Chapter 6
TO THE WAGON OF KUTAITUCHIK

 

Kamchak strode among the wagons, toward the sound, and I followed him closely. Many others, too, rushed to the sound, and we were jostled by armed warriors, scarred and fierce; by boys with unscarred faces, carrying the pointed sticks used often for goading the wagon bosk; by leather-clad women hurrying from the cooking pots; by wild, half-clothed children; even by enslaved Kajir-clad beauties of Turia; even the girl was there who wore but bells and collar, struggling under her burden, long dried strips of bosk meat, as wide as beams, she too hurrying to see what might be the meaning of the drum and horn, of the shouting Tuchuks.

We suddenly emerged into the centre of what seemed to be a wide, grassy street among the wagons, a wide lane, open and level, an avenue in that city of Harigga, or Bosk Wagons.

The street was lined by throngs of Tuchuks and slaves. Among them, too, were soothsayers and haruspexes, and singers and musicians, and, here and there, small peddlers and merchants, of various cities, for such are occasionally permitted by the Tuchuks, who crave their wares, to approach the wagons. Each of these, I was later to learn, wore on his forearm a tiny brand, in the form of spreading bosk horns, which guaranteed his passage, at certain seasons, across the plains of the Wagon Peoples. The difficulty, of course is in first obtaining the brand. If, in the case of a singer, the song is rejected, or in the case of a merchant, his merchandise is rejected, he is slain out of hand. This acceptance brand, of course, carries with it a certain stain of ignominy, suggesting that those who approach the wagons do as slaves.

Now I could see down the wide, grassy lane, loping towards us, two kaiila and riders. A lance was fastened between them, fixed to the stirrups of their saddles. The lance cleared the ground, given the height of the kaiila, by about five feet. Between the two animals, stumbling desperately, her throat bound by leather thongs to the lance behind her neck, ran a girl, her wrists tied behind her back.

I was astonished, for this girl was dressed not as a Gorean, not as a girl of any of the cities of the Counter-Earth, not as a peasant of the Sa-Tarna fields or the vineyards where the Ta grapes are raised, not even as a girl of the fierce Wagon Peoples.

Kamchak stepped to the centre of the grassy lane, lifting his hand, and the two riders, with their prize, reined in their mounts.

I was dumbfounded.

The girl stood gasping for breath, her body shaking and quivering, her knees slightly bent. She would have fallen except for the lance that kept her in place. She pulled weakly at the thongs that bound her wrists. Her eyes seemed glazed. She scarcely could look about her. Her clothing was stained with dust and her hair hung loose and tangled. Her body was covered with a sparkling sheen of sweat. Her shoes had been removed and had been fastened about her neck. Her feet were bleeding. The shreds of yellow nylon stockings hung about her angles. Her brief dress was torn by being dragged through brush.

Kamchak, too, seemed surprised at the sight of the girl, for never had he seen one so peculiarly attired. He assumed, of course, from the brevity of her skirt, that she was slave. He was perhaps puzzled by the absence of a metal collar about her throat. There was, however, literally sewn about her neck, a thick, high leather collar.

Kamchak went to her and took her head in his hands. She lifted her head and seeing the wild, fearsome scarred face that stared into hers, she suddenly screamed hysterically, and tried to jerk and tear herself away, but the lance held her in place. She kept shaking her head and whimpering. It was clear she could not believe her eyes, that she understood nothing, that she did not comprehend her surroundings, that she thought herself mad.

I noted that she had dark hair and dark eyes, brown.

The thought crossed my mind that this might lower her price somewhat.

She wore a simple yellow shift, with narrow orange stripes, of what must once have been crisp oxford cloth. It had long sleeves, with cuffs, and a button down collar, not unlike a man’s shirt.

It was now, of course, torn and soiled.

Yet she was not an unpleasing wench to look on, slim, well-ankled, lithe. On the Gorean block she would bring a good price.

She gave a little cry as Kamchak jerked the shoes from about her neck.

He threw them to me.

They were orange, of finely tooled leather, with a buckle. They had heels, a bit more than an inch high. There was also lettering in the shoe, but the script and words would have been unfamiliar to Goreans. It was English.

The girl was trying to speak. "My name is Elizabeth Cardwell," she said. "I’m an American citizen. My home is in New York City."

Kamchak looked in puzzlement at the riders, and they at him. In Gorean, one of the riders said, "She is a barbarian. She cannot speak Gorean."

My role, as I conceived it, was to remain silent.

"You are all mad!" screamed the girl, pulling at the straps that bound her, struggling in the bonds. "Mad!"

The Tuchuks and the others looked at one another, puzzled.

I did not speak.

I was thunderstruck that a girl, apparently of Earth, who spoke English, should be brought to the Tuchuks at this time—at the time that I was among them, hoping to discover and return to Priest-Kings what I supposed to be a golden spheroid, the egg, the last hope of their race. Had the girl been brought to this world by Priest-Kings? Was she the recent victim of one of the Voyages of Acquisition? But I understood them to have been curtailed in the recent subterranean War of Priest-Kings. Had they been resumed? Surely this girl had not been long on Gor, perhaps no more than hours. But if the Voyages of Acquisition had been resumed, why had they been resumed? Or was it actually the case that she had been brought to Gor by Priest-Kings? Were there perhaps—others—somehow others? Was this woman sent to the Tuchuks at this time—perhaps released to wander on the plains—inevitably to be picked up by outriders—for a purpose—and if so, to what end—for whose purpose or purposes? Or was there somehow some fantastic accident or coincidence involved in the event of her arrival? Somehow I knew the latter was not likely to be the case.

Suddenly the girl threw back her head and cried out hysterically. "I’m mad! I have gone mad! I have gone mad!"

I could stand it no longer. She was too piteous. Against my better judgment I spoke to her. "No," I said, "you are sane."

The girl’s eyes looked at me, she scarcely believing the words she had heard.

The Tuchuks and others, as one man, faced me.

I turned to Kamchak. Speaking in Gorean, I said to him, "I can understand her."

One of the riders pointed to me, crying out to the crowd, excitedly. "He speaks her tongue!"

A ripple of pleasure coursed through the throng.

It then occurred to me that it might have been for just this purpose that she had been sent to the Tuchuks, to single out the one man from among all the thousands with the wagons who could understand her and speak with her, thus identifying and marking him.

"Excellent," said Kamchak, grinning at me.

"Please," cried the girl to me. "Help me!"

Kamchak said to me. "Tell her to be silent."

I did so, and the girl looked at me, dumbfounded, but remained silent.

I discovered that I was now an interpreter.

Kamchak was now, curiously, fingering her yellow garment. Then, swiftly, he tore it from her.

She cried out.

"Be silent," I said to her.

I knew what must now pass, and it was what would have passed in any city or on any road or trail or path in Gor. She was a captive female, and must, naturally, submit to her assessment as prize; she must also be, incidentally, examined for weapons; a dagger or poisoned needle is often concealed in the clothing of free women.

There were interested murmurs from the crowd when, to the Gorean’s thinking, the unusual garments underlying her yellow shift were revealed.

"Please," she wept, turning to me.

"Be silent," I cautioned her.

Kamchak then removed her remaining garments, even the shreds of nylon stockings that had hung about her ankles.

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd; even some of the enslaved Turian beauties, in spite of themselves, cried out in admiration.

Elizabeth Cardwell, I decided, would indeed bring a high price.

She stood held in place by the lance, her throat bound to it with the wood behind her neck, her wrists thonged behind her back. Other than her bonds she now wore only the thick leather collar which had been sewn about her neck.

Kamchak picked up the clothing which lay near her on the grass. He also took the shoes. He wadded it all up together in a soiled bundle. He threw it to a nearby woman. "Burn it," said Kamchak.

The bound girl watched helplessly as the woman carried her clothing, all that she had of her old world, to a cooking fire some yards away, near the edge of the wagons.

The crowd had opened a passage for the woman and the girl saw the clothing cast on the open fire.

"No, no!" she screamed. "No!"

Then she tried once more to free herself.

"Tell her," said Kamchak, "that she must learn Gorean quickly—that she will be slain if she does not."

I translated this for the girl.

She shook her head wildly. "Tell them my name is Elizabeth Cardwell," she said. "I don’t know where I am—or how I got here—I want to get back to America—I’m an American citizen—my home is in New York City—take me back there—I will pay you anything!"

"Tell her," repeated Kamchak, "that she must learn Gorean quickly—and that if she does not she will be slain."

I translated this once more for the girl.

"I will pay you anything," she pleaded. "Anything!"

"You have nothing," I informed her, and she blushed. "Further," I said, "we do not have the means of returning you to your home."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Have you not," I pressed, "noted the difference in the gravitational field of this place—have you not noted the slight difference in the appearance of the sun?"

"It’s not true!" she screamed.

"This is not Earth," I told her. "This is Gor—another earth perhaps—but not yours." I looked at her fixedly. She must understand. "You are on another planet."

She closed her eyes and moaned.

"I know," she said. "I know—I know—but how—how—how?"

"I do not know the answer to your question," I said. I did not tell her that I was, incidentally, keenly interested—for my own reasons—in learning the answer to her question.

Kamchak seemed impatient.

"What does she say?" he asked.

"She is naturally disturbed," I said. "She wishes to return to her city."

"What is her city?" asked Kamchak.

"It is called New York," I said.

"I have never heard of it," said Kamchak.

"It is far away," I said.

"How is it that you speak her language?" he asked.

"I once lived in lands where her language is spoken," I said.

"Is there grass for the bosk in her lands?" asked Kamchak.

"Yes," I said, "but they are far away."

"Farther even than Thentis?" asked Kamchak.

"Yes," I said.

"Farther even than the islands of Cos and-Tyros?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

Kamchak whistled. "That is far," he said.

I smiled. "It is too far to take the bosk," I said.

Kamchak grinned at me.

One of the warriors on the kaiila spoke. "She was with no one," he said. "We searched. She was with no one."

Kamchak nodded at me, and then at the girl.

"Were you alone?" I asked.

The girl nodded weakly.

"She says she was alone," I told Kamchak.

"How came she here?" asked Kamchak.

I translated his question, and the girl looked at me, and then closed her eyes and shook her head. "I don’t know," she said.

"She says she does not know," I told Kamchak.

"It is strange," said Kamchak. "But we will question her further later."

He signalled to a boy who carried a skin of Ka-la-na wine over his shoulder. He took the skin of wine from the boy and bit out the horn plug; he then, with the wineskin on his shoulder, held back the head of Elizabeth Cardwell with one hand and with the other shoved the bone nozzle of the skin between her teeth; he tipped the skin and the girl, half choking, swallowed wine; some of the red fluid ran from her mouth and over her body.

When Kamchak thought she had drunk enough he pulled the nozzle from her mouth, pushed back the plug and returned the skin to the boy.

Dazed, exhausted, covered with sweat, dust on her face and legs, wine on her body, Elizabeth Cardwell, her wrists thonged behind her and her throat bound to a lance, stood captive before Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

He must be merciful. He must be kind.

"She must learn Gorean," said Kamchak to me. "Teach her ‘La Kajira’."

"You must learn Gorean," I told the girl.

She tried to protest, but I would not permit it.

"Say ‘La Kajira’," I told her.

She looked at me, helplessly. Then she repeated, "La Kajira."

"Again," I commanded.

"La Kajira," said the girl clearly, "La Kajira."

Elizabeth Cardwell had learned her first Gorean.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"It means," I told her, "I am a slave girl."

"No!" she screamed. "No, no, no!"

Kamchak nodded to the two riders mounted on kaiila. "Take her to the wagon of Kutaituchik."

The two riders turned their kaiila and in a moment, moving rapidly, the girl running between them, had turned from the grassy lane and disappeared between the wagons.

Kamchak and I regarded one another.

"Did you note the collar she wore?" I asked.

He had not seemed to show much interest in the high, thick leather collar that the girl had had sewn about her neck.

"Of course," he said.

"I myself," I said, "have never seen such a collar."

"It is a message collar," said Kamchak. "Inside the leather, sewn within, will be a message."

My look of amazement must have amused him, for he laughed. "Come," he said, "let us go to the wagon of Kutaituchik."