John Norman (40 page)

Toward morning, Brenda in his arms, her wrists tied behind her back, her ankles still untied, Tree said, “I gave them back their arrows. Ugly Girl gave them to me, for them. She did not wish them to die. Do not be afraid for them.”

Brenda then understood the meaning of Ugly Girl’s touch that preceding evening, that she was trying to tell her that she had had returned to Gunther and William the means of their survival.

“Thank you,” said Hamilton.

“Whose slave are you?” asked Tree.

“Only yours,” said Hamilton, “-Master.”

He then used his slave again, quickly, without much thought. He then tied together her ankles. Before going to sleep, he wrapped a robe of fur about them, that of a giant cave bear he had slain the preceding spring. Hamilton pressed her bound body against his, and kissed him, but he did not know this, for he was asleep.

“Hurry, Butterfly! Sew more swiftly!” scolded Hamilton. Butterfly looked up, angrily, and then bent again to the deerskin, thrusting the awl through the doubled skin, one layer at a time, and then pushing the wet sinew, lubricated with her spittle, through the small hole. With her small fingers she drew it tight, but too tight, wrinkling the skin. She looked up, in misery.

“It is too tight,” said Hamilton. “You will bunch the skin.”

“I will not have enough sinew left to finish,” wailed Butterfly.

“You did not measure it correctly,” said Hamilton.

Butterfly looked at Hamilton. About Butterfly’s throat, tied, was a necklace of shells, and claws, and loops of leather, and, threaded on the loops, with the shells and claws, were small squares of leather, five of them, bearing the sign of the Men. The young man, Hawk, had tied it there.

“Old Woman will beat me again,” wailed Butterfly, “with her switch!”

“You must learn, Butterfly,” said Hamilton.

Hamilton stood up. She was happy. She stretched. The spring air was delicious. She threw her hair back over her shoulders with her hands, and a luxurious movement of her head. She wore her brief wrap-around skirt, exposing the left thigh. Besides this she wore only her own necklace, proclaiming her, like Butterfly, as a woman of the Men. She smiled. It had been the hunter, Tree, she recalled, long ago, who had tied the necklace on her throat, in a high prison cave. She closed her eyes deliciously. She gritted her teeth against the surgency of her desire. How she, his helpless slave, loved him! How delicious it was to belong, to literally belong, will-lessly, helplessly, to a strong man, to such a magnificent brute, to a true master of women whose needs and pleasures, and smallest whims, she must gratify and serve with the full perfection of the slave girl, his to command as he pleases. She opened her eyes, happily. Brenda Hamilton, the slave girl, was happy.

Life was different than it had been among the Men. Changes had come about.

“Just hope, Butterfly,” said Hamilton, “that it will not be Hawk who will beat you.”

“Is she not old enough to kneel with the women?” had asked Hawk of Spear.

Spear had looked at Butterfly. “Kneel with the women,” he had said.

“No,” she had cried, “Please!”

But Old Woman had hobbled to her and, seizing her by the arm, drawn her among the women. They had laughed at her. She had knelt miserably among them.

Even before the snow had melted, it was clear that the boy, to whom Butterfly had been often cruel, was ready to run with the hunters. In the winter he had gained many pounds, and some five inches of height, and, even since the melting of the snow, it seemed he had grown the width of another hand. The voracity of his appetite, even among hunters, was a joke in the camp. He was large-boned. Some thought he might grow as large as Spear or Tree. The preceding summer and early fall Butterfly had still been taller and heavier than he, but, now, in the spring, to her dismay, she must lift her head, even to look into his eyes. She was angry and jealous, for he had grown larger and stronger than she, until now there was no comparison between them, and for, soon she knew, he would run with the hunters; he would be a Man. Sometimes she was frightened, because of the way in which he now regarded her; often she caught him watching her body, and how it moved; sometimes she felt naked before him.

One day, even before the last snows had melted, Spear, and the Men, had met below the base of the cliffs. Among, the Men, too, was Knife, who, in the winter, had challenged Spear to be first in the group. Spear had not killed him. Knife’s limbs, set by William, had healed straight. He now said little. He seldom, now, used one of the women, even Flower.

Spear, the left side of his face terrible with its scarring, from the ax of Knife, with the Men, had stood at the base of the cliffs. The women, and children, too, had stood with him.

“Lift this stone,” had said Spear to the boy. He had lifted it. No woman or child in the camp could have lifted it. “Throw this spear,” had said Spear. The boy had thrown it. It was a fine cast. No woman or child in the camp could have thrown it one third so far. Hamilton and the other women, thrilled to see it thrown. Soon, they knew, there would be a new hunter among them. There would be more meat. And he seemed a fine lad. He might make a great hunter. But Hamilton, too, was uneasy. She fingered her necklace. She was a woman of the Men. Should the boy become a hunter she, as much as the other camp females, would belong to him, as they did to the others. “Fetch the spear,” had said Spear. The boy had retrieved the spear. “Do not return to camp,” said Spear, “until it is bloodied.” The boy left the camp. Late that afternoon he had returned. Rolled on his shoulder, tied with hide rope, was a fresh skin, wet and dark. The bluish, chipped stone blade of the spear was stained with reddish brown. He had slain a young, male bear, vicious, irritable, come not more than a handful of days ago from its hibernation. He looked at Hamilton, and Cloud, and Antelope, and another woman, Feather. “There is meat at the rock,” he said, “by the stream.” Swiftly the women, Hamilton, and the three others designated, had left the camp, to fetch back the meat. They took a pole, and rawhide thongs, with them. In half an hour the women, stumbling, two on each end of the pole, the animal tied by its paws to it, returned to the camp. The kill was tied to the rack at the foot of the cliffs and Spear, with his stone dagger, at the animal’s throat, into a leather sack, drew blood. Then the men, with the blood, took the boy into the Men’s cave, back, deep in the cliffs, where the women were not permitted to follow. What they did in the Men’s cave the women did not learn, and would never be told. But when they had emerged, Spear had said, “A hunter is born.” The young man had stood among the men, tall and straight. “This is a hunter,” had said Spear, pointing to the young man “His name is Hawk. He is of the Men!” The men had cheered him. Spear pointed to the earth before the young man’s feet. Short Leg first, and then Nurse, and even Old Woman, and then the other adult females of the camp, knelt before the young man, their heads to his feet. He regarded them. Then he said, “Prepare a-feast.”

“Up, lazy women,” scolded Old Woman, getting up, even hitting Cloud and Antelope with her switch. “Prepare a feast!” The women sprang to their feet to prepare a feast. The children, with the exception of Butterfly, who were standing nearby, leaped up and down and clapped their hands. Butterfly did nothing but, apprehensively, regard the new hunter. But Hawk was now sitting with the men, talking with them. Later he did notice her, with the children. It was then that he had said to Spear, “Is she not old enough to kneel with the women?” And Butterfly had been made to kneel with the women. None of the men had fed her. It was to the new, young hunter that she went last.

“Feed me,” she asked.

He cut a large, hot piece of meat. She eyed it. Then he began to eat it. “Feed me,” she begged.

He looked at her, and she dropped her eyes. When she again regarded him, he said, “We will see if you please me.”

He then rose to his feet, taking the meat and taking, too, the rolled skin of the bear he had slain in the afternoon. He left the fire and she slipped to her feet and followed him. Beyond the edge of the fire, when he had untied the skin and thrown it, spreading it, across the damp turf and snow, she had suddenly, with a cry of misery, fled. In a few steps he had caught her and, carrying her, returned her to the fur, on which he threw her, at his feet.

Tooth called two children away from them, who had wished to watch.

“Feed me!” she wept.

“We shall see if you please me,” he said. Then he dropped to his knees beside her.

In an hour he returned to the fire. She, now naked, her head down, blond hair disheveled, followed him, and knelt behind him. About her throat, visible under her hair, knotted there by the hunter, was the necklace of loops of leather, and claws, and threaded shells; Butterfly was now of the women. Her cheeks were stained with tears. Hamilton regarded her. She thought that, in another year or two, Butterfly would be the equal of Flower. Butterfly reached her hand forth, gently, to touch the hunter. He paid her no attention. Hamilton then saw her lie on her back, eyes moist, reproachful, and lift her body to him. He threw her a piece of meat. She ate it eagerly, kneeling quite closely behind him.

To one side Hamilton saw Ugly Girl lift her body to Tooth. He fed her.

This made Hamilton happy. Then she went to Tree and on her back before him, lifted her beauty before him, arching her back. He threw her meat, it striking her body, and she scrambled up and ate it happily, kneeling behind him. Wolf fed Antelope, and Runner fed Cloud.

No more had been heard of William and Gunther. Tree had, knowing Hamilton would have wished it so, returned their bullets to them. They had gone. There had been no meat for them in the camp of the Men. For more than two weeks following their departure, Tree, in his jealousy, had made her serve him exquisitely well, scarcely permitting her out of his sight. The first two nights, when not using her, he had kept her bound, hand and foot. During the first two days, he had kept her in close ankle shackles, as had been done with her when she had first been only a captive stranger in the camp, not even necklaced.

She glanced at Tooth and Ugly Girl. He held her in his left arm and fed her with his right hand, bits of meat. Huge, homely Tooth, with the prognathous jaw, the extended canine, the lover and teacher of children, cared for the simple, doglike thing in his arm. She held him, and put her head against him. Then she looked up at him, the large eyes wide, soft, moist. She licked him softly with her tongue, and lifted her head again to him, to see if he would rebuff her. He gave her another tiny piece of meat. She could not aspire, of course; to wear the necklace, for she was only of the Ugly People. Hamilton supposed Tooth was fond of her body. It was short, and squat, and round-shouldered, but, from the point of view of Tooth, Hamilton supposed, it cuddled well, and the breasts were not displeasing. Even Tree, Hamilton recalled, occasionally ordered her to cuddle to him, drawing up her legs; it pleased her, too, when commanded, to do so, feeling his strength, his protection, making herself a small, helpless love kitten in his mighty arms. But the face of Ugly Girl seemed so repulsive to Hamilton. How could Tooth stand to gaze upon it? It was broad; the neck was short; the hair was stringy; the eyes were so large, so wide, so simple, so empty. Hamilton wondered how Tooth saw Ugly Girl. Did he see her as she did? Or did he see, or sense, something else in her? How could he stand to look upon her? Hamilton chewed on the meat which Tree had given her. Tooth looked down into the eyes of Ugly Girl. They were soft, wide, moist. He kissed her. Her ‘face, to Hamilton, startled, in that moment, had seemed somehow different than before. She did not understand what it was that she had seen. Ugly Girl now had her head against Tooth’s shoulder. When she lifted her head from his shoulder there were tears in her eyes. Hamilton shrugged; the Ugly People were animals; yet Hamilton was pleased that Tooth should be kind to Ugly Girl. It was she whom the Men had used to steal bullets from Gunther and William.

“Feed me, Master,” wheedled Hamilton, putting her chin on Tree’s right shoulder.

He passed her back a piece of meat, with his right hand, over his right shoulder, not looking at her.

“Here is a piece of sinew,” said Hamilton to the miserable Butterfly, “which I have been saving. It is long enough. Now sew well. Next time measure more carefully.”

“Thank you, Turtle,” said Butterfly, gratefully. She knelt, bending over her sewing.

The brief skin which Butterfly wore about her hips was tanned from a hide, that of a deer, which Hawk had slain. Her first task, after pleasing Hawk, had been the preparation of the bearskin which he had brought back to camp with him. Turtle and Cloud had helped her with it.

It had been evident, from the first, that Hawk had a special interest in slender Butterfly. It was almost always she whom he called upon to serve him. He insisted on exact and total obedience from her, as Tree did from Hamilton. Hamilton could see that the girl, to uphold her self-respect, pretended to resent this, and hotly, but was secretly, as could be seen from her smiles and expressions, much pleased. Hamilton supposed that Butterfly, an intelligent, arrogant, spoiled, vital girl could only respect a man who was her total master. Hamilton, in living among the Men, had, for the first time, begun to understand the ratios of dominance and submission, endemic in the animal kingdom. She saw it in wildlife about her, and among the Men. Had Hawk been crippled by a subsequent psychological conditioning or caught in the meshes of social restraints, Butterfly would have constantly, protected by his imprinted conflicts, his self-alienation, and reinforced by a world invented to exclude hunters, fought him for dominance and, instinctually yearning for his authority to be imposed upon her, she genetically a hunter’s woman challenged him continually, both to his misery and hers. But Hawk was not weak. He could not have been weak, unless there had been a defect in his brain. His world had not been built to make him weak. Weakness is not a useful property of hunters. It reduces their effectiveness. Weakness and gullibility are virtues only in an agricultural world, or a technological one, where, in a complicated network of interrelationships, it is important to keep men bound to the soil, or to their machines or desks. Weakness in a hunter would work against the survival of the group. But this did not mean that Butterfly would not, from time to time, if only to call herself to his attention, or to reassure herself of his mastery and strength, challenge him. It only meant that her subordination, on such occasions, to her pleasure and satisfaction, would be again taught to her, promptly and effectively. Yesterday, Hamilton recalled, when Butterfly had spoken back to Hawk, he had, laughing, taken her by the hair into the woods. There he had switched her a few times and, finishing her discipline, thrown her over a log. She had followed him back to camp, red-faced, but pleased.