Ho-Hak reached down and unwrapped the leather from the yellow bow of supple Ka-la-na. The roll of sheaf and flight arrows spilled out to the woven mat that was the surface of the rence island.
There were gasps from two or three of the men present. I gathered they had seen small straight bows, but that this was the first long bow they had seen.
Ho-Hak stood up. The bow was taller than several of the men present.
He handed the bow to the blondish girl, she with blue eyes, who had been instrumental in my capture.
"String it," said he to her.
Angrily she threw the marsh gants from her shoulder and took the bow.
She seized the bow in her left hand and braced the bottom of it against the instep of her left foot, taking the hemp cord whipped with silk, the string, in her right hand. She struggled.
At last, angrily, she thrust the bow back into the hands of Ho-Hak.
Ho-Hak looked down at me, the large ears inclining toward me slightly. "This is the peasant bow, is it not?" he asked. "Called the great bow, the long bow?"
"It is," I said.
"Long ago," said he, "in a village once, on the lower slopes of the Thentis range, about a campfire, I heard sing of this bow."
I said nothing.
He handed the bow to the fellow with the headband of pearls of the Vosk sorp bound about his forehead. "String it," said Ho-Hak.
The fellow handed his marsh spear to a companion and turned to the bow. He took it confidently. Then the look of confidence vanished. Then his face reddened, and then the veins stood out on his forehead, and then he cried out in disgust, and then he threw the bow back to Ho-Hak.
Ho-Hak looked at it and then set it against the instep of his left foot, taking the bow in his left hand and the string in his right.
There was a cry of awe from about the circle as he strung the bow.
I admired him. He had strength, and much strength, for he had strung the bow smoothly, strength it might be from the galleys, but strength, and superb strength.
"Well done," said I to him.
Then Ho-Hak took, from among the arrows on the mat, the leather bracer and fastened it about his left forearm, that the arm not be lacerated by the string, and took the small tab as well, putting the first and second fingers of his right hand through, that in drawing the string the flesh might not be cut to the bone. Then he took, from the unwrapped roll of arrows, now spilled on the leather, a flight arrow, and this, to my admiration, he fitted to the bow and drew it to the very pile itself.
He held the arrow up, pointing it into the sky, at an angle of some fifty degrees.
Then there came the clean, swift, singing flash of the bowstring and the flight arrow was aloft.
There were cries from all, of wonder and astonishment, for they would not have believed such a thing possible.
The arrow seemed lost, as though among the clouds, and so far was it that it seemed vanished in its falling.
The group was silent.
Ho-Hak unstrung the bow. "It is with this," he said, "that peasants defend their holdings."
He looked from face to face. Then he replaced the bow, putting it with its arrows, on the leather spread upon the mat of woven rence that was the surface of the island.
Ho-Hak regarded me. "Are you skilled with this bow?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"See that he does not escape," said Ho-Hak.
I felt the prongs of two marsh spears in my back. "He will not escape," said the girl, putting her fingers in the ropes that held my throat. I could feel her knuckles in the side of my neck. She shook the ropes. She irritated me. She acted as though it were she herself who had taken me.
"Are you of the peasants?" asked Ho-Hak of me.
"No," I said. "I am of the Warriors."
"This bow, though," said one of the men holding my neck ropes, "is of the Peasants."
"I am not of the Peasants," I said.
Ho-Hak looked at the man who wore the headband of pearls of the Vosk sorp.
"With such a bow," he said to that man, "we might live free in the marsh, free of those of Port Kar."
"It is a weapon of peasants," said the man with the headband, he who had been unable to bend the bow.
"So?" asked Ho-Hak.
"I," said the man, "am of the Growers of Rence. I, for one, am not a peasant."
"Nor am I!" cried the girl.
The others, too, cried their assent.
"Besides," said another man, "we do not have metal for the heads of arrows, nor arrowwood, and Ka-la-na does not grow in the marsh. And we do not have cords of strength enough to draw such bows."
"And we do not have leather," added another.
"We could kill tharlarion," said Ho-Hak, "and obtain leather. And perhaps the teeth of the marsh shark might be fashioned in such a way as to tip arrows."
"There is no Ka-la-na, no cord, no arrowwood," said another.
"We might trade for such things," said Ho-Hak. "There are peasants who live along the edges of the delta, particularly to the east."
The man with the headband, he who had not been able to bend the bow, laughed. "You, Ho-Hak," said he, "were not born to the rence."
"No," said Ho-Hak. "That is true."
"But we were," said the man. "We are Growers of the Rence."
There was a murmur of assent, grunts and shiftings in the group.
"We are not peasants," said the man with the headband. "We are Growers of the Rence!"
There was an angry cry of confirmation from the group, mutterings, shouts of agreement.
Ho-Hak once again sat down on the curved shell of the great Vosk sorp, that shell that served him as throne in this his domain, an island of rence in the delta of the Vosk.
"What is to be done with me?" I asked.
"Torture him for festival," suggested the fellow with the headband of the pearls of the Vosk sorp.
Ho-Hak's ears lay flat against the sides of his head. He looked evenly at the fellow. "We are not of Port Kar," said he.
The man with the headband shrugged; looking about he saw that his suggestion had not met with much enthusiasm. This, naturally, did not displease me. He shrugged again, and looked down at the woven surface of the island.
"So," I asked, "what is to be my fate?"
"We did not ask you here," said Ho-Hak. "We did not invite you to cross the line of the blood mark."
"Return to me my belongings," I said, "and I shall be on my way and trouble you no longer."
Ho-Hak smiled.
The girl beside me laughed, and so, too, did the man with the headband, he who had not been able to bend the bow. Several of the others laughed as well.
"Of custom," said Ho-Hak, "we give those we capture who are of Port Kar a choice."
"What is the choice?" I asked.
"You will be thrown bound to marsh tharlarion, of course," said Ho-Hak.
I paled.
"The choice," said Ho-Hak, "is simple." He regarded me. "Either you will be thrown alive to the marsh tharlarion or, if you wish, we will kill you first."
I struggled wildly against the marsh vine, futilely. The rence growers, without emotion, watched me. I fought the vine for perhaps a full Ehn. Then I stopped. The vine was tight. I knew I had been perfectly secured. I was theirs. The girl beside me laughed, as did the man with the headband, and certain of the others.
"There is never any trace of the body," said Ho-Hak.
I looked at him.
"Never," he said.
Again I struggled against the vine, but again futilely.
"It seems too easy that he should die so swiftly," said the girl. "He is of Port Kar, or would be of that city."
"True," said the fellow with the headband, he who had been unable to bend the bow. "Let us torture him for festival."
"No," said the girl. She looked at me with fury. "Let us rather keep him as a miserable slave."
Ho-Hak looked up at her.
"Is that not a sweeter vengeance?"
hissed she. "That rightless he should serve the Growers of Rence as a beast of burden?"
"Let us rather throw him to tharlarion," said the man with the headband of the pearls of the Vosk sorp. "That way we shall be rid of him."
"I say," said the blondish girl, "let us rather shame him and Port Kar as well. Let him be worked and beaten by day and tethered by night. Each hour with labors, and whips and thongs, let us show him our hatred for Port Kar and those of that city!"
"How is it," I asked the girl, "that you so hate those of Port Kar?"
"Silence, Slave!" she cried and thrust her fingers into the ropes about my neck, twisting her hand. I could not swallow, nor breathe. The faces about me began to blacken. I fought to retain consciousness.
Then she withdrew her hand.
I gasped for breath, choking. I threw up on the mat. There were cries of disgust, and derision. I felt the prongs of marsh spears in my back.
"I say," said he with the headband, "let it be the marsh tharlarion."
"No," I said numbly. "No."
Ho-Hak looked at me. He seemed surprised.
I, too, found myself stunned. It had seemed the words had scarcely been mine.
"No, No," I said again, the words again seeming almost those of another.
I began to sweat, and I was afraid.
Ho-Hak looked at me, curiously. His large ears leaned toward me, almost inquisitively.
I did not want to die.
I shook my head, clearing my eyes, fighting for breath, and looked into his eyes.
"You are of the warriors," said Ho-Hak.
"Yes," I said. "I know, yes."
I found I desperately wanted the respect of this calm, strong man, he most of all, he once a slave, who sat before me on the throne, that shell of the giant Vosk sorp.
"The teeth of the tharlarion," said he, "are swift, Warrior."
"I know," I said.
"If you wish," said he, "we will slay you first."
"I," I said, "I do not want to die."
I lowered my head, burning with shame. In my eyes in that moment it seemed I had lost myself, that my codes had been betrayed, Ko-ro-ba my city dishonored, even the blade I had carried soiled. I could not look Ho-Hak again in the eyes. In their eyes, and in mine, I could now be nothing, only slave.
"I had thought the better of you," said Ho-Hak. "I had thought you were of the warriors."
I could not speak to him.
"I see now," said Ho-Hak, "you are indeed of Port Kar."
I could not raise my head, so shamed I was. It seemed I could never lift my head again.
"Do you beg to be a slave?" asked Ho-Hak. The question was cruel, but fair.
I looked at Ho-Hak, tears in my eyes. I saw only contempt on that broad, calm face.
I lowered my head. "Yes," I said. "I beg to be a slave."
There was a great laugh from those gathered about, and, too, in those peals of merriment I heard the laugh of he who wore the headband of the pearls of the Vosk sorp, and, most bitter to me of all, the laugh of contempt of the girl who stood beside me, her thigh at my cheek.
"Slave," said Ho-Hak.
"Yes," said I, "—Master." The word came bitterly to me. But a Gorean slave addresses all free men as Master, all free women as Mistress, though, of course, normally but one would own him.
There was further laughter.
"Perhaps now," said Ho-Hak, "we shall throw you to tharlarion."
I put down my head.
There was more laughter.
To me, at that moment, it seemed I cared not whether they chose to throw me to tharlarion or not. It seemed to me that I had lost what might be more precious than life itself. How could I face myself, or anyone? I had chosen ignominious bondage to the freedom of honorable death.
I was sick. I was shamed. It was true that they might now throw me to tharlarion. According to Gorean custom a slave is an animal, and may be disposed of as an animal, in whatever way the master might wish, whenever he might please. But I was sick, and I was shamed, and I could not now, somehow, care. I had chosen ignominious bondage to the freedom of honorable death.
"Is there anyone who wants this slave?" I heard Ho-Hak asking.
"Give him to me, Ho-Hak," I heard. It was the clear, ringing voice of the girl who stood beside me.
There was a great laughter, and rich in that humiliating thunder was the snort of the fellow who wore the headband, that formed of the pearls of the Vosk sorp.
Strangely I felt small and nothing beside the girl, only chattel. How straight she stood, each inch of her body alive and splendid in her vigor and freedom. And how worthless and miserable was the beast, the slave, that knelt, naked and bound, at her feet.
"He is yours," I heard Ho-Hak say.
I burned with shame.
"Bring the paste of rence!" cried the girl. "Unbind his ankles. Take these ropes from his neck."
A woman left the group to bring some rence paste, and two men removed the marsh vine from my neck and ankles. My wrists were still bound behind my back.
In a moment the woman had returned with a double handful of wet rence paste. When fried on flat stones it makes a kind of cake, often sprinkled with rence seeds.
"Open your mouth, Slave," said the girl.
I did so and, to the amusement of those watching, she forced the wet paste into my mouth.
"Eat it," she said. "Swallow it."
Painfully, almost retching, I did so.
"You have been fed by your Mistress," she said.
"I have been fed by my Mistress," I said.
"What is your name, Slave?" asked she.
"Tarl," said I.
She struck me savagely, across the mouth, flinging my head to one side.
"A slave has no name," she said.
"I have no name," I said.
She walked about me. "Your back is broad," she said. "You are strong, but stupid." She laughed. "I shall call you Bosk," she said.
The bosk is a large, horned, shambling ruminant of the Gorean plains. It is herded below the Gorean equator by the Wagon Peoples, but there are bosk herds on ranches in the north as well, and peasants often keep some of the animals.
"I am Bosk," I said.
There was laughter.
"My Bosk!" she laughed.
"I should have thought," said he with the headband, formed of the pearls of the Vosk sorp, "that you might have preferred a man for a slave, one who is proud and does not fear death."
The girl thrust her hands into my hair and threw back my head. Then she spat in my face. "Coward and slave!" she hissed.
I dropped my head. It was true what she had said. I had feared death. I had chosen slavery. I could not be a true man. I had lost myself.
"You are worthy only to be the slave of a woman," said Ho-Hak.
"Do you know what I am going to do with you?" asked the girl.
"No," I said.
She laughed. "In two days," she said, "at festival, I will put you at stake as a prize for girls."
There was laughter at this, and shouts of pleasure.
My shoulders and head fell forward and, bound, I shook with shame.
The girl turned. "Follow me, Slave," said she, imperiously.
I struggled to my feet and, to the jeers of the rence growers, and blows, stumbled after the girl, she who owned me, my mistress.
4
The Hut
In the stem of the girl's rence craft, she poling the craft from its stern, I knelt, cutting rence. It was late in the year to cut rence, but some quantities of the rence are cut during the fall and winter and stored on covered rence rafts until the spring. These stores of rence are not used in the making of rence paper, but in the weaving of mats, for adding to the surface of the island, and for the pith, used as a food.
"Cut there," said the girl, moving the rush craft into a thicket of rence.
One holds the stem of the plant in the left hand and, with the right, with a small, curved, two-inch knife makes a diagonal up
ward stroke.
We were towing a small rence raft and there was already much rence upon it.
We had been cutting since before dawn. It was now late in the afternoon.
I cut again, dropping the tufted, flowered head of the rence stem into the water, and then I tossed the stem onto the raft of rence, with the piles of others.
I could sense the rence craft move as the girl shifted her weight in it, balancing it and maintaining it in position.
I cut more.
She had not seen fit to give her slave clothing.
About my neck she had coiled and tied a length of marsh vine.
I knew her to be barefoot behind me, in the brief-skirted tunic of yellowish-brown rence cloth, cut away at the shoulders to give her freedom of movement. She wore a golden armlet. Her hair was bound back with the bit of purple rep-cloth. She had, as the girls do in rence craft, tied her skirt high about her thighs, for ease in moving and poling. I was terribly conscious of her. Her rather thick ankles seemed to me strong and lovely, and her legs sturdy and fine. Her hips were sweet, her belly a rhythm made for the touch of a man, and her breasts, full and beautiful, magnificent, tormenting me, strained against the brittle rence cloth of her tunic with an insolence of softness, as though, insistent, they would make clear their contempt for any subterfuge of concealment.
"Slave," had cried the girl once, "do you dare to look upon your mistress!"
I had turned away.
I was hungry. In the morning, before dawn, she had placed in my mouth a handful of rence paste. At noon, in the marshes, with the sun burning at meridian, she had taken another handful of rence paste from a wallet worn at her waist and thrust it in my mouth, again not permitting me the dignity of feeding myself. Though it was now late in the afternoon and I was hungry I would not ask to be fed again from the wallet at her side.
I cut another rence stem, cut away the tufted, flowered head, and threw the stem onto the raft.
"Over there," she said, moving the rence craft to a new location.
Raiders of Gor Page 3