Magicians of Gor

by Norman, John;

  The four fellows, in turbans, with plumes, in stately fashion, as though nothing unusual had occurred, carried the palanquin, its curtains now open again, offstage.

  "She has vanished," said a fellow, wonderingly.

  "But to where?" asked another.

  "She cannot disappear into thin air," said a fellow.

  "But she has done so!" said another, in awe.

  We were in a small, shabby theater. It had an open proscenium. The house was only some twenty yards in depth. This was the fourth such establishment we had entered this evening. To be sure, there were many other entertainments on the street outside, in stalls, and set in the open, behind tables, and such, in which were displayed mostly tricks with small objects, ostraka, rings, scarves, coins and such. I am fond of such things, and a great admirer of the subtlety, the adroitness, dexterity and skills which are often involved in making them possible.

  "Alas," cried the ponderous fellow waddling about the stage, yet, if one noticed it, with a certain lightness and grace, considering his weight, "have I lost my slave?"

  "Find her!" cried a fellow.

  "Recover her!" cried another.

  These fellows, I think, were serious. It might be mentioned, at any rate, that many Goreans, particularly those of lower caste, and who are likely to have had access only to the "first knowledge," take things of this sort very seriously, believing they are witnesses not to tricks and illusions but to marvelous phenomena consequent upon the gifts and powers of unusual individuals, sorcerers or magicians. This ingenuousness is doubtless dependent upon several factors, such as the primitiveness of the world, the isolation and uniqueness of cities, the disparateness of cultures and the tenuousness of communication. Also the Gorean tends neither to view the world as a mechanical clockwork of interdependent parts, as a great, regular, predictable machine, docile to equations, obedient to abstractions, nor as a game of chance, inexplicable, meaningless and random at the core. His fundamental metaphor in terms of which he would defend himself from the glory and mystery of the world is neither the machine nor the die. It is rather, if one may so speak, the stalk of grass, the rooted tree, the flower. He feels the world as alive and real. He paints eyes upon his ships, that they may see their way. And if he feels so even about his vessels, then so much more the awed and reverent must he feel when he contemplates the immensity and grandeur, the beauty, the power and the mightiness within which he finds himself. Why is there anything? Why is there anything at all? Why not just nothing? Wouldn't "nothing" be more likely, more rational, more scientific? When did time begin? Where does space end? On a line, at the surface of a sphere? Do our definitions constrain reality? What if reality does not know our language, the boundaries of our perceptions, the limitations of our minds? How is it that one wills to raise one's hand and the hand rises? How is it that an aggregation of molecules can cry out with joy in the darkness? The Gorean sees the world less as a puzzle than an opportunity, less as a datum to be explained than a bounty in which to rejoice, less as a problem to be solved than a gift to be gratefully received. It might also be noted, interestingly, that the Gorean, in spite of his awe of Priest-Kings, and the reverence he accords them, the gods of his world, does not think of them as having formed the world, nor of the world being in some sense consequent upon their will. Rather the Priest-Kings are seen as being its children, too, like sleen, and rain and man. A last observation having to do with the tendency of some Goreans to accept illusions and such as reality is that the Gorean tends to take such things as honor and truth very seriously. Given his culture and background, his values, he is often easier to impose upon than would be many others. For example, he is likely, at least upon occasion, to be an easier mark for the fraud and charlatan than a more suspicious, cynical fellow. On the other hand, I do not encourage lying to Goreans. They do not like it.

  "I could have reached out and touched her," said Marcus.

  I really doubted that he could have done that. To be sure, we were quite close to the stage.

  In this part of the performance a light, roofed, white-curtained palanquin had been carried on the stage by the four turbaned, plumed fellows. It had been set down on the stage and the curtains drawn back, on both sides, so that one could see through to the back of the stage, which was darkly draped. Within the palanquin, reclining there, as though indolently, on one elbow there had been a slim girl, veiled and clad in shimmering white silk.

  "Surely this is some high-born damsel," had called out the ponderous fellow.

  There had been laughter at this. Free women almost never appear on the Gorean stage. Indeed, in certain higher forms of drama, such as the great tragedies, rather than let women on the stage, either free or slave, female roles are played by men. The masks worn, the costuming, the dialogue, and such, make it clear, of course, which roles are to be understood as the female roles. Women, of course, almost always slaves, may appear in mimings, farces and such.

  The girl had then, aided by a hand from the ponderous fellow, risen from the palanquin and looked about herself, rather as though bored. She then regarded the audience, and at some length, disdainfully. There had been some hooting at this.

  "Surely this cannot be my slave, Litsia?" wailed the fellow.

  She tossed her head, in the hood and veil.

  "If you be free, dear lady," said the fellow, "report me to guardsmen for my effrontery, that I may be flogged for daring to address you, but if you be my Litsia, remove your hood and veil."

  As though with an almost imperial resignation she put back her hood and lowered her veil.

  "She is pretty!" had exclaimed Marcus.

  Others, too, expressed their inadvertent admiration of the woman.

  "It is my Litsia!" cried the ponderous fellow, as though relieved.

  The woman drew down her robes a bit, that her shoulders were bared. She held the robes together before her.

  "She is not collared!" cried a fellow!

  "Lash her!" cried another.

  For an instant the girl blanched and trembled, clutching the robes together before her in her small fists, but then, in a moment, had recovered herself, and was back in character. It was easy to tell that she had, at some time or another, felt the lash, and knew what it was like.

  "But surely we are to respect slaves in the new Ar?" inquired the ponderous fellow, anxiously, of the audience.

  This question, of course, was greeted with guffaws and a slapping of the left shoulders.

  "But my Litsia must have some token of her bondage upon her," said the fellow. "Please, Litsia, show us."

  Quickly the girl thrust the lower portion of her left leg, lovely and curved, from the robe. On her left ankle was a narrow, locked slave anklet. Then, quickly, she concealed her leg and ankle again within the robe. The slave collar, of one form or another, band or bar, or chain and lock, is almost universal on Gor for slaves. On the other hand, some masters use a bracelet or anklet. Too, the slaves of others may wear as little to denote their condition as a ring, the significance of which may be known to few. The bracelet, the anklet and ring are often worn by women whose slavery is secret, largely hidden from the world, though not, of course, from themselves and their masters. And even such women, when in private with their masters, will usually be collared, as is suitable for slaves. Indeed, they will often strip themselves and kneel, or drop to all fours, to be collared, as soon as they enter their master's domicile. There are many points in favor of the collar, besides those of history and tradition. The throat is not only an ideal aesthetic showplace for the symbol of bondage, displaying it beautifully and prominently, but one which, because of the location, at the throat, and the widths involved, is excellently secure. It also makes it easier to leash the female. Also, of course, by means of it and a rope or chain one may attach her to various rings and holding devices. Some fellows even bracelet or tie her hands to it. The collar, too, of course, helps to make clear to the slave, and others, her status as a domestic animal.

  "Show
us a little more, Litsia," begged the ponderous fellow.

  Litsia then, rather quickly, but holding the pose for a moment, opened the silken robes, and, her knees slightly flexed, and her head turned demurely to the left, held them out to the sides.

  "She is lovely!" said Marcus.

  "Yes," I agreed.

  "Surely she is a bred slave, with lines like that," he said.

  "No," I said. "She was a free woman, from Asperiche."

  Marcus looked at me, puzzled.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Interesting," he said.

  "In a sense, of course," I said, "she is a bred slave."

  "True," he said.

  It is a common Gorean belief that all females are bred slaves. It is only that some have their collars and some, as yet, do not.

  The girl wore a modest slave tunic, which muchly covered her.

  She now drew closed again the sides of the shimmering robe and, once more, tossed her head, and glanced disdainfully at the audience. Again there was hooting.

  "Some folks," said the ponderous fellow, "think that I have spoiled her."

  The girl then put out her small hand and was assisted by the ponderous fellow to the palanquin again. When she took her place in it it was lifted.

  It was clearly off the floor. One could see the drapery at the back of the stage.

  "I do trust you will be nice to me this evening!" said the ponderous fellow to the slim beauty on the palanquin.

  She tossed her head and did not deign to respond to him.

  He then drew shut the curtains of the palanquin. It was still off the floor.

  "Do you think I am too easy with her?" the ponderous fellow inquired of the audience.

  "Yes! Yes!" shouted several of the men.

  "Oh, oh!" cried the ponderous fellow looking upward miserably and shaking his fists, helplessly, angrily, in the air. "If only I were not a devoted adherent of the new and wonderful Ar!"

  There was much laughter.

  "But alas I am such a devoted adherent!" he wept.

  There was more laughter.

  I gathered that much of the resentment toward the current governance of Ar tended to be expressed in such places, in shows, in farces, in bawdy travesties and such. Certain theaters had been closed down because of the articulateness and precision, and abusiveness, of such satire or criticism. Two had been burned. To be sure this fellow seemed technically within the bounds of acceptability, if only just so. Too, it was doubtless a great deal safer now than it had been a few weeks ago to indulge in such humor. Wisely I thought had the government withdrawn from its projected policies of devirilization, which, indeed, had never been advanced beyond the stage of proposals. It had discovered, simply, clearly, and immediately, that most males of the city would not give up their manhood, even if they were praised for doing so. Indeed, even the Ubara herself, it seemed, had reaffirmed that slave girls should be obedient and try to please their masters. So narrowly, I suspected, had riots and revolution been averted. Still, I supposed, there might be spies in the audience. I doubted if the ponderous fellow would be popular with the authorities.

  "If only some magician would aid me in my dilemma!" wept the ponderous fellow.

  "Beware!" cried a fellow in the audience, alarmed.

  "Yes, beware!" laughed another fellow.

  "If only some magician would waft away my Litsia, if only for a moment, and teach her just a little of what is it to be a slave girl!" he said.

  Several men laughed. I had to hand it to the ponderous fellow. He carried the thing off well.

  "But of course there are no magicians!" he said.

  "Beware," cried one fellow, he who had been so alarmed, so drawn into the drama, before. "Beware, lest one might be listening!"

  "I think that I shall speak with her, and plead with her to be a better slave girl," said the fellow.

  The palanquin was still of course where it had been last, near the center of the stage, lifted off the floor, by its four bearers. To be sure, as the ponderous fellow had drawn them, the curtains were now closed.

  The audience was very still now.

  The ponderous fellow then pulled back the curtains.

  "Ai!" cried a fellow.

  Several of the fellows, including Marcus, gasped.

  "She is gone!" cried a fellow.

  Once again, one could see through the open palanquin, to the draperies at the back of the stage.

  The four fellows in turbans, with plumes, then, in stately fashion, as though nothing unusual had occurred, carried the palanquin offstage.

  Men spoke excitedly about us.

  I struck my left shoulder, commending the performer for the illusion.

  Others, too, then applauded.

  The ponderous fellow bowed to the crowd, and then resumed his character.

  "I think there is but one chance to recover my slave," he confided to the audience, "but I fear to risk it."

  "Why?" asked a fellow.

  "Because," said the ponderous fellow, addressing his concerned interlocutor confidentially, with a stage whisper, "it might require magic."

  "No matter!" said a fellow.

  "There is a wicker trunk," said the ponderous fellow. "It was left with me by a fellow from Anango."

  Some of the fellows in the audience gasped. The magicians of Anango are famed on Gor. If you wish to have someone turned into a turtle or something, those are the fellows to see. To be sure, their work does not come cheap. The only folks who are not familiar with them, as far as I know, are the chaps from far-off Anango, who have never heard of them.

  "Of course, he may not be a magician," mused the ponderous fellow.

  "But he might be!" pointed out an excited fellow in the audience.

  "True," mused the ponderous fellow.

  "It is worth a try," said a fellow.

  "Anything to get your rope back on her," said another.

  "Do you think he would mind?" asked the ponderous fellow.

  "No!" said a fellow.

  I wondered how he knew.

  "He may be the very fellow who wafted her away!" said another.

  "Yes," suggested another fellow.

  "Perhaps he wants you to use the trunk to recover her!" said another.

  "Yes!" said a man, convinced.

  "He did say he was my friend," said the ponderous fellow.

  "Fetch the trunk!" said a man.

  "Fetch the trunk!" cried the ponderous fellow, decisively, to his fellows offstage.

  Two of the fellows who had borne out the palanquin, their turbans and plumes now removed, appeared on stage, entering from stage right, the house left, each of them carrying a trestle. These were placed rather toward the back of the stage, at the center, about five feet apart. In a moment the other two fellows who had helped to bear the palanquin, they, too, now without the turbans and plumes, as there was now no point in such accouterments, their no longer being in attendance on the insolent slave, also emerged from stage right, bearing a long wicker trunk, some six feet in length, some two feet in height and two feet in depth. This was placed on the two trestles. One could, accordingly, see under the trunk, and about it. It was, thus, in full view, and spatially isolated from the floor, the sides of the stage and the drapery in the back, several feet behind it, supported on its two trestles.

  "The trunk is not empty!" cried a fellow.

  "The slave is within it!" called out another.

  "That is no trick!" said another.

  "I surely hope the slave is within it," called the ponderous fellow to the audience, "as I do wish to recover her!"

  "She is there!" hooted a fellow.

  "I hope so," said the ponderous fellow. "Let us look!"

  He hurried to the trunk and lifted away the wicker lid, which covered it. He set the lid to one side, on the floor. He then unhinged the back of the trunk from the trunk sides. It then hung down in the back, being attached to the tru
nk bottom. One could see it, through the trestle legs. He then opened the left side of the trunk, letting it, too, hang free, except that it hung to the side. It, too, of course, was attached to the trunk's bottom. He treated the right side of the trunk in the same manner. It, too, naturally, was attached to the trunk bottom, in the same manner as was the left side. The trunk, in effect, was being disassembled before the audience. It was now completely open, the back hanging down in back, and the sides to the sides, except for the front panel, which the ponderous fellow held in place with one hand.

  "Open the front panel!" cried a fellow.

  "Show us the slave!" cried another.

  "That is no trick!" said a fellow.

  "Aii!" cried more than one fellow, as the ponderous fellow let the front panel drop forward, to the front. The trunk was now completely open.

  "The slave is not there!" cried a man.

  "She is not there," said another, startled.

  "It would be a poor trick if she was there," said another.

  "Why do you show us an empty trunk?" asked a man.

  We could see through to the drapery behind.

  "Alas, woe!" cried the ponderous fellow, running his hands about the empty space now exposed to view. "It is true! She is not here!" He got down on all fours and looked under the trunk, and then he lifted up the front panel, running his hand about under the trunk bottom, which was, say, about an inch in thickness. He then, seemingly distraught, let the front panel fall forward again. But even then he went again to his knees and thrust his hand about, to the floor, then between the trunk bottom and the floor. The front panel, even dropped forward, was still about eighteen inches from the floor. The floor could be seen clearly at all times beneath it. "She is not here!" wailed the ponderous fellow.

  "Where is the slave?" asked a man.

  "Perhaps she has been kept by the magician," proposed a fellow, seriously enough.

  "But he is my friend!" protested the ponderous fellow.

  "Are you sure of it?" asked one of the more earnest fellows in the audience.

  "Perhaps the trunk is not really magic?" said the ponderous fellow.

  "That would seem the most plausible explanation to me," whispered one fellow to another.