.
"This is the first day of the great dance," he said.
"What of it?" I asked.
"I am going to dance," said Cuwignaka.
"You are insane," I said.
"The portals of the dance lodge will be unguarded now," he said. "There will be none to deny me entrance."
"There will be none to dance with you," I said, "none to share the loneliness, the pain."
"I will dance alone," said Cuwignaka.
"Today," I said, "the Kaiila do not dance."
"One will," said Cuwignaka.
"The lodge of the dance has been rent," I said. "The pole itself had been defaced and profaned, its trappings stripped away. Your body would not be properly painted. You would not have brush at your wrists and ankles. You could not dare to blow upon the Herlit-bone whistle."
"Do you really think such things are necessary?" asked Cuwignaka, smiling.
"I do not know," I said.
"Little is actually needed for the truth of the dance," said Cuwignaka. "I will have the pole, myself and my manhood. It will be enough."
"It takes some men two or three days to free themselves from the pole," I said.
"I do not have that much time," said Cuwignaka. "I will free myself by morning."
"You will kill yourself," I said.
"I do not think that is likely," said Cuwignaka.
"Do not dance," I said.
"At one time or another in his life," said Cuwignaka, "every man, in one way or another, must dance. Otherwise he is not a man."
"There are many ways to dance," I said.
"I will dance in the way of my people, the Kaiila," said Cuwignaka.
"You do not even believe in the medicine world," I said.
"I believe in the dance," he said.
I was silent.
"I may need some help," said Cuwignaka, "in attaching the ropes, in placing the skewers in my flesh. Will you help me?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then, when I am finished with the dance," said Cuwignaka, "and have rested a little, we will be on our way. We will rig a travois for Hci. We will leave the camp before dawn. I know a small arroyo nearby. We will hide there and then, perhaps tomorrow evening, take our leave."
"Where will we go?" I asked.
"Hci needs care," said Cuwignaka.
"I understand," I said. "Look," I said, gesturing to the broad, firelit spaces below us.
"The Yellow Knives prepare to dance," said Cuwignaka.
We saw Yellow-Knife warriors setting up small poles, some five to six feet in height, attaching grisly trophies to the tops of the poles.
"They will celebrate their victory," said Cuwignaka. "Those are trophy poles. They will dance trophy dances."
"I do not care to watch," I said.
"Let them dance," said Cuwignaka. "Another, in another place, will also dance."
"You are determined?" I asked.
"Yes," said Cuwignaka.
"You will dance?" I asked.
"Yes," said Cuwignaka. "I will dance."
33
Mira
We heard the rattling and beating, the clanging, from a distance.
Fleer circled in the sky.
We then, the grass to our waist, dragging the travois on which Hci lay, and other articles, surmounted a rise, surveying the maize fields below us, the buildings and palisade of the compound beyond them.
The fact that we did not have kaiila had, it seemed, worked to our advantage. Several times in the past few days we had seen solitary Kinyanpi scouts in the sky. Each time we had hidden in the deep grass.
We then, grateful for the slope, drew the travois downward, toward the valley below.
At one edge of the field a crude wooden platform had been erected, some seven or eight feet high, its surface reached by a ladder. Above the platform, on poles, a cloth canopy had been stretched. It was being moved by the wind. Beneath the canopy, one with a string of pans and cups tied together, the other with a wooden spoon and a flat, metal pan, were two Waniyanpi women. One was shouting and gesticulating, shaking the pans and cups; the other was shouting and pounding on the flat, metal pan with the wooden spoon.
The fleer, then, the members of a common flock, as the fleer usually flies, departed. They would probably return at a later time.
One of the women on the platform seized the arm of the other and pointed in our direction. She who had first seen us then put down her string of pans and cups and, hastily, descended from the platform. She began to run toward the palisade in the distance. The other woman, shading her eyes, watched us approach. As we came closer she seemed suddenly to react. She put down her pan and spoon and, like the other, hastily descended from the platform. She, however, unlike the other, began to run towards us.
"Go away," she cried to us, coming towards us, through the grass. "There is danger here!"
I scanned the skies. "Let us get out of the open," I said. "Let us go to the maize, near the platform."
"There is danger here," she said, hurrying then along beside us.
"There
is danger here, what?" I said.
"There is danger here—Masters," she said.
In a few moments we had reached the edge of the maize field, near the platform.
"You may kneel," I told her.
"I may kneel?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said, gratefully, and knelt before us.
"What is the danger here?" asked Cuwignaka. "Are there Kinyanpi about, Yellow Knives, soldiers?"
"There are no soldiers nor Yellow Knives," she said. "Kinyanpi occasionally fly past, but fewer now than before. I think they are bringing their searches to a close."
"What, then, is the danger?" asked Cuwignaka.
"You will not be welcome here," she said. "They are turning everyone away."
"This man is wounded, grievously," I said, indicating Hci.
"They are turning everyone away," she said, "even the wounded. They have turned away even women and children."
"This man needs help," I said.
"It does not matter," she said. "I am sorry."
"He may die," I said.
"I am sorry," she said.
"Is this not Garden Eleven, a Waniyanpi compound owned by the Kaiila," demanded Cuwignaka.
"Now we are owned by Yellow Knives," she said. "Soldiers have told us."
"You are still owned by the Kaiila," said Cuwignaka, angrily. "You will provide us with food and shelter."
"We are afraid," she said. "We do not know who owns us."
"Someone is coming," I said.
Approaching, along the side of the maize field, coming from the direction of the palisade and buildings in the distance was a group of Waniyanpi. In their lead was the woman I had met, briefly, at the Kaiila camp, Radish. Near her was the woman who had run to fetch them, she who had earlier had the pans and cups on the platform. Behind Radish came Pumpkin, large and ungainly, as usual, in the drab, rude dress that was the uniform of the Waniyanpi. There were about fifteen persons in the group, both men and women. I recognized Carrot and Cabbage.
"Turnip," cried Radish, angrily, "what are you doing, kneeling before a man? Get on your feet!"
"You do not yet have permission to rise," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said, happily.
"Get up!" said Radish.
"Apparently you did not hear," I said. "The slave has not yet received permission to rise."
I folded my arms and regarded the insolent Radish.
Turnip, whose beauty could be conjectured, even beneath the gray, rude garb of the Waniyanpi, lowered her head, humbly, her long, blond tresses hanging forward. She had once been the Lady Mira, of Venna, an agent of Kurii. Then she had fallen into the hands of red savages. She was now only a slave.
"Go away," said Radish, angrily. "There is no room here for you."
"I would speak with a man," I said. "What man is in charge here?"
Radish reacted as though struck. "I speak for all of us," she said.
"Pumpkin," I asked, "is it you? Are you leader here?"
"No, no," said Pumpkin, quickly, looking down. "There is no leader here. We are all Sames. We are all the same. There are no leaders. We are all the same. Peace, and light, and tranquillity, and contentment and goodness, be unto you."
"Sweetness be unto you," said Carrot.
"Sweetness be unto you," said Cabbage.
"You seem to me the natural leader here, Pumpkin," I said.
"No," he said, "no, no."
"You have surrendered your sovereignty?" I asked. "This woman, then, is your leader?"
"There is no leader," mumbled Pumpkin, not meeting my eyes. "We are all Sames. We are all the same."
"You, then," I asked, viewing Radish, "are the leader."
"Perhaps," she smiled.
"Radish is strong and forceful," said Carrot.
"She is not the leader," Cabbage assured me. "It is only that we do whatever she says."
"Is this true, Pumpkin?" I asked.
"We do whatever Radish tells us," he said, again not meeting my eyes.
"We have a man here," I said, indicating Hci, "who is grievously, sorely, wounded. We need food and shelter."
"Find it elsewhere," said Radish.
"Pumpkin?" I asked.
He did not respond, but put down his head. This hurt me, for I had hoped that in Pumpkin, somewhere, perhaps deeply buried, was a man.
"Carrot?" I asked. "Cabbage?"
"I am sorry," said Carrot.
"It is not just you," said Cabbage. "Yesterday Radish even put two young people out of the compound, a young man and woman. She found them touching one another."
"Terrible!" said one of the Waniyanpi women, though I do not think she believed it.
"Go away!" said Radish, pointing out over the prairie. "Go!"
"No, Tatankasa, Mitakola," said Cuwignaka, "do not kill them!"
Radish drew back. My hand, in anger, had gone to the hilt of my sword.
"They banish even their own people," said Cuwignaka.
"I am a woman," said Radish, uncertainly.
"I thought you were a Same," I said.
"Their blood is not worthy of your sword," said Cuwignaka.
"Kill us if you wish," said Pumpkin.
"We will not resist," said Carrot.
"Resistance is violence, and violence is wrong," said Cabbage.
"Aggression must be met with love," said Carrot.
"Conquerors have often found that a useful philosophy to encourage in subject peoples," I said. I took my hand from the hilt of my sword.
"We need your aid," I said to Radish.
"You may not have it," she said, emboldened. "Go away."
I looked at the men. "You are vile hypocrites," I said.
"No," said Pumpkin, "not really. It is only that we are Waniyanpi."
"We do whatever Radish tells us," said Carrot.
"Yes," said Cabbage.
"You have surrendered your manhood," I said. "You are spineless weaklings."
The men hung their heads.
"Let us go, Tatankasa," said Cuwignaka, "Mitakola."
I looked at Pumpkin. He, of all of them, I had had hopes for.
"Pumpkin," I said.
He lifted his head but then, again, put it down, not meeting my eyes.
"Come along, Mitakola," said Cuwignaka.
"Get up, Turnip," said Radish, angrily. "You shame the Waniyanpi!"
"I have not yet been given permission to rise," said Turnip.
"You are kneeling before a man!" screamed Radish. "Get up!" I wondered what it was in Turnip's deferential attitude, in her posture of submission, which so inflamed Radish.
"Yes," said Turnip, "I am kneeling before a man!"
"Get up!" screamed Radish.
Turnip turned to me, facing me. "I kneel before you, Master," she said. "I incline my head to you, as a woman, and a slave."
"Get up!" screamed Radish, beside herself with rage.
"I kiss and lick your feet, Master," said Turnip.
There coursed through the women present, other than Radish, a thrill of horror and pleasure. I heard several of them gasp.
Turnip knelt before me, the palms of her hands on the grass, her head down. I felt her lips and tongue, sweetly and softly, delicately, kissing and caressing my feet.
"You are cast out!" screamed Radish. "You are out of the compound!"
Turnip paid Radish no attention. She lifted her head to me, and smiled.
"Take off the garb of the Waniyanpi!" screamed Radish. "You are not worthy of it!"
"You may rise," I told Turnip.
Turnip rose to her feet and, over her head, drew off the dismal, gray dress she had worn.
Underneath the dress she was stark naked. She then stood before us, very straight and very beautiful. The women, with the exception of Radish, looked upon her admiringly, thrilled that she was so beautiful. The men averted their eyes, frightened and shamed.
"Exercising the prerogative of any Kaiila warrior, over any slave i
n a compound of the Kaiila," said Cuwignaka, clearly and loudly, "I now claim this woman as my personal slave." He then regarded her. "You are now my slave," he said.
"Yes, Master," she said. She knelt down swiftly and inclined her head to him. I was pleased to see that she did this quickly. She now understood that she was no longer a Waniyanpi slave but was under a man's discipline.
"And your use," said Cuwignaka, pointing to me, "is his."
"Yes, Master," she said, happily. As a slave myself, of course, I could own nothing, not even the collar I wore. On the other hand I could certainly have the use of a slave, who would then be to me as my own slave, in all things.
"It will be up to him, of course," said Cuwignaka, "as to whether or not he chooses to accept your use."
"Accept my use, Master," she begged. "Please."
"What if I do not accept her use?" I asked Cuwignaka.
"Then we will leave her behind, cast out of the Waniyanpi compound, to die," said Cuwignaka.
"Please accept my use, Master," she begged.
I looked down upon her.
"I learned long ago, at the paws of a master's kaiila, that I was a slave," she said. "I learned it, too, in receiving the blow of a quirt, of a strong man." This was a blow I had administered to her sometime ago, preparatory to questioning her in the matter of the attacked wagon train and column. "I learned it, too," she said, "naked, in a yoke which had been fastened on me by red savages, when I was marched to the compound. Mostly I have learned it here, in the long hours I have had to think, in the fields and in the compound. No longer am I in doubt as to what I am. I am a slave."
A thrill passed through the Waniyanpi women present, with the exception of Radish.
"Long ago," she said, "when you were free, and I had just been sentenced to a Waniyanpi compound, you refused to carry me off, making me your own slave. Perhaps, then, regarding me as a mere encumbrance, I having been so recently free, you did not take me with you. Perhaps, on the other hand, it amused you, as it seemed to, that I, someone you seemed to regard, somehow, as a foe of some sort, or lovely enemy, was to be sent to a Waniyanpi compound. Now, however, our realities have changed. If it had been your desire to see me suffer in a Waniyanpi compound, you have now had your wish. I will never forget the horrors of my experiences there. You may now, if it pleases you, take me from it, as I beg you. Too, now you, too, have fallen slave. You, now, are no more than I. Perhaps a slave, then, may see fit to accede to the pleas of another slave, rather than dismiss her petition as casually, as thoughtlessly, as cruelly, as might a free man. Also, you being a slave, too, perhaps you have been denied the use of women or deprived of their caresses, or perhaps, not being free, you have not been permitted to use them with the same liberal audacity as a free man, or as frequently as you might desire. If that is so, I might be of somewhat greater interest to you now than I was before. Lastly I would no longer be an encumbrance to you for I am, obviously, no longer a free woman. No longer am I an inconvenience and a bother, something to be concerned about and watched out for. Now I am only a property that begs to love and serve you."
Blood Brothers of Gor Page 34