“Master Axel,” I said, “reports my capture to my Pani masters.”
“Yes,” said my captor.
“And you are to see to my keeping?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“As is appropriate for my captor?” I said.
“It is to be expected,” he said.
“So I am to be returned to my kennel?” I said. This was the long, low, log-built building, which I shared with several others, in which we would be chained at night.
He looked at me. I could not read his expression.
“I trust I will be permitted a tunic,” I said.
“It is not likely,” he said.
“Then I would be humiliated before my sister slaves,” I said.
“They did not run away,” he said.
We noted a female slave passing, carrying, on her head, a basket, filled with damp male tunics. She was presumably returning either from the river or from one of the laundry troughs, filled with rain water.
“She is shackled!” I said.
“Some are,” he said. “She is probably from one of the port cities. There they know something of Thassa. There is a rumor abroad, hopefully false, that mad Tersites and the Pani intend to take the great ship past the farther islands, seeking the World’s End. It is little wonder then that the slim, lovely ankles of some kajirae, most likely those who would be most aware of the dangers of such a voyage, are now graced by ankle rings, linked by less than a foot of slave chain.”
“I see,” I said.
“Do not be concerned,” he said. “The ankle rings are lovely, and the chain is not heavy. It is girl chain. The whole arrangement is quite attractive.”
“You enjoy seeing us in chains, do you not?” I said.
“Certainly,” he said. “A woman is lovely in chains.”
“I see,” I said.
“Whereas the chaining is effective, as it would be in the case of any animal,” he said, “one must not overlook the aesthetics of this, and the psychology. The obdurate, unyielding metal affords a lovely contrast with the soft, vulnerable, helpless flesh it impounds; how it lies against it, and such. Consider the colors, the textures, the differences in the substances involved. Consider its weight on her limbs. Even the sounds of the links moving against one another can be an informative, illuminating music. Is a woman not beautiful in chains? Indeed, most chainings are designed to enhance a woman’s beauty, such as the sirik. And much, too, is psychological. After all, chained or not, there is no escape for the slave. But seeing her so helplessly confined, and so vulnerable, pleases the male, who naturally relishes having so beautiful and desirable a beast before him, at his mercy. And, too, of course, it has its psychological effect on the female, making it absolutely clear to her that she is a slave, wholly and helplessly at the mercy of masters, as she wishes to be.”
I did not respond to my captor. He need not know how sexually stimulatory to me was the leash in which I found myself, proclaiming me a leashed animal, the slave bracelets which confined my hands behind my back, the weight of chains that I had occasionally worn, even the chain on my ankle in the kennel. How I was stimulated by the bars of a cage, by ropes on my body, by the commands of a master, by the lightness and brevity of a tunic, by my nudity! And my bondage itself, the very condition itself, as I had anticipated even on my former world, that I would be owned and must obey, was a joy to me. How I then pitied free women, and began to understand why they hated us so. We were the most joyful, and truest of women, the slaves of our masters.
“You will return me to my kennel,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“You will be kept in another way,” he said.
“Please,” I said, “keep Laura — keep her for yourself!”
“I do not own you,” he said.
“She would be yours,” I said, “your slave!”
“I thought you hated me,” he said.
“I love you!” I sobbed.
My left cheek, my head struck to the side, stung with the sudden, fierce, angry, open-handed slap of his smiting right hand, and I might have reeled and fallen, save that his left hand, its grip close to the leash collar, held me upright, in place. Tears streamed from my eyes, and my cheek burned with pain. He relaxed his grip, enough that I could get to my knees, and I knelt before him. I must look up at him, for the leash was pulled up, taut, and tight, gripped in his fist. “Forgive me, Master,” I said.
He looked down upon me, with a savage, angry, ferocious light in his eyes, with all the contempt with which the free may regard a slave.
“Even a beast may love her master,” I said.
“Do not dare speak of love, you blasphemous she-tarsk,” he said. “You are not a free woman but what you should be, a meaningless slave. You are an article to be used, an object purchased for work and pleasure, for inordinate raptures of unspeakable pleasure, to be derived from your body whenever and however a master might please.”
“So use me!” I begged.
He drew back his right hand, again, angrily.
“Please do not strike me, Master!” I said.
He lowered his hand, but he kept the leash taut. I was unable to lower my head.
“Does Master not want Laura?” I asked.
“You should be fed to sleen,” he said.
“You muchly caressed me in the forest,” I said. “You made me such that I could not help but respond to you as a slave girl to her master.”
“As you would do to any man,” he said.
“We are slaves,” I said.
“There was no other at hand,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He relaxed the leash, and I put down my head, gratefully.
“I thought Master might want Laura,” I said.
“Laura,” he said, “is worthless.”
“Still,” I whispered.
“We must see to your keeping,” he said.
“Buy me,” I begged.
He laughed, but I did not care. In begging to be bought, one acknowledges that one can be bought, and thus acknowledges that one is a slave. But I did not care. I was a slave. I had known this from long ago, from the time transforming changes had occurred in my body, a consequence of which was my realization that I belonged in a man’s collar.
“Who would want a worthless slave?” he said.
“I think many men,” I said.
“Your face is acceptable,” he said, “and you are not badly curved.”
“Surely,” I said, “there is a slave ring anchored in the floor of your hut, to which I might be chained.”
“To the same ring to which Asperiche is chained?” he said.
“If it be Master’s wish,” I said.
“I do not chain just anything to a slave ring,” he said.
“I am sure many men would find me acceptable at such a ring,” I said. “And was it not Master who brought me to the collar?”
“You are an insolent she-sleen,” he said.
“The whip will teach me timidity and deference,” I said.
“On your feet,” he said.
I rose up, and stood before him, head down.
“I am not to be returned to my kennel?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“And I am not to be taken to your hut?”
“No,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
He then turned about, and I followed, on the leash. He began to descend toward the river. On the way, we passed a number of slave girls, several of whom smiled contemptuously as I was led by. “Fool,” said one. “Caught slave,” said another.
At the shore I looked across the broad Alexandra. The remains of the framework in which the great ship had been built were to my left, and, a hundred paces or so to my right, was the eastern end of the long dock at which the great ship was moored. North of the dock, amongst some of the shops, and workers’ huts, I saw the high pole at which was flown the long, some yards long, unfurled, wind-whipped, scarlet triangle of silk, which I had been informed was the “ready banner,” the banner that was put in place three days before departure. But neither, at that time, my captor nor myself knew when it had been hoisted into place. He would doubtless soon learn, whereas I, if I were to inquire of a free person, might be cuffed. Curiosity, as it is said, is not becoming in a kajira.
Standing at the edge of the shore, I could see, across the river, some of the buildings, and the mysterious stockade, which had excited my curiosity in the past. I gathered that there might be special supplies stored there, even treasure. One story was that slaves were held there who were too beautiful to risk holding in Tarncamp or Shipcamp, for fear men might mutiny to claim them. I thought it quite possible that high slaves might be housed there, and perhaps unusually beautiful slaves, or exotics, or such, but I did not think there would be that much difference between one girl on a block and another. Unusual prices are usually the results of unusual goods, or unusual market situations. One would expect, for example, that an unusual dancer, a trained physician, the daughter of a defeated general, or such, might go for more than another slave, even if the other slave might, for most intents and purposes, be an equivalent, even a better, buy. For example, two of my friends, sister slaves, kennel sisters, Relia and Janina, I thought, were quite beautiful. I did not expect many slaves to be more beautiful than they. Too, men may see beauty differently. One man’s pleasure slave may be another man’s pot girl, or kettle-and-mat girl.
At the edge of the shore, there were several small boats tied in place, to stakes anchored in the beach, some, long boats, propelled by several oars, and others, smaller boats, propelled by a pair of oars. These boats sufficed for traffic across the river. They were not equipped with the weights and cords, the water-tight cabinets for marking tools and charts, used by the fellows who regularly plotted, and sounded, the river’s sometimes treacherous depths and channels.
“Master?” I said, gazing across the broad, shimmering waters.
“Oh!” I cried, taken by the hair and flung down, on my back on the beach. I squirmed, trying to avoid the pebbles.
“Master!” I said.
But several coils of rope were tying my ankles together and then more rope was being tied about my calves and thighs. I was then put to my stomach, and I felt the small key inserted into the locks of the slave bracelets, and they were removed and, I suppose, placed in his wallet or pack. Then my hands were tied behind my back, and more coils of rope, as I was being positioned, rolled, and turned, were being put about my body, binding my forearms in place, and reaching, in coil after coil, even to my shoulders. These were no lovely, silken cords, supple, delightful cords, bright with color slave cords, suitable for the attractive binding of a secured, helpless slave, but were a common, coarse ropage, the same, it seemed, as that which tethered the boats in place. “Please, Master!” I begged. I squirmed, swathed in the coarse constraints. I was uncomfortable. “Please, Master,” I said, “the ropes are coarse. They scratch. I am tightly bound. I can hardly move.” He had left the leash collar and leash on me, and now, by it, pulled me to a sitting position on the beach. “Please, free me, Master!” I said.
“You are a she-tarsk,” he said. “Does a she-tarsk object to being bound as what she is, a she-tarsk?”
“Master!” I said.
Then he pulled me to my feet by the leash under my chin, and I could not stand upright, as I was bound, my ankles closely crossed, save for his left hand on my arm, and his right hand on the leash, close to the collar.
“I am only a female slave,” I said. “I am much smaller and weaker than you. Please show me mercy!”
He then scooped me up, lightly, and carried me to one of the nearby small boats, one with two oars, and put me on my back, roughly, on the boards, at the bottom of the boat. The lower part of my body would then be between his feet, and partly under his seat.
He must then have freed the boat from its mooring, for he was wading beside it, thrusting it into the river, and then he entered the boat, took his seat, freed the oars, set them in place, and began to row.
As he was rowing he was facing me, naturally, and the closer shore. He could not see where the small craft was going without turning about. I, on the other hand, as I was situated, might I struggle to a sitting position, could see around him to the opposite shore.
I tried to struggle up a bit, to see, but his foot pressed me back to the boards. Yes, I thought, angrily, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira! So I lay back on the boards. I looked up. The sky was quite blue, and cloudless.
We had been some Ehn on the water, when I realized he was looking at me.
“You are a pretty package, partly tucked beneath the thwart,” he said.
“Where are we going?” I asked. “What are you going to do with me?”
He smiled.
“Yes, yes,” I said, “but we are curious!”
“But it is not becoming, is it?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. I roiled in frustration, with helpless frustration. The boards were rough, and hot from the afternoon sun. Our lives, our destinies, our fates, are in the hands of the masters! Do they think we have no interest in what is going on, in what is to take place, in what is to be done with us? I twisted futilely in the ropes, unanswered, uninformed.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“How you torture us!” I said.
“How so?” he asked.
“Where are we going, what is to be done with me?” I cried.
“You are in a collar,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“One does not explain things to beasts,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. There are many sorts of things involved in this practice, of course. For example, in not explaining things to a slave it is made further clear to her, as if she needed further proof, that she is negligible, that she is a slave, an animal, a beast. Would one, for example, feel it incumbent on one to explain things to a sleen, a kaiila, or verr? Too, of course, if the slave is kept ignorant, or uninformed, one has much more control over her. She is more helpless, more at one’s mercy. But surely, too, the masters enjoy treating us as the slaves we are, in their thousand small ways. Is it not part of the pleasures of the mastery, finding amusement in keeping us in ignorance, in frustrating our desire to know? Why should we know, we are slaves! It is a small thing, but it is very real. So let us suffer in our unease, our anxiety, and our helpless frustration. Let it be so; we are slaves! But, too, I wondered, lying before him, bound, do we not want it so, and is it not pleasant in its way, finding ourselves helplessly subject to this deprivation and torment; is it not a reassurance to us that we are truly what we wish to be, slaves.