by John Norman
Then she had crawled from the group, slowly, silently. When she had cleared the area of the bodies, and the low, dim light of the dying fire, she leaped to her feet and ran.
She had escaped.
She had run for many hours, until she had gone so far no one could follow her.
Then she had slept. In the afternoon she had arisen, and, finding some nuts and roots, had fed; had, with the aid of a small stick, sharpened with a rock to a point, removed the remains of the tether from her throat, which had fastened her to Ugly Girl; and had then continued on her way.
"No more will I be subject to their switches," she laughed. "No more will I have to eat like a female animal from their hand. No more will I have to carry flint. No more will I have to see that hateful hunter!"
Suddenly Brenda Hamilton threw her hand before her mouth. She saw the eyes, briefly, in a flash, between bushes. It was not an animal the size of the cave lion. It was much smaller. But it was a sinuous, stealthily moving animal. It weighed perhaps only forty or fifty pounds more than Hamilton, but it was quite capable of taking prey twice its weight or more. It was a strong predator, which could pull its prey, even if heavier than itself, high into the branches of a tree, to keep it from scavengers. It was the most agile of the large cats, and, to men, perhaps the most dangerous. Hamilton had seen one of its descendants in Rhodesia, smaller, but still quite dangerous. To her horror, it was stalking her.
She remembered the body of the calf, half torn, lying over the limb of the tree in the Rhodesian bush. She recalled the great care of William and Gunther, even armed, in approaching it, even when it was sleepy, somnolent and gorged. Gunther, who was a remarkable hunter, with excellent weaponry, would not have followed it into the bush.
"Oh, no!" wept Hamilton.
Sometimes she thought that she had lost it, but then, again, shifting in the darkness, almost indistinguishable among shadows, she would see it again.
Once she picked up a rock, and hurled it at the shape.
She heard only a snarling, and saw it crouch down. She sensed its nervousness. She remembered the cave lion.
She was terrified that she might provoke its charge. She moved a little away, and it moved a little toward her. She ran, shouting, toward it, but it did not retreat. She saw it gather its hind legs, like springs, ready to leap.
She stood still, terrified.
It hesitated, and lay down, tail slashing, watching her. She looked about. It could be upon her before she could climb a tree. She sensed that it would charge when she turned her back. And, too, she knew, a tree would not be likely to much protect her. It was a far more swift, expert climber than she. If she were already in a tree, and had perhaps a heavy branch, she might perhaps, striking and thrusting, be able to keep it away, as it tried to approach, scrambling after her, but she was in no such position, and had no such implement.
The beast, eyes blazing, snarling, crept toward her.
Hamilton began to back away.
She wanted to turn and flee, but she knew that it, bounding and leaping, would be on her in a matter of seconds.
Hamilton backed into a grassy clearing, moving back, step by step. Her eyes were wide. Her hand was before her mouth.
The beast, creeping, eyes blazing, every muscle of it excited, tail switching, followed her.
Hamilton tripped over a root and, crying out with misery, fell.
In that instant the leopard charged. In less than the time it took Hamilton to see it clearly it was across the clearing and, snarling, leaping toward her. She saw the heavy shaft, not realizing at the time what it was, strike the beast in its leap and saw the flailing paws, claws exposed, striking toward her. Another body leaped over hers and she cried out in fear and, her weight on the palms of her hands, saw the leopard biting at the shaft protruding from his side, and the other shape, human, but bestial, ferocious, like nothing she had ever seen that was manlike, hurl itself on the spotted beast, a knife of stone in its hand. He clung to its back, one arm about its throat, rolling with the animal, jabbing and pulling the knife again and again across the white, furred throat. The great, clawed hind feet raked wildly but could not find their enemy. The blood flooded from its lungs, sputtering out like hot red mud, and then the blood, no longer flowing from its mouth, burst from its throat and the assailant, his fist and knife red to the wrist and hilt, drew his hand from the beast's body.
The beast then lay at his feet, the arterial blood throbbing out, a pulsating glot to each beat of the animal's heart. To Brenda's horror the assailant then knelt beside the beast and, catching its blood in his hands, held it to his mouth, drinking. Then the glots became smaller, and their expulsions weaker, as the heart slowed, and then stopped. The assailant, dipping his finger in the throat of the animal, then drew signs on his own body with the blood, luck signs and courage signs and, among them, the sign of the Men.
Tree rose from beside the beast and looked down at the lovely naked female on the grass, whom he had saved.
Brenda Hamilton felt her ankles tied tightly together. Her hands were left free. She did not try to free her ankles.
Tree lifted the leopard.
Hamilton was indescribably thrilled, for what reason she knew not, to see that the stone tip of the spear had emerged, inches of it, from the right side of the leopard. She could scarcely conceive of the incredible strength of such a cast.
Tree, placing the butt of the spear on the ground, forced the shaft through the leopard completely, thus freeing the weapon and protecting the bindings which fastened the long stone point to the wood.
Then, spear in hand, he stood over her. He was breathing heavily. She had seen him drink the blood of the leopard. And its blood, too, in strange signs, he wore on his body.
Her ankles were bound. She could not run. She lay at his mercy.
She could not even thank him for having saved her life. She only hoped that he would not kill her. She could not meet his eyes. Such a man, so mighty, so frightening, terrified her. She knew she would do whatever such a man commanded her, unquestioningly, even eagerly.
She dared to look up, to look into his eyes. Never had she felt so helpless, so much a mere female.
Quickly she looked down at the grass.
How miserable she was. She had been caught.
He went to the leopard and began to gut the beast, saving meat and skin, the head and claws.
When he had finished he untied her ankles, and gestured that she should stand.
When she did so he put the leopard over her shoulders. It was heavy, even bled and gutted. She felt the stickiness of bloody hair on her back, and the softness of the fur, and the heavy paws, with their claws, limp and weighty, touch her body.
She looked again into his eyes. She suddenly realized she was a runaway slave. She looked down again. She knew she would be beaten.
He then turned away and she, carrying the carcass of the leopard, followed him.
She understood then only too well, though she did not understand how it could be, that such men could follow her like dogs, that they might pick up her trail and, with ease, when they wished, pursue and retake her. "There is no escape for me," she whispered to herself. "There is no escape." And too she had learned that the primeval forests would offer her small refuge. She looked about herself now in terror, for the first time better understanding the ferocities and perils of her environment. Within twenty-four hours of her escape she had nearly fallen to a leopard. Had it not been for the intervention of the hunter she would, by now, have been half eaten. A lone female in these times, she realized, had need of the protection of a man. Without the protection of men she could not survive. The choice was simple for the female. Either serve men oh their own terms or die.
Staggering under the burden of the leopard, Brenda Hamilton, the slave, followed the hunter back to the shelters.
Brenda Hamilton scrambled to the back of the cave. She put her cheek against it, the palms of her hands. It was rock. She could go no further.
/> She did not look over her shoulder.
She knew he crouched in the entrance, the switch in his hand.
"Please don't hurt me," she begged. "I'm sorry I ran away. I will not do it again!"
He, of course, could not understand the strange noises she made, not of the language of the Men, nor, if he could have understood, would he have listened.
She was a girl to be disciplined.
Brenda Hamilton's fingernails scratched at the rock. The cave, for a full day now, twenty-four hours now, had been her prison. The entrance, for the caves, was a large one, though it had appeared much smaller from far below. It was some four feet in height and three feet wide, irregular. Outside it was a narrow ledge, not more than two feet in width. The fall from the ledge to the valley below, Brenda Hamilton had seen in terror, was better than some one hundred and seventy-five feet, approximately that of a seventeen-story building. Above and below the cave, and to the sides, the cliff was sheer. It was reached from a ledge above, by a knotted rawhide rope, which, when the hunter left, he drew up after him. Inside the cave there was a gourd of water, and two frayed, worn hides. There were also some pieces of fruit, and rinds. The cave, within, was much larger, like many of the caves, than one would have expected from the outside. It was roughly some eight feet in height and width, and some forty feet deep. It was lit by light from the entrance and, overhead, in the ceiling, some fifteen feet in, by a long, narrow cleft in the rock, extending some fifty feet upward, diagonally, too small to admit a body.
She had been brought to the cave blindfolded, that she might not struggle in terror. Her wrists had been tied together and placed about his neck and shoulder. He had, after lowering them both to the ledge, disengaged her arms from him and thrust her into the cave. There he had removed the blindfold and wrist thongs and left her, taking them with him, thrust in his belt, climbing the knotted rope, which he drew after him.
She had run to the cave entrance and, dropping to her hands and knees, had entered into the sunlight, and screamed, seeing the drop below her.
She heard a scrambling above her and saw the hunter attain the ledge above, some twenty feet higher. Then the rope was jerked up, following him.
"Don't leave me here!" she screamed. "Please! Please!"
But he was gone.
Sick, she inched herself backward, timidly, and lay down inside the entrance, helpless, surrounded by the walls of stone.
She felt certain that she had been abandoned, but, in the morning, on the ledge outside, she had found the gourd of water, and some pieces of fruit.
Now the hunter crouched in the entrance. She saw the switch, and knew she was to be disciplined. She was naked.
She had scrambled to the back wall of the cave. Her fingernails scratched at the stone.
She heard him behind her.
She did not look back.
Suddenly the switch struck, wielded with a man's strength. She screamed in pain.
She turned to face him, to plead with him, and the switch struck again.
She fell to her knees and again, this time across the shoulder, the switch fell.
She leaped to her feet, trying to escape, and ran to the entrance. She dropped to her hands and knees and crawled onto the narrow ledge. She cried out with misery. By the ankle she was dragged back into the cave. Four times more fell the switch. She rolled, and scrambled again to her feet. He struck her again. Weeping she tried to escape him, but there was no escape. Twice, by the arm, he threw her against one of the walls, beating her at the foot of it. Then he took her by the hair and hurled her back to the rear of the cave. There she fell to her knees and covered her head. Ten more times the switch fell on her body. Then the hunter threw her to her back, on the hides, weeping, and swiftly raped her, after which, she moaning in terror and misery, he left her. "I won't try to run away again," she wept, eyes glazed, looking after him through her long, dark hair. "I will not try to escape again," she wept, "—Master!" She was startled that this word had involuntarily escaped her. She lay there in misery, wondering at what it had meant. Could it be, she asked herself, in horror, that, subconsciously, the lean hunter had been truly, incontrovertibly, acknowledged as her literal master? "No!" she wept. "No!" But she could not forget what she had said. Not meaning to, unintentionally, in misery, she had called him "Master." She lay in the cave, sullen, in pain, knowing she had, unconsciously, unable to help herself, called him "Master." "He will never master me," she wept. "Not Brenda Hamilton! No savage, no barbarian, will ever master Brenda Hamilton!" But she could not forget that she had called him master. This troubled her greatly. And, too, it made her furious. "No savage, no barbarian," she hissed, "will ever master Brenda Hamilton!"
"Old Woman," said Tree, "I would talk with you."
"Talk," said Old Woman. She was sewing, poking holes through hide with a bone awl, then pulling a thread of sinew after it, through the hole. She worked carefully. Old Woman's eyes were still sharp. It was a winter garment for one of the children, the oldest boy. He would soon be able to run with the hunters. Old Woman was fond of him. He was the son of a woman who had been her friend. She had been killed in an attack of the Weasel People, some ten years earlier, on a game camp.
Tree did not speak, for Nurse was walking by. She held at her breast one of the camp's infants.
On a ledge nearby Tree could hear Fox and Wolf arguing. Wolf had hidden meat and now could not find it. Fox was asking him where he had hidden it. Wolf would not tell him, only that it was gone. "You should not hide meat," Fox was telling him. "It is not good to hide meat. "Where do you hide meat?" "I will not tell you," said Wolf. "I am your friend," said Fox.
"Talk," said Old Woman to Tree, regarding her sewing.
It would not have occurred to Tree to talk to the women, except to give them orders, but he did not think of Old Woman as being of the women. She was different. She was independent. She was shrewd. She was ill-tempered. She was wise.
"You know the pretty bird I brought to camp," said Tree.
"Stupid little thing," said Old Woman.
"Yes," said Tree, "she is stupid."
"But pretty," said Old Woman, pulling the sinew tight with her teeth, still, in spite of her age, sharp and white.
"Do you think she is pretty?" asked Tree.
"Yes," said Old Woman, "more pretty than Antelope, more pretty than Cloud."
"But not so pretty as Flower?"
"No," said Old Woman, "not so pretty as Flower." Old Woman looked up. "How long are you going to keep your pretty little bird on her perch? She has been there for four days. There is work for her to do down here."
"I will keep her there as long as I please," said Tree.
"Poor little slave girl," grinned Old Woman.
Tree, squatting beside Old Woman, looked out the entrance of the shelter. Fox and Wolf had gone.
"I am angry with her," said Tree.
"Why?" asked Old Woman.
"I do not know," said Tree.
"Does she know?" asked Old Woman.
"I do not know," said Tree.
"She is stupid," said Old Woman. Anyone knew that when a man was angry with a woman she would lift her body to him, to placate him, and beg to kick for him, that in the pleasures of her body, he would forget his anger. Else she might be beaten. Any woman with half a brain knew that.
"It is too bad that she does not kick well," said Tree.
"Why?" asked Old Woman.
"She is pretty," said Tree, "very pretty. She should be a good kicker."
"Does this woman trouble you?" asked Old Woman.
"Yes," said Tree.
"Do Antelope and Cloud trouble you?" asked Old Woman.
"Not like this woman," said Tree.
"She is not of the Men," said Old Woman. "She is a foreign female, she is a slave."
"I know," said Tree.
"Take her," advised Old Woman. "Use her as much as you wish. Tire of her." She grinned. "That is the cure for sickness over a woman," she smiled* "use h
er repeatedly until you weary of her."
Tree smiled. "I want more from this woman," he said.
"Ah," smiled Old Woman. "She has stung your vanity. You want to make her kick for you."
"Perhaps," said Tree.
"The poor little thing has been abused enough," grinned Old Woman. "You surely would not be so cruel as to make her yield to you?"
"You are a wise old woman," said Tree.
"Poor little slave girl," cackled Old Woman.
"It takes time," said Tree, irritably.
Old Woman laughed. "A little patience is a small price to pay for a night of pleasure," said Old Woman. "Be patient, great hunter," she advised, "until you catch her." She pointed the sewing awl at Tree. "What you catch," she laughed, "I assure you will be well worth the wait."
Tree rose to his feet.
"Remember all that I have taught you," said Old Woman. "Any woman—any woman—can be made to kick."
"I will make her kick and squeal like a rabbit," said Tree.
"Poor little slave girl," said Old Woman.
Tree turned about, and left Old Woman.
Old Woman looked after Tree. She was old and wise. She had not come on this sort of thing often, but she knew of its existence. She remembered Drawer, whom, when he had become Old Man, and. when he had gone blind, Spear had killed. She continued her sewing, crooning to herself a little song.
Old Woman was happy.
It was noon, and the sunlight was hot on the cliff, when Tree slipped down the knotted rawhide rope to the ledge outside the cave where the lovely slave girl was kept.
He dropped to the ledge.
She moved back further, within the cave. She put out her hand, and shook her head. Her eyes showed fear. She said something in her barbarous tongue, unintelligible to the Men.
Naked, defenseless, slight, the stone wall at her back, she was quite beautiful.
Tree leapt forward and thrust her, standing, stomach to the stone, against the wall.