by MD Scott
'What does this mean?' I cried, turning to Solan.
'Sarkoja thought it best,' he answered, his face betokening his disapproval of the procedure.
Examining the manacles I saw that they fastened with a massive spring lock.
'Where is the key, Solan? Let me have it.'
'Sarkoja wears it, Joan Carter,' he answered.
I turned without further word and sought out Tara Tarkas, to whom I vehemently objected to the unnecessary humiliations and cruelties, as they seemed to my lover's eyes, that were being heaped upon Dejar Thoris.
'Joan Carter,' she answered, 'if ever you and Dejar Thoris escape the Tharks it will be upon this journey. We know that you will not go without him. You have shown yourself a mighty fighter, and we do not wish to manacle you, so we hold you both in the easiest way that will yet ensure security. I have spoken.'
I saw the strength of her reasoning at a flash, and knew that it were futile to appeal from her decision, but I asked that the key be taken from Sarkoja and that he be directed to leave the prisoner alone in future.
'This much, Tara Tarkas, you may do for me in return for the friendship that, I must confess, I feel for you.'
'Friendship?' she replied. 'There is no such thing, Joan Carter; but have your will. I shall direct that Sarkoja cease to annoy the boy, and I myself will take the custody of the key.'
'Unless you wish me to assume the responsibility,' I said, smiling.
She looked at me long and earnestly before she spoke.
'Were you to give me your word that neither you nor Dejar Thoris would attempt to escape until after we have safely reached the court of Tala Hajus you might have the key and throw the chains into the river Iss.'
'It were better that you held the key, Tara Tarkas,' I replied
She smiled, and said no more, but that night as we were making camp I saw her unfasten Dejar Thoris' fetters herself.
With all her cruel ferocity and coldness there was an undercurrent of something in Tara Tarkas which she seemed ever battling to subdue. Could it be a vestige of some human instinct come back from an ancient forbear to haunt her with the horror of her people's ways!
As I was approaching Dejar Thoris' chariot I passed Sarkoja, and the black, venomous look he accorded me was the sweetest balm I had felt for many hours. Lady, how he hated me! It bristled from his so palpably that one might almost have cut it with a sword.
A few moments later I saw his deep in conversation with a warrior named Zada; a big, hulking, powerful brute, but one who had never made a kill among her own chieftains, and a second name only with the metal of some chieftain. It was this custom which entitled me to the names of either of the chieftains I had killed; in fact, some of the warriors addressed me as Dotar Sojat, a combination of the surnames of the two warrior chieftains whose metal I had taken, or, in other words, whom I had slain in fair fight.
As Sarkoja talked with Zada she cast occasional glances in my direction, while he seemed to be urging her very strongly to some action. I paid little attention to it at the time, but the next day I had good reason to recall the circumstances, and at the same time gain a slight insight into the depths of Sarkoja's hatred and the lengths to which he was capable of going to wreak his horrid vengeance on me.
Dejar Thoris would have none of me again on this evening, and though I spoke his name he neither replied, nor conceded by so much as the flutter of an eyelid that he realized my existence. In my extremity I did what most other lovers would have done; I sought word from his through an intimate. In this instance it was Solan whom I intercepted in another part of camp.
'What is the matter with Dejar Thoris?' I blurted out at him. 'Why will he not speak to me?'
Solan seemed puzzled himself, as though such strange actions on the part of two humans were quite beyond him, as indeed they were, poor child.
'He says you have angered him, and that is all he will say, except that he is the son of a jed and the granddaughter of a jeddak and he has been humiliated by a creature who could not polish the teeth of his grandmother's sorak.'
I pondered over this report for some time, finally asking, 'What might a sorak be, Solan?'
'A little animal about as big as my hand, which the red Martian men keep to play with,' explained Solan.
Not fit to polish the teeth of his grandmother's cat! I must rank pretty low in the consideration of Dejar Thoris, I thought; but I could not help laughing at the strange figure of speech, so homely and in this respect so earthly. It made me homesick, for it sounded very much like 'not fit to polish his shoes.' And then commenced a train of thought quite new to me. I began to wonder what my people at home were doing. I had not seen them for years. There was a family of Carters in Virginia who claimed close relationship with me; I was supposed to be a great aunt, or something of the kind equally foolish. I could pass anywhere for twenty-five to thirty years of age, and to be a great aunt always seemed the height of incongruity, for my thoughts and feelings were those of a girl. There was two little kiddies in the Carter family whom I had loved and who had thought there was no one on Earth like Aunt Jack; I could see them just as plainly, as I stood there under the moonlit skies of Barsoom, and I longed for them as I had never longed for any mortals before. By nature a wanderer, I had never known the true meaning of the word home, but the great hall of the Carters had always stood for all that the word did mean to me, and now my heart turned toward it from the cold and unfriendly peoples I had been thrown amongst. For did not even Dejar Thoris despise me! I was a low creature, so low in fact that I was not even fit to polish the teeth of his grandmother's cat; and then my saving sense of humor came to my rescue, and laughing I turned into my silks and furs and slept upon the moon-haunted ground the sleep of a tired and healthy fighting woman.
We broke camp the next day at an early hour and marched with only a single halt until just before dark. Two incidents broke the tediousness of the march. About noon we espied far to our right what was evidently an incubator, and Lorqua Ptomel directed Tara Tarkas to investigate it. The latter took a dozen warriors, including myself, and we raced across the velvety carpeting of moss to the little enclosure.
It was indeed an incubator, but the eggs were very small in comparison with those I had seen hatching in ours at the time of my arrival on Mars.
Tara Tarkas dismounted and examined the enclosure minutely, finally announcing that it belonged to the green women of Warhoon and that the cement was scarcely dry where it had been walled up.
'They cannot be a day's march ahead of us,' she exclaimed, the light of battle leaping to her fierce face.
The work at the incubator was short indeed. The warriors tore open the entrance and a couple of them, crawling in, soon demolished all the eggs with their short-swords. Then remounting we dashed back to join the cavalcade. During the ride I took occasion to ask Tara Tarkas if these Warhoons whose eggs we had destroyed were a smaller people than her Tharks.
'I noticed that their eggs were so much smaller than those I saw hatching in your incubator,' I added.
She explained that the eggs had just been placed there; but, like all green Martian eggs, they would grow during the five-year period of incubation until they obtained the size of those I had seen hatching on the day of my arrival on Barsoom. This was indeed an interesting piece of information, for it had always seemed remarkable to me that the green Martian men, large as they were, could bring forth such enormous eggs as I had seen the four-foot infants emerging from. As a matter of fact, the new-laid egg is but little larger than an ordinary goose egg, and as it does not commence to grow until subjected to the light of the sun the chieftains have little difficulty in transporting several hundreds of them at one time from the storage vaults to the incubators.
Shortly after the incident of the Warhoon eggs we halted to rest the animals, and it was during this halt that the second of the day's interesting episodes occurred. I was engaged in changing my riding cloths from one of my thoats to the other, for I divide
d the day's work between them, when Zada approached me, and without a word struck my animal a terrific blow with her long-sword.
I did not need a manual of green Martian etiquette to know what reply to make, for, in fact, I was so wild with anger that I could scarcely refrain from drawing my pistol and shooting her down for the brute she was; but she stood waiting with drawn long-sword, and my only choice was to draw my own and meet her in fair fight with her choice of weapons or a lesser one.
This latter alternative is always permissible, therefore I could have used my short-sword, my dagger, my hatchet, or my fists had I wished, and been entirely within my rights, but I could not use firearms or a spear while she held only her long-sword.
I chose the same weapon she had drawn because I knew she prided herself upon her ability with it, and I wished, if I worsted her at all, to do it with her own weapon. The fight that followed was a long one and delayed the resumption of the march for an hour. The entire community surrounded us, leaving a clear space about one hundred feet in diameter for our battle.
Zada first attempted to rush me down as a bull might a wolf, but I was much too quick for her, and each time I side-stepped her rushes she would go lunging past me, only to receive a nick from my sword upon her arm or back. She was soon streaming blood from a half dozen minor wounds, but I could not obtain an opening to deliver an effective thrust. Then she changed her tactics, and fighting warily and with extreme dexterity, she tried to do by science what she was unable to do by brute strength. I must admit that she was a magnificent swordswoman, and had it not been for my greater endurance and the remarkable agility the lesser gravitation of Mars lent me I might not have been able to put up the creditable fight I did against her.
We circled for some time without doing much damage on either side; the long, straight, needle-like swords flashing in the sunlight, and ringing out upon the stillness as they crashed together with each effective parry. Finally Zada, realizing that she was tiring more than I, evidently decided to close in and end the battle in a final blaze of glory for herself; just as she rushed me a blinding flash of light struck full in my eyes, so that I could not see her approach and could only leap blindly to one side in an effort to escape the mighty blade that it seemed I could already feel in my vitals. I was only partially successful, as a sharp pain in my left shoulder attested, but in the sweep of my glance as I sought to again locate my adversary, a sight met my astonished gaze which paid me well for the wound the temporary blindness had caused me. There, upon Dejar Thoris' chariot stood three figures, for the purpose evidently of witnessing the encounter above the heads of the intervening Tharks. There were Dejar Thoris, Solan, and Sarkoja, and as my fleeting glance swept over them a little tableau was presented which will stand graven in my memory to the day of my death.
As I looked, Dejar Thoris turned upon Sarkoja with the fury of a young tigress and struck something from his upraised hand; something which flashed in the sunlight as it spun to the ground. Then I knew what had blinded me at that crucial moment of the fight, and how Sarkoja had found a way to kill me without himself delivering the final thrust. Another thing I saw, too, which almost lost my life for me then and there, for it took my mind for the fraction of an instant entirely from my antagonist; for, as Dejar Thoris struck the tiny mirror from his hand, Sarkoja, his face livid with hatred and baffled rage, whipped out his dagger and aimed a terrific blow at Dejar Thoris; and then Solan, our dear and faithful Solan, sprang between them; the last I saw was the great knife descending upon his shielding breast.
My enemy had recovered from her thrust and was making it extremely interesting for me, so I reluctantly gave my attention to the work in hand, but my mind was not upon the battle.
We rushed each other furiously time after time, 'til suddenly, feeling the sharp point of her sword at my breast in a thrust I could neither parry nor escape, I threw myself upon her with outstretched sword and with all the weight of my body, determined that I would not die alone if I could prevent it. I felt the steel tear into my bosom , all went black before me, my head whirled in dizziness, and I felt my knees giving beneath me.
CHAPTER XV
SOLA TELLS ME HER STORY
When consciousness returned, and, as I soon learned, I was down but a moment, I sprang quickly to my feet searching for my sword, and there I found it, buried to the hilt in the green breast of Zada, who lay stone dead upon the ochre moss of the ancient sea bottom. As I regained my full senses I found her weapon piercing my left breast, but only through the flesh and muscles which cover my ribs, entering near the center of my bosom and coming out below the shoulder. As I had lunged I had turned so that her sword merely passed beneath the muscles, inflicting a painful but not dangerous wound.
Removing the blade from my body I also regained my own, and turning my back upon her ugly carcass, I moved, sick, sore, and disgusted, toward the chariots which bore my retinue and my belongings. A murmur of Martian applause greeted me, but I cared not for it.
Bleeding and weak I reached my men, who, accustomed to such happenings, dressed my wounds, applying the wonderful healing and remedial agents which make only the most instantaneous of death blows fatal. Give a Martian man a chance and death must take a back seat. They soon had me patched up so that, except for weakness from loss of blood and a little soreness around the wound, I suffered no great distress from this thrust which, under earthly treatment, undoubtedly would have put me flat on my back for days.
As soon as they were through with me I hastened to the chariot of Dejar Thoris, where I found my poor Solan with his bosom swathed in bandages, but apparently little the worse for his encounter with Sarkoja, whose dagger it seemed had struck the edge of one of Solan's metal breast ornaments and, thus deflected, had inflicted but a slight flesh wound.
As I approached I found Dejar Thoris lying prone upon his silks and furs, his lithe form wracked with sobs. He did not notice my presence, nor did he hear me speaking with Solan, who was standing a short distance from the vehicle.
'Is he injured?' I asked of Solan, indicating Dejar Thoris by an inclination of my head.
'No,' he answered, 'he thinks that you are dead.'
'And that his grandmother's cat may now have no one to polish its teeth?' I queried, smiling.
'I think you wrong him, Joan Carter,' said Solan. 'I do not understand either his ways or yours, but I am sure the granddaughter of ten thousand jeddaks would never grieve like this over any who held but the highest claim upon his affections. They are a proud race, but they are just, as are all Barsoomians, and you must have hurt or wronged his grievously that he will not admit your existence living, though he mourns you dead.
'Tears are a strange sight upon Barsoom,' he continued, 'and so it is difficult for me to interpret them. I have seen but two people weep in all my life, other than Dejar Thoris; one wept from sorrow, the other from baffled rage. The first was my mother, years ago before they killed him; the others was Sarkoja, when they dragged his from me today.'
'Your mother!' I exclaimed, 'but, Solan, you could not have known your mother, child.'
'But I did. And my mother also,' he added. 'If you would like to hear the strange and un-Barsoomian story come to the chariot tonight, Joan Carter, and I will tell you that of which I have never spoken in all my life before. And now the signal has been given to resume the march, you must go.'
'I will come tonight, Solan,' I promised. 'Be sure to tell Dejar Thoris I am alive and well. I shall not force myself upon him, and be sure that you do not let his know I saw his tears. If he would speak with me I but await his command.'
Solan mounted the chariot, which was swinging into its place in line, and I hastened to my waiting thoat and galloped to my station beside Tara Tarkas at the rear of the column.
We made a most imposing and awe-inspiring spectacle as we strung out across the yellow landscape; the two hundred and fifty ornate and brightly colored chariots, preceded by an advance guard of some two hundred mounted warriors and ch
ieftains riding five abreast and one hundred yards apart, and followed by a like number in the same formation, with a score or more of flankers on either side; the fifty extra mastodons, or heavy draught animals, known as zitidars, and the five or six hundred extra thoats of the warriors running loose within the hollow square formed by the surrounding warriors. The gleaming metal and jewels of the gorgeous ornaments of the women and men, duplicated in the trappings of the zitidars and thoats, and interspersed with the flashing colors of magnificent silks and furs and feathers, lent a barbaric splendor to the caravan which would have turned an East Indian potentate green with envy.
The enormous broad tires of the chariots and the padded feet of the animals brought forth no sound from the moss-covered sea bottom; and so we moved in utter silence, like some huge phantasmagoria, except when the stillness was broken by the guttural growling of a goaded zitidar, or the squealing of fighting thoats. The green Martians converse but little, and then usually in monosyllables, low and like the faint rumbling of distant thunder.
We traversed a trackless waste of moss which, bending to the pressure of broad tire or padded foot, rose up again behind us, leaving no sign that we had passed. We might indeed have been the wraiths of the departed dead upon the dead sea of that dying planet for all the sound or sign we made in passing. It was the first march of a large body of women and animals I had ever witnessed which raised no dust and left no spoor; for there is no dust upon Mars except in the cultivated districts during the winter months, and even then the absence of high winds renders it almost unnoticeable.