Smugglers of Gor

by John Norman

  As the Ahn passed, I grew more and more confident.

  I was sure I was now well beyond the range of the larls. And the larls, of course, nearer Shipcamp, roam about, and may, or may not, pick up a scent. They are not put on a scent, as might be a sleen. I had little fear of sleen as there were few in camp, and I had put my blanket to the laundering, so they would have no scent to follow.

  How little I knew of sleen!

  I had fled camp, of course, moving west, beyond the dock, along the northern bank of the Alexandra. At some point, I knew, to move south, I must cross the Alexandra. I hoped to find a small boat, and make use of it. I might steal one near a river village. If necessary, I might cling to a log and float with the current, or construct a small raft of branches, bound together with wild Tur-Pah vines. There was little to fear from river tharlarion at this latitude. Had I been on my former world, I supposed one might conveniently petition aid from some worthy, understanding fellow, a kindly sort who would be sympathetic to my situation, and might be depended upon to assist a woman in need. On this world, however, I was not sanguine about this possibility. These were not men of Earth, conditioned for years, for political purposes, into devirilized, malleable weaklings, males taught to deny their blood, taught to pride themselves on their lack of manhood. What was wrong with them? Did they not understand what was being done to them, by those who bore them no good will? Could they not hear the voices of their own blood? But males here were not males of Earth. Males here were Gorean. I would not be coddled, shielded, protected, and concealed; my flight would not be abetted. I would be looked upon as what I was, a loose animal, a possibly desirable, loose animal, to be taken in hand and dealt with as strong men might please.

  I shuddered, and better hitched up the disrobing loop at my left shoulder.

  I looked about.

  I heard a snuffling, and grunting, to one side, and stopped. There were three small tarsks there, rooting, only a few paces away. Some tarsks are extremely large, so large that they are sometimes hunted in the open plains with lances, from tarnback, but these were no larger than verr. The boar can be dangerous, with its short temper and curved, slashing tusks, but I saw no boar here, and, in any event, they are most dangerous in the spring, when marking out territory. They were rooting, of course, and this meant food. I waited for a time, and then, when they had drifted on, rooting elsewhere, investigated their rooting place, with its turned, gouged ground. I found some small, tuberous roots which had been missed, or rejected. I did not know what they were, but from the texture of the root and its starchiness, I would have supposed some tiny variety of wild Sul. I also found another root, and carelessly bit into it, which turned out to be a most serious, even hideous, mistake, unless, perhaps, one were on the brink of dying of starvation. It was not poisonous, of course, but one could easily conceive of it being regarded as such. In a loose sense, it was edible. It had been left by the tarsks, and this was not surprising. Its bitterness was unbelievable. Recoiling, dismayed, weeping with misery, I spat it out, and then, hacking and coughing, half retching, continued to spit away whatever residue I could. I spat again and again into the ground. I knew well what it was, for I had encountered a fluid, brewed from it, long ago, in my training. I had been knelt, my hands tied behind me. Then I had cried out in pain, for my head, by the hair, had been jerked back, far back, by a guard. I saw the ceiling above me. Without releasing my hair, but keeping my head in place by means of it, he then, with his free hand, pinched shut my nostrils. I had then sensed a second guard, approaching. As he neared, and then loomed over me, I saw he carried a metal, narrow-spouted vessel. In a moment, I began to gasp. Only through my mouth could I breathe. I tried to squirm, and shake my head, but I was held in place. Then, as I opened my mouth widely, gasping, fighting for breath, I felt the spout of the metal vessel in my mouth. I could not fully close my mouth because of it. I took a deep breath, sucking the air into my lungs. Then, before I could breathe again, the vessel was tipped, and fluid began to flood into my mouth, a repellant, gross, revolting fluid, and it filled my mouth like a pool. Held as I was, I could not rid myself of it. I needed air. My head hurt, from the strain on my tightly grasped hair. My wrists fought the cords that held them. In my oral cavity, bitter and reeking, brimming it, reposed that small, foul pool, like a tiny lake of bitter, odious filth. I wanted to force it from my mouth, but could not do so. I had no air with which to expel it. I feared I might suffocate. My lungs cried out for air. I must breathe, but to do so the beverage must first be swallowed. I did so. No, I had not forgotten slave wine. It is brewed from the sip root. Relia had told me that in the vast grasslands far to the east, the Barrens, the white slaves of red masters must chew and swallow the root raw. I spat again into the dirt. We are to be bred, of course, only as, and when, and if, the masters please. Our bodies are not our own; they are the masters’. I was then allowed to rise and return to the training room. My hands, tied behind me, would not be unbound for over an Ahn. We must not be allowed to rid ourselves of the fluid. The taste was with me for more than a day. Slave wine has been developed by the green caste, the caste of Physicians, one of the five high castes of Gor, the others being the Initiates, the Builders, the Scribes, and the Warriors. The green caste has also produced the “releaser,” as it is called, which is reputedly delicious. It removes the effects of slave wine. When administered the “releaser,” a girl may expect to be hooded and sent to the breeding stalls. Needless to say, free women are not subjected to the hateful and disgusting, the contemptible and demeaning, miseries of slave wine. Related potions which might be quaffed by free women, if they should choose to do so, for they are free, are reputedly mild and flavorful, as would be suited to their status. They, of course, are not animals to be bred or not bred as masters might choose. They are free. They are not owned. They are not slaves.

  I continued on.

  The ground became softer, and spongy, and water was about my feet. Wet grass, coarse, cut at my ankles.

  The forest floor is far from uniform. It has its thousand rises and falls, its heights and valleys, its fallen timbers and rotting wood, its scarred, blackened trunks and scorched, lightning-fired wastes, its scattered boulders, its bare places, its flowered meadows and blossoming thickets, its crags and cliffs, its rills, and streams and rivers, its rock-cupped ponds, its galleries of tall trees with quiet aisles of leaves between them, its jumbled barriers of nigh-impenetrable brush, its innumerable geodesics, and textures. There are countries within it.

  There had been much rain of late.

  I hoped it might rain again, as that would wash scent away, clearing it from rocks and soil, obliterating trails.

  I had no idea where I was, save that I was clearly north of the Alexandra.

  I saw a tabuk, small, graceful, single-horned, here in the woods brown pelted, startled, lift its head from a water-filled declivity, and dart away. They are lovely animals, round-eyed, and alert. Usually there is more than one about.

  It was now late afternoon, and still warm.

  I climbed to a dry place, a small clearing amongst the trees, sat down, and, with grass, dried my feet and calves. I was weary, and hungry. I had been gone for Ahn. I would now be far from the range of the larls. I would rest for a moment, and then be, again, on my way. Nearby, in the grass, was a tangle of thick, stout, leafy vines, on several of which were large, pod-like growths. I had seen nothing like them in the vicinity of either Tarncamp or Shipcamp. I did not care for the look of them, and so I moved a bit away. I then lay down. I pulled the tunic down about my thighs, though there were none about to see. I knew masters sometimes enjoyed looking on sleeping slaves. I supposed they found them beautiful. I wondered if we were beautiful. I supposed some of us were. I wondered if I were. I did know that I had been brought to Gor, and collared.

  I awakened suddenly, screaming, unable to separate my ankles, which seemed fastened together by some thick, living, coiling, fibrous material. And I felt it moving more about my legs. Then I
shrieked with pain. “Ost!” I thought. But there were no osts here, surely, not here. The ost did not range this far north. If there were osts here they would be caged pets, or assassination devices. I looked down, with horror. Fastened in my right calf were two fibrous, fanglike thorns. These had been concealed within the pod, which had opened. I did not know if it had been attracted to me by heat, motion, or the scent of blood. I screamed, and tried to rise, and fell. More of the snakelike tendrils rustled toward me. I could see, about the two thorns deep in my calf, tiny rings of blood. My blood, I understood, was being drawn into the plant. I could see the moving darkness within the thorns. Other pods had now turned in my direction. I saw another tendril slithering toward me.

  I screamed.

  The growth was alive, not as a plant is alive, but as a nest of disturbed, excited snakes might be alive. There was a fierce rustling to my right, reflecting the agitation of the growth. A sucking, hissing, popping sound came from the pod, whose two thorns, fanglike, were deep in my leg. It trembled. It shook. It was like a tiny, fiercely respiring lung, a small pump, greedy and blind, a living engine without eyes or awareness, jerking and throbbing, fastened in my flesh, drawing blood from my body. I rolled away, to my left, and sat up, and tore the thorns from my leg, throwing them, and their pod and vine away. The coils on my ankles drew tighter, and I rolled to my belly and, scratching at the ground, digging into it with my fingers, dragged myself away, inch by inch, pulling at the vines until they were taut. I was sure the thing was a plant and not a free-moving animal. It would live primarily by photosynthesis, and the water and minerals it could extract from the soil. I had pulled the vines partly from the soil, perhaps a foot or so, when, suddenly, they fell away. In such a form of life certain mechanisms had doubtless been selected for. The behaviors of agitation and attack had doubtless been selected for, but so, too, I gathered, triggered by tensions likely to accompany or precede uprooting, had been a release and withdrawal. It was almost as though the plant wished to feed but not at the cost of its own demise. Doubtless these things were random at one time, but there are differences amongst behaviors; some are in the best interest of the organism, and others not. Then, statistically, over time, behaviors in the best interest of the organism, its health, longevity, replication, and survival, would tend to be favored. I slid back, away, further, from the plant. The coils which had looped about my ankles, and constricted there, withdrew into the tangle. Other tendrils stretched toward me, but, like restless, disappointed, anchored snakes, could move no further than their length, some a few feet, others some yards. I stood up, and backed away, my leg bleeding. I looked back at the restless tangle of growth, trembled, felt suddenly ill, and threw up. Fortunately, having found the thick tangle, perhaps a foot deep and some yards in width, ugly, and repellant, I had chosen to wrest away from it, but, it seemed, not far enough. Had I been closer to the tangle I do not doubt but what I would have been drawn into it, been covered by it, and, wrapped in its coils, drained of blood, and whatever other life fluids from which the growth might derive nourishment. Though I had never seen a life form of its sort before, I had little doubt what it must be. No wonder I had seen none about Tarncamp, or Shipcamp. They were such as would be cleared away from inhabited areas. I shuddered. There are many dire fates to which a displeasing slave might be subjected. One often hears of two. She might be fed alive to ravenous sleen; and sometimes she might be stripped, bound, and cast alive to leech plants. These things I had encountered were, I did not doubt, leech plants. Now I understood, better than before, why slave girls strive to be pleasing, fully pleasing, and as the slaves they are, to their masters. Yet, as I understood it, at least from my instructresses, free women do not understand, really, why slaves strive to be pleasing. Free women tend to think it is because of fear, fear of the switch or whip, of close chains, of unpleasant bindings, of restricted rations, heavy labors, enforced public nudity, and such. To be sure, one does fear such things, and they are at the disposal of the master. Else we would not be slaves. But the real reason the slave strives to be pleasing, fully pleasing, to her master, is because he is her master and she is a slave. It is profoundly rewarding to her to be a slave, to be owned, dominated, and mastered. She knows she has no choice in such matters but to be what she, in her deepest heart, most desires to be, a slave.

  Why is it that we make such excellent slaves? Surely it is because it is what we want to be, and are.

  Certainly I knew I wanted to kneel, and be owned, and had known this even from my former world. Being brought to Gor was thus for me, in its way, more than a dream come true; it was a restoration of human biological reality, a recovery of a rightfulness of nature, a returning of me to the path of my heart, a bringing of me to a world in which I would have no choice but to be myself. Here, I found myself at the feet of men, where I belonged; here I knew my identity as a female.

  I touched my collar.

  I was not displeased to be a slave.

  No, no, I thought! I am a woman of Earth! I must repudiate my heart! I have been taught so! Should not biology crumble before political injunctions? What rights has she before rules, invented to thwart and subvert her? Dismiss nature. What has she to justify herself, save reality, blood, and need? I knew what I had been taught, in a thousand ways, a thousand times. Why had it seemed to me so false, and so alien, even on my former dismal, unhappy, polluted, awry world? What were its motivations, what ends did it seek, whose programs was it intended to promote? Surely not mine, surely none I recognized or found congenial. Is it appropriate that a culture be founded on division, and hate? Nature denied is nature poisoned. The weather, the tides, the circulation of the blood are without ideology; they are themselves, clean, innocent, and honest.

  Would it be so wrong, I wondered, for humans, too, to be themselves?

  It was now late in the afternoon.

  I was no longer sure how far I might be from Shipcamp, and the Alexandra.

  Let the great ship sail. I would be far away. I would be chained in no hold; I would not be penned like a verr.

  I looked back at the thick tangle of vines and pods, which I was sure was a thick stand of leech plants.

  I understood that it might be the fate of a displeasing slave to find herself cast, naked and bound, to such hungry, alert growths.

  And I was suddenly terrified to realize that I, in my flight, might be accounted just such a displeasing slave.

  No matter.

  I would not be recaptured.

  I was clever. I would not permit it.

  I must hurry on.

  Yet I was not eager to travel through the night.

  What if, in the darkness, I might inadvertently stumble into another stand of such hungry, alert growths?

  I was hungry, but saw nothing about to eat.

  It seemed dark now, for the time of day. The wind was rising, and some leaves fell from the nearby branches. It was time, at Shipcamp, that the slaves of Kennel Five would be given their warm slave gruel, before they would be returned to their chains in the low, heavy enclosure. Usually we were permitted to feed ourselves, but sometimes we must eat on all fours, head down, not using our hands. This is useful in reminding a girl that she is a slave. Often enough we are given bread and fruit. In some kennels the girls, kneeling, feed from a trough, not using their hands, which are often tied behind them, but not in our kennel, Kennel Five. My training group had occasionally been put to a trough for our feeding. Once, to help us keep in mind what we were, we shared the trough with tarsks. Our common drink was water. Private slaves, I understand, fare much better. Some are the pets of their masters, but the whip is always on its peg. One hopes to keep it there. Occasionally we are given a handful of slave pellets. I do not know what is in them, but they are nourishing. Our diet, our exercises, our rest periods, and such, are carefully regulated, as would be expected, given that we are stock. Attention is given to our health, vitality, and desirability. Masters concern themselves with our weight, and figures, even t
o scales and measures. We each have our “block measurements,” and are expected to keep closely to them. We are to be such that we could be brought responsibly, and plausibly, to the block, at any time, not that we are to be sold but that we are to be such as are obviously vendible. We are to keep ourselves clean and well-groomed. Our posture, our carriage, and our figures are to be such as would be likely to inspire envy and hatred in a free woman. Our bodies are commonly much exposed, and this makes it imperative to carry them well. Whereas there is a considerable variety in the figures of slaves, with respect to the presence or absence of a pound here and there, there are few, if any, obese slaves. We are not free women, who may be as unclean, unkempt, disgusting, and fat as they wish. Indeed, it is one of the transitions faced by the free woman reduced to bondage, that she must now, tunicked, even camisked, certainly well displayed, become exciting, attractive, and desirable. She might now, after all, be marketed. To be slovenly in a collar is not acceptable. The master will not stand for it. One might also note, in passing, that a free woman can be loud, intrusive, forward, unpleasant, ill-tempered, and so on. Such things are her prerogative. The slave, on the other hand, is to be deferent and obedient. Amongst free persons she commonly kneels. When she speaks, if she is permitted to do so, she will commonly speak softly and clearly. Her diction is to be excellent. She is not a free woman. Unless her need is on her, her presence, while obvious and lovely, is unobtrusive. She is to remember that she is her master’s animal. As a slave, she is expected to behave as a slave. On the other hand, let us suppose, for a moment, she is alone with her master. Her behavior then is likely to be whatever the master might wish. She might behave as before, should it be his wish, as it may be, but, too, if he wishes, he might snap his fingers, speak a simple word, point to the floor, or such, and he will have at his disposal something seemingly quite different, something free women can only enviously suspect, to their rage, a lascivious, needful pleasure object, perhaps indistinguishable from a paga girl or a brothel slut, something of the sort for which men bid heatedly. And it is at its own slave ring!