Captive of Gor

by John Norman

  I was sobbing.

  "Bring the whip," said Rask of Treve.

  I hung perhaps a foot from the ground. I felt my ankles lashed together, and then a strap tied them to the ring below, that set in the stone, which was buried in the ground. That way I would not swing much under the blows.

  Once, long ago, I had been beaten by Lana, with a handful of straps. I had never forgotten it. I was delicate. I could not stand pain. I was not a common girl. I had always feared, but never felt, the five-stranded Gorean slave lash, wielded with the full, terrible strength of a man.

  "Please, Master!" I cried. "Do not beat me! I cannot stand pain! You do not understand! I am not a common girl! It hurts me! I am too delicate to be beaten!"

  I heard the men and girls about laughing. I hung by the wrists, miserable. My thigh felt as though it were burning. Tears streamed from my eyes. I coughed, and could not breathe. I heard the voice of Rask of Treve. "To begin," he was saying, "you will receive one stroke for each letter of the word 'Liar', then one stroke for each letter of the word 'Thief', and then a stroke for each letter of the word 'Traitress'. You will count the strokes."

  I sobbed.

  "Count," commanded Rask of Treve.

  "I am illiterate," I wept. "I do not know how many to count!"

  "There are four characters in the first expression," said Inge.

  I looked at her with horror. I had not seen her until now. I did not want her to see me being beaten. I saw, too, now, for the first time, that Rena, too, stood nearby. I did not want them to see me being beaten.

  "You made a great fuss when you were branded," said Inge.

  "That is certainly true," agreed Rena.

  "Count," commanded Rask of Treve.

  "One!" I cried out in misery.

  Suddenly my back exploded. I screamed but there was no sound. There seemed no breath in my body. And then there was only pain, and I almost lost consciousness. I hung by the wrists. There had been the terrible sound of the leather, and then the pain.

  I could not stand it.

  "Count!" I heard.

  "No, no!" I cried.

  "Count," urged Inge, "or it will go hard with you."

  "Count," pressed Rena. "Count! The lash will not lower your value," she said. "The straps are too broad. They only punish."

  "Two," I wept.

  Again the leather fell and I gasped and twisted, hanging burning from the pole.

  "Count!" said Rask of Treve.

  "I cannot," I wept. "I cannot."

  "Three," said Ute. "I will count for her."

  The lash fell again.

  "Four," said Ute.

  Twice in my beating I lost consciousness, and twice I was revived, chilled water thrown on me.

  At last the strokes had been counted. I hung, my head down, helpless.

  "Now," said Rask of Treve, "I shall beat you until it pleases me to stop."

  Ten more strokes he gave to the helpless slave girl, who twice more lost consciousness, and twice more was awakened to the drenching of cold water. And then, as she scarcely understood, hanging half conscious in the fires of her pain, she heard him say, "Cut her down."

  The binding fiber was removed from her wrists but her hands, that she might not tear at her brands, were snapped behind her back in slave bracelets. Then, by the hair, she stumbling, scarcely able to stand, he dragged her to the small, square iron box which sat near the whipping pole, and thrust her within.

  Crouching inside the box, I saw the door shut, and heard the two heavy, flat bolts sliding into place. I then heard the click of two padlocks, securing them in place.

  I was locked inside. I could see a tiny slit of the outside through the aperture in the iron door, about a half an inch in height and seven inches in width. There was a somewhat larger opening at the foot of the door, about two inches in height and a foot wide. The box itself was square, with dimensions of perhaps one yard square. It was hot, and dark.

  I remembered that a slave girl, on my first day in the camp of Rask of Treve, had warned me, that if I lied or stole, I would be beaten and put in the slave box.

  I moaned and fell to my side, my knees drawn up under my chin, my hands braceleted behind me. My thigh burned terribly, from the branding, and my back and the back of my legs still screamed from the cruel flames of the leather lash. Elinor Brinton, of Park Avenue, had been branded as a liar, a thief and a traitress, and a bold tarnsman, from a distant world, her master, had put into her flesh, insolently, the mark of his own city. The girl in the slave box was under no delusion as to who it was who owned her. He had collared her, and, with a hot iron, had placed in her flesh his brand.

  In the slave box, she fell unconscious. But that night, cold, she awakened, still in pain. Outside, she heard the sounds of pleasure and feasting, that celebration called in honor of the capturing of two young girls, who had fled from undesired companionships, which had been arranged by their parents.

  * * * *

  I remained days in the slave box. The door was opened, when I was braceleted, only to feed and water me. I was not allowed to stretch my body. On the fifth day the bracelets were removed, but I was kept in the box. My brands had now healed. But the box itself, its heat, its darkness, its tiny dimensions, worked their tortures in me.

  In the first days, braceleted, I screamed and kicked, and begged to be released. After my bracelets were removed, and the food then, and water, would only be thrust through the hole under the tiny iron door, I pounded, and screamed, and scratched at the inside of the box. I thrust my fingers through the tiny aperture and cried out for mercy. I feared I would go insane. Ute would feed me, and fill my water pan, but she would not speak to me. Once, however, she did say to me, "You will be freed when your master wishes it, not before." Once Inge came by, to taunt me. "Rask of Treve has forgotten you," she said. Rena, too, accompanied Inge. "Yes," she laughed, "he has forgotten you. He has forgotten you!"

  On the tenth day, instead of the pan of bread, with the water, Ute thrust a different pan under the door. I screamed. Tiny things, with tiny sounds, moved, crawling over and about one another in it. I screamed again, and thrust it back out. It had been filled with the fat, loathsome green insects which, in the Ka-la-na thicket, Ute had told me were edible. Indeed, she had eaten them. "They are nourishing," she had said. I screamed hysterically, pounding at the sides of the slave box. The second day, too, I thrust the pan away, almost vomiting. I saw Ute, through the slit, take one of the insects and bite it in two, eating it. Then she turned away. I resolved to starve myself. The third day, almost vomiting, I ate five of them. They, such insects, and water, were my food for the remainder of my time in the tiny slave box. I would spend hours at the slit in the door, hoping to see someone walk by. I would call to them, but they would not answer, for one does not converse with a girl in the slave box. Then I was happy, even, to see someone pass by, or birds alight on the grass and peck for seeds. I spent eighteen days in the slave box.

  On the night of the eighteenth day, Ute, with Inge and Rena, crouched before the box.

  "Does El-in-or, the slave, wish to leave the box?" asked Ute.

  On my knees in the box, my eyes at the opening, frightened, my fingers on the slit, I whispered, "Yes, El-in-or, the slave, wishes to leave the box."

  "Does El-in-or, the slave, beg to leave the box?" asked Ute.

  "Yes, yes!" I wept. "El-in-or, the slave, begs to leave the box!"

  "Release the slave," said Ute, to Inge and Rena.

  Elinor Brinton heard the padlocks unlocked. She heard the flat, heavy bolts slide back. She saw the small door swing open.

  On her hands and knees, painfully, inch by inch, she crawled from the box. She then collapsed to the grass.

  "Wash the slave," said Ute, with disgust, to Inge and Rena. I screamed with pain as Inge and Rena stretched out my body, and then, with brushes and water, almost vomiting, they cleaned me.

  After Inge and Rena had finished their work, even to the cleaning of my hair,
a guard, summoned, not much pleased, carried me, helpless and in pain, back to the shed for female work slaves. There Ute, with Inge and Rena, fed me simple broths, which I gratefully drank. The next day, as Ute commanded, I remained in the shed, food and water being brought to me by Inge and Rena. On the following day I was returned to work. My first task was to clean the slave box, to rid it of its filth. After I had done this, naked, and had washed my body and hair thoroughly, I was again given the tunic of a work slave. I found it a very precious garment. I worked at a variety of tasks that day. Late in the afternoon, I was sent outside, leashed again with Techne, to pick ram-berries. I did not steal berries from her, nor did I eat any.

  * * * *

  I was regarded in the camp with contempt and amusement. Not only were my ears pierced, but now, in my flesh, I wore penalty brands.

  Once, two weeks after my release from the slave box, Rask of Treve passed near me, in the company of Verna, the panther girl.

  I fell to my knees immediately, and put my head to the ground.

  I was merely a slave girl who had been punished, and would be again, if need be.

  They passed me.

  Neither of them noticed me.

  One day became another in the secret war camp of Rask of Treve.

  The tarnsmen, in their flights, did not have much luck, and many were the times when they returned, their saddle packs empty, their saddles bare of helpless beauties lashed across them.

  Similarly, one day was much as another for Elinor Brinton, the female work slave in the camp of Rask of Treve. She rose at dawn and, until dusk, with her work companions, performed her repetitive, servile tasks. After the night feeding, she, with her work companions, would be ordered to the slave shed, where they would be locked for the night, only to be summoned again in the morning, ordered from the shed, for another round of their labors, tasks fit for such as they, female work slaves.

  I learned to iron and sew, and to cook and clean. Verna could not have done these things. She hunted, and held converse with men.

  It could perhaps be mentioned that such work, cooking, cleaning and laundering, and such, is commonly regarded as being beneath even free women, particularly those of high caste. In the high cylinders, in Gorean cities, there are often public slaves who tend the central kitchens in cylinders, care for the children, but may not instruct them, and, for a tiny fee to the city, clean compartments and do laundering. Thus even families who cannot afford to own and feed a slave often have the use of several such unfortunate girls, commonly captured from hostile cities. Free women often treat such girls with great cruelty, and the mere word of a free woman, that she is displeased with the girl's work, is enough to have the girl beaten. The girls strive zealously in their work to please the free women. Such girls, also, have a low use-rent, payable to the city, should young males wish to partake of their pleasures. Here again, the mere word of the free person, that he is not completely pleased, is enough to earn the miserable girl a severe beating. Accordingly, she struggles to please him with all her might. It is not pleasant, I fear, to be a public slave. The Gorean free woman, often, does only what work she chooses. If she does not wish to prepare a meal, she and her companion may go to the public tables, or, should they wish, order a girl to bring them food from the central kitchens.

  But I found, perhaps surprisingly, that I did not much mind the work of the female work slave. I recognized that it was essential, that it had to be done. I recognized further that there was something farcical in the thought of the Gorean male lending his hand to such small, unimportant work. It would have been like the larl with a broom. I could well imagine the accommodating, solicitous males of Earth in aprons, puttering about with vacuum cleaners and boxes of detergent, but I could not imagine it of the Gorean male. He is so different from the males of Earth, so powerful, so strong, so uncompromised, so masculine. Before him it is hard for a female not to know herself as a female, and, in knowing this, recognizing herself as smaller and weaker, and thus to be given the tasks he does not care to perform.

  Similarly the Gorean free woman does not seem appropriately suited to menial tasks. She is too free, too proud. It is difficult for a collared slave girl even to look into the eyes of such a person. Thus, who is to do such work? The answer seems obvious, that it will be done by the slaves. The small, light, unpleasant work will be done by the female slave; the large, heavy, unpleasant work by the draft animal, or the male slave. Why should free persons do such tasks? They have slaves for such work. And I well knew myself to be a slave. It was thus natural that it should be I, and my sisters in bondage, who performed such labors. How else could it have been?

  "Hurry, Slave! Hurry in your work!" cried Ute.

  I did so.

  I did my work quietly, and seldom spoke to the other girls, nor did they much speak to me. Though I often worked with them, I was, it seemed, always alone. When they sang at their work, or enjoyed laughter and sport, I did not sing, nor did I laugh, nor join them in their pleasures. I worked well. I was, I expect, one of Ute's best workers. Sometimes, when I would finish my work, I would help the other girls with theirs.

  Once, when I was helping Inge, she said to me, "I thought you were too delicate to be beaten."

  "I was mistaken," I said.

  She laughed.

  I no longer had an interest in lying or cheating, or shirking my work. I suppose, in part, it was that I was afraid of being punished. Surely I had not, and could not, forget the iron nor the whip's hot kiss. I much feared them. I could no longer even look on a slave whip without a feeling of terror, for I understood now the pain of its meaning, and what it might do to me. If a guard even lifted one, I would cringe. I would obey, and with promptness! Do not scorn me, until you yourself have felt the iron and the lash. But, too, somehow, perhaps unaccountably, lying and stealing now seemed to me small, and trivial, too petty to perform. I no longer regarded such behavior as clever, but now, rather, as unworthy or stupid, whether one was caught or not. I had thought much in the slave box. I was not much pleased with how I had found myself to be. I knew that my body was a slave body, and that it was owned, and that it stood in constant jeopardy of fierce, swift punishment by a strong master, whether it might deserve that punishment or not. But, too, I felt that I had, according to Gorean justice, well earned my beating and my branding, and my torturous confinement in the slave box. I did not wish again to earn such punishment, not simply because I feared it, but because it seemed to me unworthy that I should have done the things for which I was punished. In the slave box, alone with myself, I discovered I did not wish to be the sort of person I had been. I had not been pleased to be locked in the box alone with myself, with such a person, forced there to face her and realize that she was your own self.

  "Pierced-ear Girl!" cried a man. "Kneel!"

  I did so.

  With his foot, he thrust me from his path, laughing, and continued on his way.

  Sometimes the other girls would trip me when I was carrying burdens, or dirty the work which I had done, that I must do it over.

  Once two warriors, for a joke, tied my ankles together and suspended me, upside down, from the whipping pole, spinning me about, and back, until I vomited and cried out for mercy. Laughing they then left, and Ute, with Rena, released me.

  "They are cruel," said Ute.

  I wept, and kissed her feet.

  I found that I no longer desired to serve in the evening, even should there be feasting. I wanted only my work, and to be left alone. In the evening, I wanted only the silence and darkness of the shed, with its padlocked door.

  In my flesh I wore penalty brands.

  "Let El-in-or be it!" cried Ute, when the girls were playing tag.

  "No," they cried.

  "Do it," said Ute.

  "Please, Ute," I begged, "let me go to the shed."

  "Very well," said Ute.

  And I went back to the shed.

  The contempt and amusement which greeted me in the camp made me fo
rm within myself a core of hardness. I became withdrawn. I no longer desired to serve in the evening, should there be feasting. I wanted only my work, and the silence and darkness of the shed, with its padlocked door.

  I wanted to be alone in the shed, behind the locked door.

  There was only one thing left to me, in which I might take pride, that I was not as other women. No matter what brands might be fixed in my flesh, nor what the leather might do to my back or the tiny dimensions of the slave box to my body, I knew I did not have their weaknesses. I recalled the circle of the dance in the northern forest, and how even Verna, the proud Verna, had, beside herself with need, writhed helplessly beneath the bright moons of Gor, a female. How I had then despised her, and the others, so helpless and vulnerable and female! How weak they were! How pleased I was that I was not as they. Gradually, in me, there built up a compensating hatred to counter my shame, and the brands that proclaimed me among the most unworthy and miserable of slaves. I began to hate human beings. I was better than they. I would be better than they. I began to do my work with great efficiency and promptness, better than the other girls. I became exact in my speech, and, though I did not much express myself, quite critical of others. In spite of my brands, I would be superior to them all. I began to wear a new morality with a smugness. I became arrogant in my virtue, to the irritation of the other girls, but I did not care, for I was better than they. I would not now lie or cheat or steal, of course, but not now because I did not care for that sort of thing, or did not wish to behave in such a fashion, but primarily because I was not the sort of person who would do that sort of thing. It was beneath me. I was too good to behave in such a fashion. Virtue, I discovered, is one way in which a human being may attempt to diminish and insult others. I used the blade of cooperativeness, of virtue, of diligence, of punctuality to proclaim myself better than the others, all of them. Mostly I prided myself on my moral superiority as a woman, above the self-indulgent, contaminating weaknesses of their piteous needs. I was not as they.