Mariners of Gor

Chapter Ten

I lay in my bunk, weak with hunger.

From day to day, usually at night, one fellow or another had left the ship, following in the wake of mutineers, from weeks ago, descending to the ice.

But few now would essay the ice, if only from weakness.

Pani no longer policed the work areas. There seemed little point in it now, now that all, in a few days at most, would be lost.

It was all we could do, in the last few days, to keep the ice from crushing the ship.

And it is all pointless, I thought. What does it matter now? Thassa, like the ice itself, was patient. Some men had cut their own throats.

I wondered if they were still feeding the slaves in the Kasra and Venna keeping areas. I supposed so. Men are fond of their animals, verr, kaiila, slaves. Cabot, I knew, shared his own meager rations, now reduced to meal, with a sleen. The name of the sleen was Ramar. It was lame.

It was two Ahn until my watch.

I lay in the bunk, worn, and, I thought, half mad. I was literally afraid I was losing my mind. Yesterday, half delirious, I had had the absurd notion that the work had been less arduous.

The watches, I had later learned, had been shortened.

It was now late in the Waiting Hand.

During the Waiting Hand, in Cos, as elsewhere, surely in Ar, I do not know how it is in Brundisium, one does little. It is a time, in effect, of fear, misery, despair, and mourning. The shops are closed. The streets are empty. Many doors and windows are sealed with pitch, to prevent the entrance of ill luck. Too, commonly wreaths of laurel or veminium have been nailed to the door. Ill luck, as is known, cares little for either. One remains indoors, one eats little, one seldom speaks. One waits, for this is a time of terror, to see if the world will end, or begin once more. It is the year’s end. Some cities have been attacked during the Waiting Hand, sacked, and burned, citizenries refusing to leave their homes, refusing to take up arms, at such a fearful, inauspicious time. It is doubtless all madness, and groundless, but still few will willingly go abroad at such a time. Even the higher castes are uneasy at such a time.

Yea, it is a miserable time, the Waiting Hand, but I tell you nothing.

I lay in my bunk, hungry, and weak.

I hoped I could respond when my watch was called. Some men, good men, could not.

I had made my way at times past the Kasra and Venna areas. Few were the sounds that now emanated from those places. Within those holding areas I had little doubt that the large women, the whip slaves, muscular, freakish, and mannish, with their switches, thinking themselves the truest of women, perhaps because they were the most like men, would take the largest and best portions of food for themselves. How they would abuse the smaller, beautiful, more feminine women in their power! It was interesting how some women, such large, gross, misshapen, unhappy women, could hate other women, smaller, lovelier women, clearly, fittingly, and appropriately the slaves of men. Did they envy them? It was hard to say. Certainly slaves feared them, even as they did free women, who despised them for their weakness, needs, and bondage. But such gross women, slaves, would kneel, tremble, and grovel, no differently from their smaller, fairer sisters, before a free woman. It was no wonder then that lovely slaves looked to the protection of males from such gross brutes, and free women. What hope had they for safety, understanding, and compassion, and happiness, save from males who would relish their beauty and master it, uncompromisingly, putting it to the purposes for which the slaves knew it had been formed by nature. To be sure, I had seen such gross slaves occasionally taken in hand by a man, to whom, and before whom, they were as small, weak, and helpless as the lovelier slaves had been to them, and before them. Such gross women, sold perhaps for a pittance, and taught the meaning of their sex, if only by the whip, discovered the femininity they had thought nonexistent, and had professed to despise in their smaller sisters. They, too, suitably mastered, as women may be, soon learned themselves, and love. One need not be a gold-piece girl or a silver-piece girl to be fulfilled in bondage. Now they know themselves, and gratefully, and humbly, as mastered females, as only another sister in bondage.

I thought of Jad, her opulent streets, of the countryside, of the terraces of Cos, of her grapes, fresh, sweet, and full, of Ar, of glorious, imperial Ar, with its countless towers and its wide boulevards, of the occupation, of my squad, of the rising in the city, the flight to return, the welcome we did not receive, the poverty, the casting about, of Telnus, her taverns, her harbor, and shipping, of the Metioche, and of the great ship of Tersites. And I thought of a slave in my collar, at my feet, looking up at me, knowing that she was mine. I wondered if I should permit her clothing.

It is interesting how the body of a woman in bondage increases in sensitivity. Part of this is doubtless due to the fact that she is likely, if clothed, to be lightly clothed, in, say, a tunic or camisk. Thus she is likely to be very aware of a gentle movement of air upon her body, of the stirring of a bit of silk, or rep-cloth, against her thighs, of a wisp of hair against her forehead, of the feel of a mat or the knap of a rug, or the smoothness of tiles, beneath her bared feet. But I think that only a small part of this increase in sensitivity is due to garmenture. Most, and by far the greater portion of this awareness, seems clearly consequent upon her condition itself, that she is owned, that she is bond. This brings her alive in ways incomprehensible to the free woman. Hearing the step of her master on the stairs, or beyond the door, she may suddenly become aware of the exact feeling of the collar on her neck, his collar, which she cannot remove, a sensation of which she had been heretofore totally oblivious. And perhaps she hopes he will chain her helplessly on the furs at the foot of his couch, and then, with merciless sensitivity, with a master’s ruthlessness and gentleness, with severity and kindliness, remind her that she is a slave, only that, forcing her to endure, for Ahn, at his pleasure, perhaps for a morning or afternoon, or a day, the ecstasies of slave orgasm after slave orgasm. Certainly her senses, too, become alive, as they were not prior to her embondment. She discovers, now a half-naked slave, an animal, a new and rich world, one filled with fresh and remarkable sounds, scents, sights, touches, and tastes. Surely this world was there before. But before she was not owned, was not in her place in nature, as a female, was not before in a man’s collar. Why is it she was never aware of this glory before? Surely wind had always whispered in the tall green grass, and stirred the shimmering leaves of the Tur tree. And in the public garden she only now becomes aware, following her master, heeling him, that the rich sequence of blossoms is not only arranged like music, with its color, tint into tint, shade into shade, tone into tone, to dramatically enhance the delight of a walk, but there is another music, as well, a planned melody of scent. Much thought, much art, much arrangement, much planning, goes into a park, a garden. And how beautiful are the towers against the evening, stormy sky, the light of Tor-tu-Gor half hidden in the dark clouds. Did she never notice before the stateliness of a kaiila’s gait, that sinuous movement of a sleen’s spine, as it moves, avoiding open spaces, the tidelike mightiness of a tarn’s wing, as it preens. And the world becomes so rich, too, to the touch, to the fingertips, the feet, the lips, the body. What do free women know of the weight of chains, and their sound, of the feel of one’s limbs bound back, coarsely, with rough rope, of one’s wrists thonged quickly, snugly, behind one’s back, of the clasp of slave bracelets, of the feel of the floor on one’s bared knees, of the feel of the whip to one’s lips and tongue, as one performs whip-love before the master, rendering to a symbol of his mastery its due reverence and homage? And, of course, there is, too, taste, that of the bit forced back, between her teeth, and fastened there, of the gag, the disgusting horror of slave wine, the delicious releaser, inspiring terror, the taste of simple, plain food, perhaps from a pan on the floor, when one is hungry, its quantity well monitored, the spoonful of ka-la-na for which she has begged, the joy of savoring a tiny, hard candy thrown to her, or fed to her by hand, for which she has waited long. The slave girl knows many small, homely joys, and appreciates them, and treasures them, in ways the haughty free woman, secure in station and status, can only mock. But let her wear the collar and she will soon become aware of the preciousness of tiny things, wondrous, marvelous tiny things, longed for and hoped for, things which she might, hitherto, have held in disdain or contempt. It is little wonder that the female slave, owned, and mastered, is alive in a thousand ways undivulged to her free sister.

I thought of a particular slave. If I owned her, I thought I would keep the name Alcinoe upon her. It is a nice name. Too, I thought it appropriate, as the women of Ar, or the most beautiful of them, at least, are worthy only to be the slaves of such men as those of Cos.

To be sure, she would be worth much in Ar. I wondered if she would be worth more at the foot of a man’s couch.

I supposed that would depend on the man.

I would have to give the matter some thought.

I then, weak, and miserable, fell asleep.

I awakened to a gigantic crashing noise, deafening, almost like dry thunder, and thought the ship was done. Thassa had claimed her. She had lifted her and broken her apart in her mighty fist. Surely, any moment now the great vessel would settle, water pouring in through broken timbers. Then, too, I was suddenly terrified, because the sand glass had emptied. I had missed my watch! I had not been summoned. One can be flogged, with the snake, under which men have died, if a watch is missed. Men have been cast overboard for such an omission. But no one had come for me, calling out, shaking me, pounding on the door. Had there been more desertions? Had the last watch, mad with hunger, sought the ice? Then I heard much shouting. I could make little out of it, and, as I tried to piece together the shreds of my confusion, my fear, the noise about, it became clear to me that the shouting was a shouting of joy, and I heard hundreds of feet hurrying down the low corridor and up companionways. From somewhere I heard a number of voices raised in an anthem of Ar, and, but moments later, I heard its answer, a lusty song of Cos. I fled from my quarters, half-clad in furs, and hurried up the nearest companionway, and the next, continuing until I reached the open deck, and saw hundreds of men, many gathered near the bow. I climbed a bit up the forward mast, and was not alone, for some clung to it before me. On the deck, men were pointing forward. Before the ship, as far as I could see, the ice had broken.

The Waiting Hand was done.

Today, I realized, was the first day of En’Kara, the first day of En’Kara-Lar-Torvis, the Vernal Equinox, the first day of Spring.

The world would begin again.

Too, in the distance, I could see a spume over the water, like a thread of vertical fog, like a line, then drifting apart, like a cloud, where a whale had emerged. And then another. The Red Hunters, I had heard, hunt such beasts in skin boats. On both port and starboard, I heard, too, the opening of the galley nests, and the extension and rattling of davits. Galleys would be lowered to the ice, and slid toward the open water. In a few Ehn I saw the first galley, to shouts of gladness, slip into the open water. Many soldiers were on board, with ropes fastened to spears.

On the stem castle I saw the small, crooked, frenetic figure of Tersites dancing, lifting his hands to Tor-tu-Gor, and going to the rail, from time to time, to shake his fists down at Thassa.

I did not think that was wise.

Eyes had not even been painted on the ship.

Suitable ceremonies had not been performed.

But even Thassa, it seems, could not alter the orbit of a world.

The Waiting Hand was done.

The world would begin again.