by John Norman
"Sweetness be unto you," said the fellow.
"Did you not realize the danger in which you stood?" I asked. "You could have been killed."
"It is fortunate, then, that you intervened," he said.
"Are you so brave," I asked, "that you faced the beast so calmly?"
"What is life? What is death?" he asked. "Both are unimportant."
I looked at the fellow, puzzled. Then I looked, too, to the others, standing about. I saw now they wore gray dresses, probably their only garments. The hems of these dresses fell between their knees and their ankles. Men, they appeared ungainly and foolish in these garments. Their shoulders were slumped. Their eyes were spiritless and empty. Rags were bound about their feet. I saw, however, to my interest, that two of them now held feathered lances.
I looked again to the fellow who had been most threatened by the beast.
"Sweetness be unto you," he said, smiling.
I saw then that he had not been brave. It had been only that he had little to live for. Indeed, I wondered if he had been courting destruction. He had not even raised his shovel to defend himself.
"Who are you?" I asked these fellows.
"We are joyful dung," said one of the fellows, "enriching and beautifying the earth."
"We are sparkles on the water, making the streams pretty," said another.
"We are flowers growing in the fields," said another.
"We are nice," said another.
"We are good," said another.
I then again regarded he who seemed to be foremost among them, he who had called himself Pumpkin.
"You are leader here?" I asked.
"No, no!" he said. "We are all the same. We are sames! We are not not-the-sames!" In this moment he had showed emotion, fear. He moved back, putting himself with the others.
I regarded them.
"We are all equal," he said. "We are all the same."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"We must be equal," he said. "It is the Teaching."
"Is the Teaching true?" I asked.
"Yes," said the man.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"It is the test of truth," he said.
"How do you know?" I asked.
"It is in the Teaching," he said.
"Your Teaching, then," I said, "is a circle, unsupported, floating in the air."
"The Teaching does not need support," said the fellow. "It is in and of itself. It is a golden circle, self-sustained and eternal."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"It is in the Teaching itself," said a fellow.
"What of your reason?" I asked. "Do you have any use for it?"
"Reason is very precious," said a fellow.
"Properly understood and employed it is fully compatible with the Teaching, and, in its highest office, exists to serve the Teaching."
"What, then, of the evidence of your senses?" I asked.
"The senses are notoriously untrustworthy," said one of the fellows.
"What in the senses might seem to confirm the Teaching may be kept," said one of them. "What might, mistakenly, seem incompatible with the Teaching is to be disregarded."
"What arguments, or what sorts of evidence, if it could be produced," I asked, "might you take as indicating the falsity of the Teaching?"
"Nothing is to be permitted to indicate the falsity of the Teaching," said the fellow who had been foremost among them.
"That is in the Teaching," explained another one of them.
"A teaching which cannot be disconfirmed cannot be confirmed, either," I said. "A teaching which cannot, even in theory, be disconfirmed is not true, but empty. If the world cannot speak to it, it does not speak of the world. It speaks of nothing. It is babble, twaddle as vacant as it is vain and inane."
"These are deep matters," said the fellow I had taken to be their leader. "As they are not in the Teaching, we need not concern ourselves with them."
"Are you happy?" I asked. Verbal formulas, even vacuous ones, like music or medicine, I knew, might have empirical effects. So, too, of course, might have truncheons and green fruit.
"Oh, yes," said the first fellow quickly. "We are wondrously happy."
"Yes," said several of the others.
"Sweetness be unto you," said another.
"You do not seem happy," I said. I had seldom seen a more tedious, bedraggled, limp set of organisms.
"We are happy," insisted one of them.
"True happiness," said another, "is keeping the Teaching."
I drew forth my blade, suddenly, and drew it back, as though to slash at the foremost fellow. He lifted his head and turned his neck toward me. "Peace, and light, and tranquillity, and contentment and goodness, be unto you," he said.
"Interesting," I said, thrusting the blade back in my scabbard.
"Death holds few terrors for those who have never known life," said Grunt.
"What is life? What is death?" asked the fellow. "Both are unimportant."
"If you do not know what they are," I said, "perhaps you should not prejudge the issue of their importance."
I looked over to the two fellows who held the feathered lances. "Where did you find those lances?" I asked.
"In the grass," said one of them. "They were lost in the battle."
"Was it your intention to use them, to defend yourselves from the beast?" I asked.
"No," said the fellow. "Of course not!"
"You would prefer to be eaten?" I asked.
"Resistance is not permitted," said the fellow.
"Fighting is against the Teaching," said the other fellow, he with the second lance.
"We abhor violence," added another.
"You lifted the lances," I said. "What were you going to do with them?"
"We thought you might wish to fight the beast," said one. "Thusly, in that instance, we would have tendered you a lance."
"And for whom," I asked, "was the second lance?"
"For the beast," said the fellow with the first lance.
"We would not have wanted to anger it," said the fellow with the second lance.
"You would let others do your fighting for you," I asked, "and you would have abided the outcome?"
"Yes," said the fellow with the first lance. "Not all of us are as noble and brave as Pumpkin."
"Who are these people?" I asked Grunt.
"They are Waniyanpi," said Grunt. "They have the values of cowards, and of idiots and vegetables."
The coffle, by now, had approached. I noted that none of the Waniyanpi lifted their eyes to assess the scantily clad loveliness of Grunt's chained properties.
I again regarded Pumpkin who seemed, despite his denial, first among them.
"To whom do you belong?" I asked.
"We belong to Kaiila," said Pumpkin.
"You are far from home," I said.
"Yes," said Pumpkin.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"We have been brought here to cleanse the field," he said. "We are to bury the dead and dismantle and burn the wagons, disposing likewise of similar debris."
"You must have been marched here long before the battle," I said.
"Yes," said Pumpkin.
"Did you see the battle?" I asked.
"No," said Pumpkin. "We were forced to lie on our stomachs, with our eyes closed, our limbs held as though bound, watched over by a boy."
"To guard you?" I asked.
"No, to protect us from animals," said Pumpkin.
"To the west," I said, "among the other wagons, there is a part of a body."
"We will find it," said Pumpkin.
"The field is mostly cleared," said Grunt. "There must have been other groups of Waniyanpi here, as well."
"That is true," said Pumpkin.
"Are they still about?" asked Grunt, nervously.
"I do not know," said Pumpkin. The object of Grunt's concern, potent as it was, did not occur to me at the time.
"How many of the lar
ge wagons, such as those to the west, were there?" I asked.
"Something over one hundred of them," said Pumpkin.
"How many of these smaller, squarish wagons, such as this one, were there?" I asked, indicating the remains of the nearest wagon, one of those which had been with the mercenary column.
"Seventeen," said Pumpkin.
This information pleased me. There had been seventeen such wagons with the original column. They were, thus, all accounted for. The beasts which had inhabited them, presumably one to a wagon, given the territoriality and irritability of the Kur, presumably would then have been afoot. Most then, presumably, might have been slain.
"How many graves have you, and the other Waniyanpi, dug?" I asked.
"Over one thousand," he said.
I whistled. The losses had been high, indeed.
"And you must understand," said Grunt, "the savages clear the field of their own dead."
For a moment I was stunned.
"It was a rout, and a massacre," said Grunt. "That much we learned from Corn Stalks."
"How many of the graves," I asked Pumpkin, "were those of settlers, those from the large wagons?"
"Something over four hundred," said Pumpkin. He looked back to the others for corroboration.
"Yes," said more than one.
"The settlers must have been wiped out, almost to a man," said Grunt.
I nodded. The first attack had presumably taken place there, on that part of the column. Too, they would have been less able, presumably, to defend themselves than the soldiers.
"Something in the neighborhood of six hundred soldiers then fell," said Grunt.
"Yes," said Pumpkin.
"Yes," said another of the fellows behind him.
"That is extremely interesting," I said to Grunt. "It would seem to follow that some four hundred of the soldiers escaped."
"There were a thousand then," he said.
"That was my conjecture, something like that," I said, "when I saw the column, in the vicinity of Kailiauk."
"That they did not fall on the field does not mean that they did not fall," said Grunt. "They may have been pursued and slain for pasangs across the prairie."
"The wagons seem to have been muchly looted," I said. "Our friends may have paused for plunder. Too, I do not know if their style of warfare is well fitted to attack a defensive column, orderly and rallied, on its guard."
Grunt shrugged. "I do not know," he said.
"Beasts," I said to Pumpkin, "such as that which threatened you, how many of them, if any, did you bury or find dead?"
"Nine," said Pumpkin. "We did not bury them, as they are not human."
I struck my thigh in frustration.
"Where are these bodies?" I asked. I wished to determine if Kog and Sardak were among the fallen.
"We do not know," said Pumpkin. "The Fleer put ropes on them and dragged them away, into the fields."
"I do not think they knew what else to do with them," said one of the fellows.
I was angry. I knew of one Kur who had survived, and now it seemed clear that as many as eight might have escaped from the savages. Indeed, many savages, for medicine reasons, might have been reluctant to attack them, as they did not appear to be beings of a sort with which they were familiar. What if they were from the medicine world? In such a case, surely, they were not to be attacked but, rather, venerated or propitiated. If Sardak had survived, I had little doubt he would continue, relentlessly, to prosecute his mission.
"Do you wish to know of survivors?" asked Pumpkin. "You seem interested."
"Yes," I said.
"Other than soldiers, and beasts, and such, who might have escaped?"
"Yes," I said.
"Some children were spared, young children," said Pumpkin. "They were tied together by the neck in small groups. There were four such groups. The Fleer took one group, consisting of six children. The other three groups, consisting of five children apiece, were taken by the Sleen, the Yellow Knives and Kailiauk."
"What of the Kaiila?" I asked.
"They did not take any of the children," said Pumpkin.
"The children were very fortunate," said one of the fellows before me.
"Yes," said another. "They will be taken to Waniyanpi camps, and raised as Waniyanpi."
"What a blessing for them!" said another.
"It is always best when the Teaching can be given to the young," said another.
"Yes," said another. "It is the surest way to guarantee that they will always be Waniyanpi."
I wondered if the horrors and crimes perpetrated on one another by adults could ever match the cruelties inflicted on children. It seemed unlikely.
"There were some other survivors?" I asked.
"Some nubile young women," said Pumpkin, "but we did not look much at them. They were naked. Rawhide ropes were put on their necks. Their hands were tied behind them. They must accompany the masters, on their tethers, walking beside the flanks of their kaiila."
"And what, do you conjecture," I asked, "will be their fate?"
"We do not dare speculate," said Pumpkin, looking down, confused and dismayed, hotly reddening.
"They will be made slaves," I said, "crawling and kneeling to men, and serving them abjectly, and totally, in all ways."
Pumpkin shuddered.
"It is true, is it not?" I asked.
"Perhaps," mumbled Pumpkin. He did not raise his eyes. I saw that he feared manhood, and sex.
"Would you not like one so serving you?" I asked.
"No, no!" he cried, not raising his eyes. "No, no, no!"
The vehemence of his answer interested me. I looked about, at the other Waniyanpi. They did not meet my eyes, but looked down.
"Were there other survivors?" I asked Pumpkin.
He looked up at me, gratefully. "Two," he said, "but, it seems, one of them only for a time."
"I do not understand," I said.
"A boy, a Dust Leg, I think," said Pumpkin. "He was a slave of the soldiers. He was left staked out, over there, on that hill. We are to keep him alive until we leave the field, and then leave him here, to die."
"That would be the lad, the young man, who was with the column, the slave, one called Urt," I said to Grunt.
Grunt shrugged. He did not know this. I had, to be sure, spoken more to myself than to him.
"Who is the other?" I asked.
"An adult woman," said Pumpkin, "one whom, I think, was also with the soldiers."
"Excellent!" I said. "Is she blond, and fair of body?"
"She is blond," said Pumpkin, "but we are not permitted to observe whether or not she be fair of body."
"It would be the Lady Mira, of Venna!" I said to Grunt. "Excellent! Excellent!"
"Do you know her?" asked Grunt.
"We met once, on the road," I said. "But our meeting, now, will be of a different sort." I laughed.
"What is wrong?" asked Grunt.
"Nothing," I said. I was pleased, first, that the Lady Mira lived. It is pleasant that such women live, particularly when they are put in collars and chains. Secondly it amused me that the fair agent's utility to Kurii had been, in this unexpected and charming fashion, so abruptly and conclusively terminated. Thirdly she could doubtless be persuaded, in one way or another, to give me a first-hand account of the battle, at least in so far as it had swept in its courses about her.
"Where is she?" I asked Pumpkin.
"Over there, behind that wagon," said Pumpkin. "We put her there so that we would not have to look at her."
I regarded the Waniyanpi. I wondered why they were as they were.
"Lift your skirts," I told them, "to your waists, quickly."
They obeyed, shamed.
"No," said Grunt. "They are not castrated. It is done through the mind, through the training, through the Teaching."
"Insidious," I said.
"Yes," said Grunt.
"You may lower your dresses," I told the Waniyanpi.
Quick
ly they did so, smoothing them, blushing.
I urged my kaiila toward the wagon which Pumpkin had indicated.
17
The Slave
"You!" she cried, struggling to her feet.
I dismounted swiftly and easily, approaching her, from the kaiila.
"Why is your kaiila quirt drawn?" she asked.
I lashed her once, savagely, with the quirt, between the neck and shoulder, on the left side. I did not see any point in wasting time with her. "Kneel," I said.
Swiftly she knelt, clumsily in the apparatus in which she had been confined. She looked up at me. There were tears, and wonder, in her eyes. It was the first time, perhaps, she had been thusly struck.
"You do not avert your eyes from me," she said.
"It would be difficult to do so," I admitted. I could no longer, then, pursue my business in haste, as I had intended. Her loveliness, simply, did not permit it. She was stunning. I stood before her, savoring her beauty.
"Please," she protested, tears in her eyes.
I walked slowly about her.
She tossed her head, to throw her hair forward, over her breasts.
I took her hair on, and lifted it, with the quirt, and threw it again behind her shoulders. She shuddered as the leather touched her body.
Again I regarded her.
"How dare you look at me in that fashion?" she asked.
"You are beautiful," I explained.
"You struck me," she chided.
"Indeed," I said, "your beauty might be adequate even for that of a slave."
"Oh?" she said.
"Yes," I said. This was a high compliment which I had paid to her.
"You struck me," she said.
I slapped the kaiila quirt in my palm. "Yes," I said.
"You struck me as though I might have been a kaiila, or an animal," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"I am free!" she said.
"You do not appear to be free," I said. She knelt before me, stark naked. She wore an improvised girl-yoke. This consisted of a stout branch, about two inches thick, and some five feet in length, drilled at the center and near the extremities. It fits behind the back of the girl's neck. A long, single thong of rawhide fastens the girl in place. Her left wrist is thonged and then the thong is passed through the drilled aperture in the left end of the yoke. Her wrist is pulled tight to the yoke. The same thong is then taken behind the yoke and passed through the center hole, whence, after having been knotted, to prevent slippage to the left, and having been looped about the girl's neck, usually some five times, and having been knotted again, to prevent slippage to the right, it is returned through the same hole, whence it is taken behind the yoke to the hole drilled at the right-hand extremity of the apparatus. It is passed through that hole and then, of course, is used to fasten the girl's right wrist in place, tightly against the yoke. When this action is completed then, as you can see, the whole package is neatly tied. The knots near the throat bands, in preventing slippage, serve two functions; they hold the girl's wrists against the yoke and, at the same time, prevent any undue stress from being placed on the throat bands. The function of the throat bands is to hold the girl's throat in the yoke, securely and perfectly, not to cause her discomfort, nor to strangle her. Gorean men are not fools in tying women.