by John Norman
Hamilton felt herself lifted easily in Tree's arms. He was incredibly strong. She felt herself carried with incredible lightness. She put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
Over her head she saw, bright and beautiful in the black, velvety night, the stars. "Turn their eyes to the stars," had said Herjellsen. "Turn their eyes to the stars."
She saw, too, as she was carried, behind Tree, among the shadows, hunched and timid, round-shouldered, now creeping forward to the dying fire, to hunt for food, Ugly Girl.
She again kissed Tree.
He carried her to his cave.
19
Hamilton, the woman called Turtle, one of the women of the Men, returned to the shelters, through the snow, carrying, bound in rawhide, on her left shoulder, a heavy load of wood, food for the cave fires.
She wore leggings and her feet were wrapped in hide, tied about her ankles and calves. She wore a tunic of deerskin, which fell to her knees, and, over that, a sleeveless, furred jacket, belted, which, too, fell to her knees. Her head was bare. Her hair was bound back with a string of rawhide and shells.
For five months Turtle had been a slave of the Men, and, in particular, of one called Tree. He had amused himself with others, as the whim took him, but there was no doubt that Turtle, dark-haired and lovely, was his favorite. The other males of the Men, too, often used Turtle, as it pleased them to do so, and she found many of them marvelous and strong, and it much pleased her, from time to time, to kick for them, and well. Sometimes, even when she had not wanted to kick, they had, as Tree had before them, given her no choice but to kick, and superbly. She was only a woman, and at their mercy. They would force her body, and then her will, by means of her body, to do what they wished, for they were men, and master. Spear, the leader, in particular, had been incredible. He was second in her opinion only to Tree. When he had left her she had lain on the hides, beaten with the weight and power of his thrusting, exhausted and stunned. She had then well understood how it was that such a man was the leader, and how it was that he could feed five of the vital, prehistoric females. But the heart of the lovely slave, Turtle, always, in its depth, lay only in the capture thongs of one hunter, and one hunter alone, he who had first taken her, he who had brought her slave to the camp of the Men, he who had first forced her, in a high, prison cave, to yield to him, to helplessly love him, Tree, of the Men.
She was, in a sense that the Men found hard to understand, Tree's alone. Even when she screamed with joy in their arms, they knew they had forced only her yielding, and not her love. Only the arms of Tree, and his touch, had been strong enough to force that. Each night, after the ecstasy they had induced in her, she would creep to the side of Tree, whose cave she kept, whose skins she cleaned, at whose side she slept. And once, a week ago, Tree had not permitted Knife to use her. She had been frightened. They had almost fought. There was bad blood between the two men. She had wanted to give her body to Knife, that Tree not be endangered, but Tree, violently, had struck her and thrown her to one side of the cave. She had crouched there, terrified, her mouth bleeding. Knife had drawn a stone knife. "Go!" had said Spear to Knife. Knife, angrily, had turned away. Flower had to run to him, to console him. Over his shoulder, angrily, she had looked back. "It is not the way of the Men," said Spear to Tree, "to keep a woman to oneself." "I do not want Knife to use her," said Tree. "Strip," had said Spear to frightened Turtle. She did so, immediately. "Watch," had said Spear to Tree. Angrily Tree sat down, cross-legged. Then Spear had taken Turtle, and slowly, making her yield to him, whimpering, trying to restrain herself. At last she had writhed under him, bucking, crying out in misery. Spear remained a time with her, and then, not looking at Tree, he left her. Tears in her eyes Turtle lay on her side and held out her hand to Tree. He rose to his feet, turned away and left her. She wept. The next day Tree said to her. "Go to Knife. Strip yourself and lift your body to him." "Yes, Tree," had said Turtle, in the language of the Men, which she had, in the last months, learned to speak. She went to Knife and did as she was told. Mollified, Knife used her, swiftly, casually. Holding her clothing Turtle then returned to Tree. "I have done what you told me," she said. Then she wept. "You are a woman," he said to her. "You are a woman of the Men. You belong to all of the Men. Do you understand that?" "Yes, Tree," she had said.
"But most," said Tree, grinning, "you belong to me!"
"Yes, Tree," said Turtle, and ran to him. And he used her better than Spear, or Knife, or any of the others, better than they might have dreamed of using a woman.
When she lay in his arms, afterwards, she spoke to him in English, as it pleased her, though he did not know the tongue. "In my heart," she whispered to him, "it is your's only whose slave I am, my master. I am your helpless, adoring slave. Do with me what you will. I love you, my master. I love you."
Knife, satisfied, seldom used her thereafter, and when he did so, it was only as he might have used Antelope, or Cloud, or any of the other slaves.
Old Woman smiled to herself. "It is well the way of the Men has been kept," she said. And then she remembered Drawer. Spear had killed him, when he had gone blind. Old Woman hated Spear, but she knew, as Knife did not, and many of the others did not, that he was a great and wise leader. There were few groups who had a man so great as huge, swift, ugly Spear to lead them.
Turtle, under the load of wood, trudged through the snow toward the shelters.
She was happy. This morning the hunters had taken meat. Tonight she would be well fed, and, after the dancing and singing, she would pay for her meat, lovingly, in Tree's arms. How far away seemed her old world, with its pollutions, its hatreds, its madnesses. How simple and deep and beautiful, and now, clear and cold, seemed this fresh, virginal world in which she, a burden-bearing slave, returned to the shelters of her masters. The snow clung to the branches, and, in the distance, rearing up at the edge of the forest, she saw the cliffs. How marvelous they seemed, with their numerous, deep, caves.
Too, some of the caves held marvels.
Once, Old Woman, when the men were away hunting, had taken her, with a torch, deep into one of the caves. Women were forbidden to go into this cave but Old Woman did not care, and Hamilton had followed her. In the light of the torches, Hamilton, in awe, had seen, drawn on the walls and ceiling, some places which must have been reached by a now-discarded scaffolding, paintings in reds and yellows, and browns, and blacks, of huge and beautiful animals. There were bison there, and running antelope, and the aurochs, and even the mighty mammoth. They were done with an expression, and a zest, and beauty and freedom, and joy, that was almost incomprehensible to her. Here and there, too, almost in caricature, compared to the animals, were sticklike figures of men, with bows and spears. Hamilton saw that all of the animals, within their bodies, projecting from them, bore the weapons of men. She supposed that hunting magic had been done here, sympathetic magic, but, too, with it, exceeding it, was the celebration of the vigor, the strength and beauty of the beasts which the Men loved and hunted. Hamilton had stood there, in the half darkness, suddenly seeing these shapes and colors spring into existence, under Old Woman's lifted torch. It was almost as if they were alive, moving on the walls.
"Drawer made these," said Old Woman, simply.
"How did you dare to come to this place?" asked Hamilton.
Old Woman smiled. "Drawer brought me," she said. "He showed me."
"Where is Drawer?" had asked Hamilton.
"Spear killed him," said Old Woman. "He went blind. Spear killed him."
Hamilton was silent.
"He was old," said Old Woman. "He was not good for much."
"But you cared for him," said Hamilton. "You liked Drawer?"
"Yes," said Old Woman. "I liked Drawer."
Hamilton lifted her head, and looked about herself, at the paintings.
Animals had made tools, and manlike things, before men, had made tools. Tools needed not be a sign of man. But where there was art then, incontrovertibly, stood man. It is not in the
making of tools, but in the invention of beauty, in the gratuitous invention of art, that we have unmistakable evidence of the first presence of man. In the creation of beauty something which might before not have been human became human, and unmistakably so.
"They are beautiful," said Hamilton.
"Drawer made them," said Old Woman. "We must go now."
"What are these?" asked Hamilton. She indicated a number of hands, some outlined in color, some printed in color.
"I do not know," said Old Woman. "It is a secret of the Men."
Hamilton wondered about them, but did not ask further, for Old Woman apparently did not know.
"Look," said Old Woman. She picked up a flat, rounded stone from the floor of the cave.
Hamilton looked at it, carefully. It seemed at first, to her, only a maze of lines, unintelligible scratches. Then, suddenly, she saw, among the lines, a flowing, hulking torso of a bison. Following another set of lines, superimposed, she traced out a gazellelike creature, swift, horned; then she found the lineaments of the forequarters, head and paws of a cave lion; there were two other drawings as well; one of a deer and, to her delight, shaggy and tusked, that of a hairy mammoth.
The rock had been a good one. The drawer had used it, she supposed, as a sketchbook. It contained pictures which might even have been studies for some of the paintings on the wall.
Old Woman took the rock. She put it back down on the floor of the cave. "It was Drawer's rock," she said. "He gave it to me when he went blind. I brought it here, to be with his other paintings."
Then Old Woman, with the torch, turned about and led the way from the large room. She stopped at the threshold into the narrow passage which had led to the room. "I liked Drawer," she said.
"Why have you shown me these things?" asked Hamilton.
"Tree is Drawer's son," said Old Woman. Then she turned about, and led the way from the room, Hamilton following behind her, following the pool of torchlight cast, moving, on the walls of the passage.
Turtle slightly shifted the weight of the wood on her left shoulder.
The snow was four inches deep. Her breath hung before her face. Under her tunic and jacket she perspired. In the caves, she would, like many of the other women, strip herself, or discard her clothing to the waist. In civilization Hamilton, in the winter, had liked closed rooms and considerable warmth. But, with the Men, she had come to find overheating and closeness distasteful, and even extremely uncomfortable. Living outdoors had wrought changes in her body chemistry. Temperatures which she might once have found chilly, and which might once have made her miserable, she now found only refreshing, even zestful and stimulating. Her blood, because of the fresh air, was charged with oxygen. She had great vitality and energy. Too, she was aware, as she had never been before, of thousands of subtle gradations and fluctuations in air and temperature. She had become, for the first time in her life, fully alive to the world in which she lived.
Happily, she trudged ahead in the snow, carrying the wood.
Sometimes she found her happiness unaccountable, for was she not only a female slave, as the thongs tied about her neck proclaimed her, forced to labor, subject to the least wishes, and the switches and commands of masters? Yes, but somehow, however unaccountably, she was happy. Never had she been so happy in her life. She began to sing.
Today, this morning, the hunters had taken meat. She could, even from where she trudged through the snow, smell it cooking. Tonight, she knew, she would be well fed. She laughed delightedly. After the singing and dancing she would repay her master well for the meat which he might have deigned to throw her. She would, eagerly, give him fantastic pleasures. "After all," said she to herself, "a girl must serve her master well."
She shook her head happily, to hear the shells on the rawhide string that held back her hair.
Then she, startled, tried to cry out.
The hand closed over her mouth. She felt herself pulled backwards.
Her hands were pulled behind her back. To her astonishment she felt steel close about them, and lock.
"Do not make noise," said a voice, in English.
Hamilton was turned about, the hand still tightly over her mouth.
Her eyes widened.
"Do not cry out," said the voice.
Hamilton nodded.
The hand was removed from her mouth.
"Gunther," she whispered. "William!"
"Has Herjellsen sent you to bring me back?" asked Hamilton.
"You do not seem pleased to see us," said William.
"No," said Gunther.
"You are engaged in another phase of the experiments?" asked Hamilton.
"No," said Gunther.
Hamilton looked at him, puzzled.
The two men wore boots, and heavy coats, and hats. They carried backpacks. Each, over his shoulder, carried a rifle. Gunther wore his Luger, holstered, at his side. William, too, wore a pistol.
"Tell her," said William.
"Herjellsen has mastered the retrieval problem," said Hamilton.
The men were silent.
Hamilton clenched her fists in the steel cuffs, confining her hands behind her back.
"Please free me, Gunther," she said.
"Be quiet," said Gunther.
Hamilton was silent. She had been well taught to obey men.
"Tell her," said William.
"I see you have made contact with a human, or humanoid, group," said Gunther.
"They are human," said Hamilton.
"What is your status among them?" asked Gunther.
"That of other women," said Hamilton.
"And what is that?" asked Gunther.
"Slave," said Hamilton.
"Excellent," said Gunther. "I like female slaves."
"These men are dangerous," said Hamilton.
Gunther slapped the holster at his right hip. "We do not fear savages," he said.
"These men are hunters," said Hamilton. "And sometime you must sleep."
"We come in peace," smiled Gunther.
"You are strangers," said Hamilton. "It will be best that you go away."
Gunther then took her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers.
When he released her, he looked at her, puzzled, not pleased.
Hamilton backed away from him a step, angry.
"Are you not pleased?" asked Gunther.
"You are a man," she said, "and can do with me what you wish, of course."
"Of course," said Gunther.
"You must understand, however," said she, "that I am not the same female who groveled before you in Rhodesia."
"What is the difference?" asked Gunther.
"I have been in the arms of hunters," she said.
Gunther whipped the pistol from its holster. "This is mightier than your hunters," he said.
"Please free me," asked Hamilton.
"Kneel," said Gunther.
Hamilton did so.
"Put your head down," said Gunther.
Hamilton, kneeling in the snow, complied.
"When it pleases me," said Gunther, "I will teach you to forget your hunters."
The primitive woman, Turtle, one of the slave females of the Men, smiled.
Gunther struck her brutally to the snow.
"Do you speak the language of these hunters?" asked William.
"Yes," said Hamilton.
"On your knees again," said Gunther, "head down."
Hamilton complied.
"You may conjecture our situation," said William.
"Be silent," said Gunther to William.
"There is little to be gained by force," said William.
"I shall do the speaking," said Gunther.
"Very well," said William.
"Brenda," said Gunther.
Hamilton lifted her head.
"We are interested in making contact with a human group. You have apparently already done so. You will be our instrument of communication. You will lead us to this group, and make our demands know
n to them."
"These men are dangerous," said Hamilton. "It would be better that you go away."
"If we go away," said Gunther, "we will take you with us."
Hamilton was silent.
"Does that not please you?" asked William.
"No," said Hamilton.
"We may take you with us whether you wish it or not," said Gunther.
"Of course," said Hamilton, "but I would not do so. It may not be easy to keep me."
"What do you mean?" asked Gunther. "Do you think you could escape?"
"Quite possibly not," admitted Hamilton.
"What then do you mean?" asked Gunther.
"You will be followed, and, I would suppose, killed." She looked at him, unafraid. "These men are hunters," she said. "Their senses are incredibly keen. They are like eagles and dogs. They can see details that you, even with your fine vision, would require a telescope to discern. They can, like dogs or wolves, follow a trail by smell. They run with swiftness, and the wind of horses. They would follow you and in the end catch you. Then, I expect, they would kill you."
"We have guns," said Gunther.
"You would perhaps be able to kill one, or two, and then they would remain beyond range, until dark. Then they would hunt you by scent. And in the darkness they could from many paces detect your presence by your breathing. I would not wish to be their enemy."
"They will run at the sound of a gunshot," said Gunther.
"They do not run from thunder, or from lightning," said Hamilton, "though they take shelter."
"We will put fear into their simple brains," said Gunther.
"They are tenacious and intelligent," said Hamilton. "They are as likely to be curious, as fearful. If you make them angry, they are not likely to be afraid."
"They might envy us our weapons, and want them" said William.
"Be quiet!" snapped Gunther. He looked angrily at Hamilton. "We will teach them fear," he said.
"They will teach you terror," said Hamilton.
"Among such savages," snarled Gunther, "with these," indicating the guns, "we will be as gods!"
"As nearly as I can determine," said Hamilton, "these men do not have the concept of gods. They do regard the world as animate, and think of many things, strangely perhaps to us, as being individual and alive, trees, flowers, grass, stones, water, animals. They will speak to animals, for example, and sing to them, and sometimes ask their permission to kill them. Too, they sacrifice sometimes meat, though to what or for what purpose I do not know."