by John Norman
“It is hard to think of a living island, so placid and somnolent, as predacious or territorial,” I said.
“Older, stronger islands will drive younger, weaker islands away,” she said. “It has to do with what the fishing grounds can support.”
“There must be many predators at a fishing ground,” I said, “sharks, sea sleen, fanged eels, wide-mouthed grunts, and such.”
“The living island is concerned only with its own kind,” she said.
“I do not see how men can be of help in such matters,” I said.
“They locate fishing grounds and bring their islands to them. In this way the men help the island and the island, in turn, helps the men, giving the men a rich offshore camp or base.”
“But such,” I said, “would require the living island to be moved, and not only to be moved, but to be moved purposely.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Is this possible?” I asked.
“Certainly,” she said.
Suddenly much seemed to fall into place.
“How is this done?” I asked.
“We have not acted so in months,” she said.
“How is it done?” I asked.
“There are various ways,” she said. “All animal life withdraws from strong stimuli, perhaps because such stimuli, surprising and unexplained, are often associated with the presence of a danger, such as a predator. The most common way of doing this is to create noise, say, the striking together of chains of pots and pans dangled under the water.”
Sound, of course, is amplified under water. A shark, for example, can respond to the thrashing of an injured fish better than two hundred yards away.
“This stimulus is disfavored by the island, and it moves away from the sound. In this way it may be guided in any direction.”
“How do men determine the course?” I asked.
“As mariners,” she said, “some by compass, others by the sun and stars.”
“There are other ways, too, the island may be moved?” I asked.
“By striking on the hide,” she said, “with wooden mallets. That does not hurt the island, as far as we can tell, but it does tend to move away from the annoyance. There are cruel ways, too, but we do not practice them on the Isle of Seleukos, for we care for our island, ways such as digging in the hide and striking nerves with pointed sticks, and digging in the hide and applying hot irons to the wound.”
“It seems that this would make the island an enemy of men,” I said.
“The islands do not even know that men exist,” she said.
“You have been more than helpful, Cuy,” I said. “I have learned much. I am very grateful.”
“I am pleased if you are pleased,” she said.
“Perhaps you have your eyes on some young fellow of the village,” I said.
“Xanthos and I care for one another,” she said. “He does not think I am so ugly.”
“You are not ugly,” I said.
“How I look is only part of me,” she said. “I am more than how I look.”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Xanthos even likes to talk to me,” she said. “We have long talks.”
“Good,” I said.
“That is unusual for a man, is it not?” she asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“But the matter is hopeless,” she said.
“How so?” I asked.
“My belt is light,” she said. “His father would not permit him to drink the wine of companionship with one so unfit as I.”
“A stern father,” I said.
“He has his pride,” she said. “He must be concerned for his office, his position, his prestige and image.”
“Who is his father?” I asked.
“Seleukos,” she said, “our headman.”
“I promised you,” I said, “a copper tarsk for your time.”
“And now it will be a tarsk-bit, or less?” she asked, tears appearing in her eyes.
“No,” I said, drawing a coin from my pouch, “here, rather, is a silver tarsk.”
Many slaves sell for less than a silver tarsk.
“No,” she whispered, “no!”
I pressed the coin into her hand, and, with two hands, literally folded her fingers about it, as I feared she could not hold it.
“This will buy a boat, a fine boat, of the workmanship of Naxos, two boats,” she said, “one for Xanthos, one for his father.”
“You are now, I wager,” I said, “the richest girl in your village, and the most desirable girl in your village.”
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Kenneth Statercounter, Eiron of Naxos, Fenlon of Ti, or any other name which might appeal to you,” I said.
I then turned about and clapped my hands, sharply. “Ho, men!” I cried. “Board, board! The oars are waiting, the canvas is slack. Board! Board! We must be on our way!”
Shortly thereafter, the Tesephone, freed of the lines attached to the heavy drilled stones, drifted from the side of the Isle of Seleukos.
Thurnock and I, as we took our departure, oars rising, shedding bright water, like drops of light, looked back to the island.
We waved to the men and they to us. The girls, too, waved, adornments sparkling on many a belt. Among them stood Cuy, smiling and laughing, one hand waving, the other clutched on some small object.
“Do you remember Sakim, the drunken, distraught mariner, he from the tavern of Glaukos, he so mocked, he of the wild stories?” asked Thurnock.
“Surely,” I said.
“It seems he was not insane,” said Thurnock. “I spoke to men on the island. They, too, have seen the monster.”
“The sea hith?” I said.
“Whatever it is,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
I Make a Purchase; I Examine my New Property; I Make Use of my New Property
“Here,” said my agent, “is the slave.”
Hooded, closely and opaquely, briefly tunicked, bound hand and foot, her wrists tied behind her, the girl was thrown to her belly before me.
Gorean slaves are seldom treated gently.
I could see the collar on her neck, under the hood, locked, closely encircling her throat. I had arranged that she did not know whose collar it was, nor why she had been purchased.
She lay there before me, in the light of the single, dangling tharlarion-oil lamp, prone, helpless, trembling and disoriented, on the dark, polished, wooden floor of my room in an obscure inn, The Fat Urt, in Sybaris, near the harbor where the Tesephone was inconspicuously at anchor, crowded amongst dozens of similar small ships.
I noted that she was wise enough not to dare to speak.
Though she had not been long on Gor, she, highly intelligent as are most Earth females brought to Gor as slaves, was already well aware of what she might and might not do, what she might and might not be permitted.
That is one of the first things they learn as a slave.
The agent placed his right foot on her back and pressed down, briefly, firmly, for an Ihn or so. Then he removed his foot from her back, and stood to the side. The pressure of his foot on her back had informed her that she was to remain as she had been placed.
But, presumably, of that she would already have been well aware.
The breaking of position on the part of a slave can easily be cause for discipline.
I regarded her for some time, not speaking.
Presumably she knew she was being looked upon.
The tiny, sleeveless tunic she wore, this one of gray, clinging rep cloth, was a typical slave garment. It had no nether closure and was all she wore.
Resources are seldom wasted on slaves.
The daily garmenture of a free woman might clothe a dozen slaves.
Sometimes slaves are clad in mere scraps and rags. Indeed, slaves, as they are animals, need not be clothed, at all. They are often nude before their masters, and, if the master pleases, in public, as well.
I continued to look upon her.
She was a woman from Earth.
Doubtless she was familiar with, accustomed to, and had profited from, the many advantages, preferences, preferments, and privileges, educational, economic, and social, which had been lavished upon her by her society. Perhaps, naturally enough, she had taken them for granted, taken them to be her due, her right. On Earth, as a female, she had been special. She had been important. She had had high status.
“This is a slave,” I said. “Why is she clothed?”
The tiny tunic was cut open at the back, from collar to hem, pulled out from under her, and discarded.
“I trust you did not spend much for her,” I said.
“Forty copper tarsks,” he said, handing me the small sack which would contain my change. “She is a barbarian. She is cheap. Who would want her for anything, save as sleen feed, or to cast her to eels in some garden pool?”
The girl whimpered pathetically but was instantly kicked to silence by a movement of the agent’s foot.
I saw she still had to learn something of her collar.
I would be pleased to teach it to her.
Who does not enjoy teaching a woman her collar?
It was interesting that she was cheap, for girls from my native world, Earth, brought to Gor for the collar, often brought good prices, at least on the continent, and on Cos and Tyros, sometimes equaling or even exceeding those of native-born kajirae. It seemed, however, that they were less esteemed on the Farther Islands.
To be sure, I was pleased that she had cost so little.
It pleases one to have obtained a good purchase.
In passing, it might be noted that female slaves on Gor are abundant, and, accordingly, tend to be inexpensive, a beauty often going for as little as a silver tarsk. Many a woman whose remarkable loveliness on Earth might have led to the acquisition of considerable advantages in Earth society find themselves, once brought to Gor, the possessions of a fellow with modest, even minimal, means. They find that their silks, diamonds, and furs, so to speak, are exchanged for a rag and collar on Gor.
I looked down at the prostrate, trembling slave.
I knew her, of course, and had made it extremely clear to my agent, by both explicit description, even to tiny marks and blemishes, and current slave name, the particular article I had in mind.
“Regard the slave,” I said to my agent. “See the small feet, the slim ankles, the sweet thighs, the delightful, well-formed, fundament, the slender waist, the joys of her figure, the soft shoulders, and the graceful, metal-encircled neck. Surely, you can think of some use for this exquisite object other than feeding it to sleen or eels.”
“She is a barbarian,” he said.
“Does she juice well?” I asked.
“I have heard so,” he said.
I knew, of course, that she juiced well, and beggingly. In an alcove, weeks ago, she had writhed helplessly in her chains.
It is interesting how responsive are female slaves, owned women subject to uncompromising masculine domination.
“I am well pleased,” I said. “You have done well. Your fee.” I drew five copper tarsks from the sack and placed them, one by one, in his outstretched palm.
“I think I could have found you one who is not a barbarian,” he said, “for not much more.”
“This one will do very nicely,” I said.
He placed the five coins in his pouch.
“Shall I whip her before I leave?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“You have a whip at hand?” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I wish you well,” he said.
“I wish you well,” I said.
I watched the agent take his leave.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Word had reached me at the Cove of Harpalos that the raiders outside Sybaris had broken camp and, as far as my informants could determine, were now scattered about, but proximately, some distributed within Sybaris and others beyond its pomerium, in the nearby countryside. I inferred two likelihoods given this information, one encouraging and the other considerably less so. First, and heartening, it seemed that Archelaos recognized the suspicious nature of openly maintaining a large number of armed men in the vicinity of Sybaris, many of a presumably unsavory sort. Would this not elicit curiosity? Might it not seem to require an explanation? Who are these men and what might be their purpose or purposes? This suggested that Archelaos might not be invulnerable in Sybaris. He apparently deemed it prudential, at least at present, to continue to dissociate himself from any possible relationship to the corsairs who had terrorized coastal villages and the local waters. Tyrants thrive where justice sleeps, but what if justice should stir and wake? It behooves the wise tyrant to tread softly and embellish his image as the selfless servant of the people. What tyrant is so stupid as not to do so? Urts and jards take care not to wake the larl on whose kill they feed. Second, and disappointing, the keeping of the raiders at hand clearly signified that Archelaos, despite the recent adventure in connection with the supposed Village of Flowing Gold, had no intention of forsaking his dark enterprises. How soon, then, could he recoup his losses? How soon could new ships be obtained and fitted? What would he do? And where next might he strike? We were few, and knew too little.
I looked down at the girl.
“You may speak,” I said.
“I lie before you, prone, stripped, bound, and hooded,” she said.
“That is appropriate,” I said, “as you are a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Am I bellied before my Master?”
“Yes,” I said.
I rose to my feet, went to the side, took the room whip from its hook on the wall, and returned to stand near her.
I then, suddenly, without warning, cracked the whip. Though the blade had not touched her, she had uttered an inadvertent cry of fear.
I saw that she knew the whip and what it could do to her.
“Am I to be whipped?” she asked.
“As is often the case,” I said, “that has much to do with the slave.”
“I shall try to be pleasing,” she said.
I put the whip at my belt, and knelt beside her. I lifted her bound ankles an inch or two and let them drop, and then lifted her bound wrists some three or four inches and let them drop.
“You are well tied,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Even Gorean boys are taught the tying of female slaves, provided by mentors for their practice. It does not take a woman long to learn that she is utterly helpless.
I then loosened and removed the bonds on her ankles and wrists, threw them to the side, and lifted her to her knees.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked. “Do you know my voice?”
“I am not sure,” she said. “I think so. I hope so.”
I unbuckled the hood at the back of her neck, drew the hood from her, and tossed it, too, to the side.
Her face was red from the hood, and her hair was damp.
It is not pleasant being the prisoner of a hood.
Too, in one, one is very helpless.
“Oh, Master! Master!” she cried with joy, and threw herself to her belly before me. She seized my ankles, and pressed her lips again and again to my feet, covering them with eager, mad kisses, and uttering broken sounds and garbled, incoherent words. “I so hoped,” she said. “So hoped! You cannot conceive how helpless is the female slave, how she can do nothing, how she belongs to others, how she cannot help what is done with her, how she has nothing to say or do as t
o whom she will belong, as to whom she will be traded, sold or given! Oh, Master! Master! I waited for you so long, on my chain. Night after night! But my manacle was removed and I must hurry to serve others! It was always others! Others! I have never forgotten your touch, what it was to be at your feet! Had you forgotten me? Had I been insufficiently pleasing! I hoped, so hoped, again and again, that you would come again to the tavern! Now you are my Master, and I am your slave, your slave!” She was weeping with joy, her damp, dark hair about my feet, her lips pressing more, and more, kisses to my feet.
I seized her hair with my left hand and pulled her up to her knees before me. I removed the whip from my belt and held it to her lips, where, immediately, in tears, she began to lick and kiss it with fervor.
There are many acts and practices on Gor, postures, expressions, and behaviors, which are deeply meaningful and profoundly symbolic. One of these is “kissing the whip,” where the slave kisses the very whip to which she is subject. Some Masters require a slave, particularly a new slave, to “kiss the whip” until it is done properly, rightfully, humbly, respectfully, sincerely, authentically, even, eventually, reverently, and gratefully. In the course of this exercise, the slave, if lax or inattentive, or if the least bit reluctant or resistant, may feel the whip, and as often as is deemed necessary, these brief admonitions providing an incentive for her to renew her efforts. By such means, she is encouraged to do better and, eventually, achieve success. A slave is expected to kiss the whip well. By means of this exercise, and several others, she learns her collar. Behavior comes first; understanding and acceptance comes second. One begins by behaving as a slave and then, later, discovers that one is a slave. One realizes, of course, from the very beginning, in one sense, that one is a slave, undeniably, strictly, and in the total fullness of legality. There is no mistaking the brand, the collar, the tunic, the whip. But, then, later, there comes the profound, liberating moment in which one realizes that one is now, in truth, and wholly, a slave.
“You kiss the whip well,” I observed.
“What joy,” she asked, in her tears, in a whisper I could scarcely hear, “can compare to being the true slave of a true Master?”
I drew the whip away, and sat down, cross-legged, some feet before her.