Si'Wren stepped back and bowed, and said, "I am overwhelmed, and must
think greatly upon what you have said and shown me."
"Aye!" Nelatha whispered. "But tell no one, on your life!"
Nelatha raised her eyebrows significantly, and finally turned away with
a satisfied nod, to return to her perpetual labor of grinding herb into
powder with pestle and mortar.
* * *
Late the next afternoon, a stranger called from without the compound
gate, and the guard answered, and it was breathlessly announced by a
runner boy that a caravan was waiting to enter. There was a concerted
rush by whoever could free themselves from their duties to go and see,
and as the gates were thrown open they beheld the sight of a long line
of human porters, with oxen, and riders upon camels and burros, all
standing idle.
Master Rababull appeared quickly, and more than a few watched fearfully
to see if he would lash out at anybody for recklessly opening the gates
too soon to the strangers, or contrariwise, for not opening them
quickly enough to show his proper hospitality to important visitors.
But when his fierce countenance broke out into a toothy welcoming grin,
it was sufficient reassurance to all that the good times had come
again, and a celebration would no doubt soon be in the making.
The camels were all heavily laden with trade goods, and teams of stout
oxen stood patiently in front of great two-wheeled carts, accompanied
by attendants almost without number.
Under heavy guard entered also a troupe of exotic, half-veiled,
half-naked courtesans accoutered in their virgin colors and finery
(hence their perpetual jesting and self-mockery, for they be no
virgins), seated each upon her own soft-looking little burro. Many
fierce guards accompanied the line of travelers, wielding shining
swords and broad hide-covered shields.
With the gates swung wide, the caravan began it's long drawn-out entry
into the great inner walled compound of the House of Rababull,
accompanied by the loudly proclaimed boastings and pronouncements of
the noble Camel Master's crier, and thereby setting up such a din as to
put all the House astir. It seemed that everyone had stopped to watch,
and all work fell idle as more and more paused and came to gawk.
Master Rababull had girded himself in his finest robes and was by now
in a thoroughly good humor as he marched hither and yon across the
front courtyard, puffed up with unabashed conceit as his servants
voiced loud and shamelessly their praise and admiration for both the
Master and his important visitors.
In a seemingly endless procession, the caravan paraded with stately
dignity through the front gates in a grand display of riches and
home-spun glory. As the long line of great beasts continued to enter
the great courtyard in sedate single file, they halted one-by-one and
stood waiting patiently for their handlers to unload them.
Strapped securely upon their backs were bulging, tightly bound oilskins
and pungent, coarse burr-lap wrapped bundles of herbs, spices, and rare
woods with which to make the finest idols, furniture, and fixtures, as
well as priceless swatches of the most extraordinary block-printed
cloth, and gourds of rare, hard-to-obtain dyes -especially scarlet and
purple- and a cornucopia's horn of other riches.
Before he finally left in a few days for other lands, the Trade Master
would leave behind his entire treasure trove, having exchanged all for
the finest works of Master Rababull's clever craftsmen. The beasts
would be heavily laden with countless intricately graven idols adorned
with gold, silver, copper, ivory, ebony, black- and red-striped woods,
and other rare woods, and gem stones with which to make crudely faceted
jewels for their eyes. The precious stones and metals with which the
idols were adorned were dug out of Rababull's secret underground gem
mines, the precise location of which, under heavy guard within his own
lands, was a closely guarded secret known only to Rababull himself and
the captives who slaved in the mines.
Now, Master Rababull and Slavemaster Habrunt were everywhere, weaving a
web of commands to the servants as everything was seen to.
First, the Camel Master and his entourage must be courteously escorted
to the bath house by servants, who would bathe and minister to their
every whim, and other servants would follow along with baskets of
culinary delights and wine from tall, slender clay vases.
When they were finished with their bath, Master Rababull would hold a
huge feast, as was his general custom. He would be sure to invite
numerous friends, many of them business associates from in and around
the Emperor's city, each with his many fat wives and even more
numerous, wickedly spoiled offspring.
Si'Wren watched as one of the caravan travelers shyly approached the
Camel Master. The other turned and, before the petitioner had been
afforded adequate time to voice his request, nodded his immediate
approval as if being reminded of something that he had already been
informed of by the meekly beseeching one at an earlier time, no doubt a
petition granted during the long journey on the overland trade route.
The Camel Master clapped a reassuring hand on the timid underling's
bare right shoulder, whereupon both walked across to Master Rababull
and bowed low, to which he courteously bowed also. Woe to any, to whom
Master Rababull should ever bow and later become offended by. They
would then find that there was a price for such courtesy which was
beyond their ability to repay, should their lack of good manners touch
upon his ireful eyes.
But for today, it seemed that Master Rababull could see no wrong. His
smile easily set the men to working with greater dedication and zeal
than any whip. It was known that the whip ever shadowed the smile of
Master Rababull. The larger the smile, the longer the shadow cast by
the ever-present whip at his side.
While the Camel Master stood near him, looking on and nodding his
encouragement, the supplicant began talking animatedly and fearfully to
Master Rababull and gesticulating into his own opened mouth, with many
repeated dips of the head in impromptu gestures of respect, and making
praying motions with his hands beseechingly to Rababull, as he
displayed the most genuine and grievous expressions of personal torment.
The man had a toothache.
Rababull showed impatience at first, but then seemed to think better of
the man's plight, and peered somewhat distractedly into the
unfortunate's mouth. After he had indulged the other with various
expressions, by turns, of critical appraisal, agreement, and sympathy,
he gave the nod and granted off-handed approval to the man's immediate
treatment, as he turned to Habrunt and gave instructions.
Habrunt bowed low when he had heard all, and turned to one of several
runner boys who were standing by and sent him out the front gates at a
jog. The boy had no doubt been sent to go and call upon Rababull's
favorite Physician from the city.
Rababull would probably pay outright for cost of this man's treatment
as a gesture of personal favor to the Camel Master, whose successful
arrival from across vast and dangerous lands heralded the advent of
huge new profits to be made in the market places of the nearby city,
and Rababull could well afford to be magnanimous with such riches now
seen to be quite safely and literally in his hands.
It was Rababull who had paid for this trading expedition in the first
place. Si'Wren remembered it's original departure two years ago as an
event of momentous significance and great portent. One never knew
whether any of the caravan's members, or the Master's money, might be
seen again.
Si'Wren continued working, but paused often to watch as the unloading
of the camel train continued, with teams of men laboring tirelessly to
transfer the goods into the heavily fortified and well-guarded store
rooms behind the stables, on the far side of the courtyard.
Suddenly one of Rababull's slaves came running from the back gate of
the compound, which opened out onto the path to the nearby grain
fields. The new arrival ran over and abruptly seized another slave by
the shoulders and began arguing rather vehemently as he shook the
smaller, terrified man in furious anger.
Habrunt stepped over and thrust himself bodily straight into the midst
of the exchange, immediately taking charge.
"Aye!" exclaimed Nelatha, shaking her head fearfully. "What a time to
come looking for trouble!"
"You said it!" Si'Wren agreed readily, with a frown. "But those two
have always been close friends! I wonder what it's all about?"
An argument like that at a time like this was not a good idea, because
the only possible winner would be the Master. Rababull could easily
become angry at both for acting like spoiled children in front of the
newcomers, causing him to be disgraced in front of them, as well as
spoiling his own good humor.
But Master Rababull had not even noticed yet, so there was still a
chance of settling the matter before it got too far out of hand. He was
too busy taking care of the caravan's needs, and a wise Habrunt was
determined that it stay that way.
But the argument, surprisingly, heated up again, with the one slave
persisting in his accusations and waving his arms even more wildly -if
it were possible- than before. Obviously not caring who heard him, he
kept imitating the motion of hitting himself in the eye, and then
shaking his fist at the other slave.
Then Habrunt, with a visible sense of renewed urgency in his entire
manner and physical posture, sent another runner boy scurrying across
the yard. The boy quickly returned with Prut, one of Rababull's biggest
and most trusted slaves.
Nelatha and Si'Wren, still keeping up a pretense of labor as they
watched unseen within the veil of their tent, exchanged dire, fearful
looks.
Prut was a powerful man, and whenever he was called in to help take
charge of a situation, it usually meant grief to whoever Prut was put
after. Prut could lift two times his own weight over his own head,
maybe even more, and although not a giant, he was certainly big enough
by ordinary standards.
A stone-faced Prut listened to Habrunt's instructions, and then turned
and tromped over to a large group of boys who had gathered to help
unload the caravan, and as soon as he had relayed Habrunt's
instructions, the boys all fanned out searching in all possible hiding
places and out-of-the-way corners.
Habrunt, meanwhile, had gone off to the fields, perhaps to go looking
for himself. Whatever it was, it was no small matter. He soon came back
carrying the agonized, writhing figure of a small boy in his arms,
followed by a small crowd of openly angry women and other children.
One-half of the boy's face was covered with blood, emanating from one
of his squinting eyes.
This time the interruption did not go unnoticed, and while the
distracted workmen finished unloading the caravan, with many a turn of
the head, the team of boys that Prut had organized had worked their way
through the courtyard and outlying structures as they called anxiously
to and fro to one-another, and rapidly expanded the territory of their
searches. Others ran out both the front and rear gates and could be
heard out in the fields, shouting to one another as they went about
poking and beating at the bushes with long sticks.
Finally the hue and cry went up from a number of them, and a concerted
chase ensued. Presently, they returned through the rear gates with two
of the biggest boys half-walking and half-dragging a lone struggling
boy, holding the unwilling youngster firmly by the upper arms and hair
to keep him from getting away again.
Habrunt came over and stood listening to them all arguing, and finally
raised his finger and pointed at Prut with a terse word to stand guard
while he turned and marched with an ominously slow, deliberate
reluctance across the courtyard towards Master Rababull. A sense of
dread fell upon the entire assembly, and gradually all fell silent,
watching as Habrunt resolutely approached Master Rababull.
Up until now, Rababull had been deliberately ignoring the whole fiasco.
But when Habrunt finally stepped up to him and bowed low, he turned to
listen, still grandly smiling, and after a few barely whispered words
from the bowed face of Habrunt, Master Rababull quickly turned, and his
smile froze into an expressionless, unreadable, and somehow
all-the-more terrifying mask.
Master Rababull was, after all, many hundreds of years old, the better
part of a thousand, in fact, and no man's fool. He knew men, and he
knew how to deal in kind for kind, and had survived the most evil
schemes that men could throw at him by managing to anticipate them
sufficiently in advance whilst devising even more evil ones in return.
Together, Master and Slavemaster returned to the silent crowd that had
gathered around the two boys, and all of the women, except one old
grandmother, fell away like chaff before the wind. The one woman, whose
name was Breeka, stood her ground, though old and stooped, and her face
was as a gargoyle's, very terrible and unmoving, as if naturally grown
from some dark and twisted tree bole.
If Master Rababull's years exceeded six hundred, and his wit be steeped
in the tap root of the ungood, this old crone was the very epitome of
evil and practically a great-grandmother to him by comparison, with the
crime of the hour engendering within her shrunken breast a fearless,
savage desire for revenge.
Si'Wren felt cold, numbing fear. Something big was up. Something evil.
She knew everyone there. Only the very newest additions to the House of
Rababull did she not know by name as well as by face. She watched with
dire feelings and the gravest of misgivings as Rababull examined the
injured boy who lay moaning and writhing in the arms of his weeping
mother.
Then he turned and questioned the two slaves who had argued, each of
them the father of one of the two boys around whom the entire matter
was centered.
The boy who had previously hidden himself was a known trouble-maker. He
was a bully of the worst sort, always picking on others smaller than
himself. Si'Wren had never known what to think of him, except to steer
clear at every opportunity, for she knew that all too soon, he would be
a man and whereas now was only a pest, would then be dangerous to her
and the other women. The unruly boy had been disciplined before many
times, invariably as much for his actual excesses as for his spiteful
and miserable attitude.
Rababull finally took the little trouble-maker by the arm and
frog-marched him over to the injured boy. He said something to Habrunt,
who responded by holding up the injured boy's head so all could see the
ruined eye socket.
Si'Wren felt an agonized pang of sympathetic grief for the injured
child. She knew him well, and he had always been so harmless and
gentle. Now, the boy's left eye was gone and only a emptily staring,
bloody cavity remained where his innocent soul had once looked out on
the world. Only his good right eye remained, and that one, coupled with
his occasional shrieks, betrayed his continuing agony.
Again, Nelatha and Si'Wren exchanged knowing, fearful looks. Rababull
suddenly ordered several men to seize and hold the little bully's
father immobile before him as all looked on to see what would happen
next.
As Rababull questioned the father of the offending boy, the man, scared
witless, jerked his head back anxiously, and replied loudly and
emphatically in the negative.
Then he looked at his own boy and nodded his head as he gabbled out his
protest of the suggested judgement through lips black-stained from his
secret addiction to some foul intoxicating substance, and Si'Wren could
easily read the gesture.
Not me--him!...
The father was clearly expressing his opinion that whatever punishment
was merited, although it had been charged directly to him as penalty
for his own boy's misbehavior, he clearly preferred the boy to suffer
for his own wrongdoing.
The boy's voice rose to a hopeless wail as Rababull himself stepped
forward without a word and seized the youth, and made a brief motion
over the youngster's face with his hands. The boy let out a series of
guttural screams, and then, his work done as a Judge, Master Rababull
turned and walked back to his unloading without another glance, but he
left behind a screaming boy who had been a bully once too often, with
his crime to be paid for this time in blood. Both boys now had but one
eye.
An eye for an eye.
The suddenly animated crowd turned away with a shared look of
satisfaction at the outcome. Did not every free man do that which was
right in his own eyes, and his neighbor also, whether it be good or
whether it be evil, and the slaves too when they could get away with it?
Even the fathers, both of them, approved. Better a disciplined boy with
one good eye remaining, than a criminal offspring with two evil ones.
Perhaps the little rascal would not be so much trouble to them in
future. If not, there were cases where the other eye had eventually
been put out also, rendering the blinded evildoer a more or less
harmless beggar for the rest of his miserable life.
Si'Wren thought on this with all of her might. The ignominy of it. The
injustice. But what was justice? What, but that which Master Rababull
saw fit to declare so?
She had not been alive too long, especially compared to the hundreds of
years of her Master, but the boy who had been in the wrong was
obviously too young by far to merit such grievous punishment. For one
of so tender years, there were always other ways. The good boy could
have been set free for the sake of his lost eye, for instance, and the
bad boy who had put his eye out could have been taken to the front
gate, the better to watch with his two good eyes, the other go free. To
Si'Wren's mind, that would have been a perfectly fair and reasonable
punishment.
Except that Master Rababull would have lost a valuable slave in the
process. The old idol gods whom Si'Wren had known all her life would no
doubt have strongly approved of Master Rababull's harsh decision. Would
the Invisible God have approved also?
What a question. Si'Wren thought on this, but in the end, she could
only reflect that she could not bring herself to agree with Master
Rababull's harsh decision. Perhaps in time, she might gain a better
idea. It was certainly a question to nag at one's conscience.
Soon enough, as Nelatha had expected, Habrunt sent a runner boy over to
the spice tent as Si'Wren and Nelatha watched silently. The runner boy
stood before Nelatha and breathlessly announced that he needed fresh
salve for the injured eyes of both boys.
Si'Wren could still hear the tormented screams of the boy who had been
punished. He was in agony now not only for his eye, but for the unlove
and lack of sympathy from those around him. The other boy, his smaller
victim, was moaning constantly from his unrelenting agony.
Nelatha turned to Si'Wren and repeated the request, and Si'Wren
hastened to fetch what the boy requested, a salve made from a specially
combined mixture of herbs which could help ensure that neither boy died
from infection and also alleviate much of the suffering they must
endure.
While he waited for Si'Wren to give him the salve, the runner boy,
whose name was Gafa, spoke glibly to Si'Wren and Nelatha of the boys'
fathers requesting that the Physician might see their sons, and of
Rababull hesitating at first, but finally relenting.
Human life was cheap, and Rababull's reluctance stemmed from the fact
that he already owned both men and their families, which left them
nothing further to offer him. Whatever they might promise, was it not
already his?
Did they not already owe him their daily labors for the rest of their
lives anyway, before any of this happened? If both boys eventually died
of their infections, could not Master Rababull's human property breed
more children for less than the cost of the Physician's fee?
But, to further his own glory and honor among men, Rababull had finally
approved this thing, that others might call him gracious. Anyway, the
Physician was already coming for the man with a toothache who had
arrived with the caravan, so Rababull could readily afford to kill
several birds with one stone.
Si'Wren already had some salve in a jar that had been prepared only a
few days ago. She brought this out, gave it a fresh stirring up, and
measured some out into a little clay bottle, which she gave to Gafa.
"See that you do not drop it," she instructed little Gafa, using her
most good-natured tone of voice to remove any sting from her
admonition. "You are fast, Gafa, but enough boys have been punished
today and I do not want to see you punished too."
"I promise I will not, Si'Wren," he smiled timidly and nodded. He bowed
low in peremptory fashion and hurried off in a rush.
Si'Wren watched him in chagrin, knowing that he could easily stumble,
but also that he was invariably expected by those in charge of his
duties to do all things as if he could run like the wind.
Several days old was better than fresh, because the herbs would have
had time to suffuse, whereas, if she had immediately prepared something
from the raw materials, it would not have had time to steep and cure
properly. In Si'Wren's world, that which was fresh and new was not
necessarily that which was best.
Si'Wren heard a gentle swish of the tent veil behind her, and turning,
smiled as she watched Sorpiala enter in all her finery. Sorpiala was
holding something close to her breast, an object as long as her
forearm, folded up in a swatch of natural burlap. The undyed cloth was
the color of cow's milk. It was apparently a rather heavy burden from
the way she moved, as she approached Si'Wren and Nelatha and sought to
unfold the cover to show it to them both. Within was an exquisitely
carved jade goddess with sapphire eyes, still enshrouded in several
layers of semi-translucent, gauzy veils.
She started to hand it to Si'Wren, then hesitated, and seemed to make a
sudden decision as she turned sharply at the last and held it out in a
most abrupt fashion to Nelatha instead, saying, "My arms grow weary;
hold this for a moment will you, Nelatha?"
What happened next was over almost in the blink of an eye, but frozen
forever in the mind of Si'Wren.
The goddess seemed to be almost in Nelatha's outstretched hands, when
somehow Sorpiala's retracted hands seemed to catch at the gauze and
jerk it back, and as it fell, Nelatha was left clutching only the loose
edges of the silken folds.
With a dull clunk the goddess thumped heavily on the hard dirt surface
of the tent floor and broke clean in half. Si'Wren thought she had seen
it already coming apart into two halves in mid-air, but that was
absurd. Why would Sorpiala bring a broken idol to show them? Anyway,
Si'Wren had not seen it clearly and could not truly be sure.
"Oh, forgive me, Sorpiala!" Nelatha wailed as she stared, eyes wide in
abject terror, at Sorpiala.
"What? Oh, it was only a mistake," said Sorpiala, already trying to
console Nelatha.
She turned and smiled brief reassurance at Si'Wren also, to show that
offense had been neither perceived nor taken.
Si'Wren blinked, and, remembering her manners, bowed low, uttering
quickly, "I am most grieved, Sorpiala," in a formal utterance of
deepest consolation which gesture alone seemed appropriate to such an
unhappy event.
"No, it is nothing," Sorpiala said, bending down and picking up the two
broken halves herself to gather up in the folds of the gauze and burlap
again. "Do not worry."
She turned as if about to go, and then paused and looked directly at
Si'Wren.
"Si'Wren, you know, I am not so sure that a goddess which can be
dropped and broken is anything worth believing in. Do you suppose some
time, you could tell me about your Invisible God?"
Si'Wren, caught off guard, smiled hurriedly.
"Why, certainly, Sorpiala," she said. She nodded her head and bowed in
a gesture of respect. "I would be most honored."
"Very well, then, since you seem to know all about it..." Sorpiala said
mysteriously, and bowed in perfunctory fashion. Then before Si'Wren
could say a word, Sorpiala turned and stepped out still clutching
broken goddess wrapped in burlap.
Si'Wren turned away and looked at Nelatha, who was bent over her work
again, grinding and grinding with anxious energy. Nelatha's eyes looked
terrified and miserable.
"Do not worry, Nelatha," said Si'Wren. "Did she not say it was an
accident?" But Nelatha did not say so much as a word to Si'Wren.
After staring at Nelatha a moment longer, Si'Wren finally turned away,
feeling glum, and began to busy herself grinding a new batch of herbs
with the stone mortar and pestle.
Preparations for the caravan feast had already begun. Many of the
Master's fattest livestock were being shepherded into the compound by
their handlers to be slaughtered. Big iron cauldrons had been put on to
boil, for scalding the hides to scrape off the hair. Knives were
sharpened for killing, bleeding, and skinning the animals. By tonight,
all things would be ready for the big feast. But Si'Wren refused to eat
any of the meat, for it was a strange and barbaric new custom.
Si'Wren watched Master Rababull as he marched to and fro in the wide
courtyard, ordering men about and personally seeing to every detail.
The magnificent curls of his long locks swayed rhythmically across his
powerful back and shoulders, while his coarse dangling beard stood out
more stiffly.
Master Rababull was older by far than what might have been Si'Wren's
personal preference, but he was nevertheless a powerful and wealthy
man. She secretly hoped that another, younger man might choose her one
day soon. Many men already had their eyes on her; this she could not
help but notice. She had dreams of a large family with many children
and in-laws, but not, hopefully, as just the umpteenth wife of some fat
old curser.
Master Rababull, Si'Wren knew, already had many wives, and she was wise
enough in spite of her youth to realize that it would be no fun
spending the remainder of one's life in direct competition with an army
of female rivals for so much as the merest bit of time now and then
with one's own husband.
Si'Wren watched Master Rababull turn to make his way across the wide
courtyard yet again in long hurried strides. Always so serious, even
about the business of his many pleasures, such as now with the
anticipated celebration.
As Si'Wren watched incuriously, Master Rababull stopped abruptly
mid-way across the courtyard as he was interrupted respectfully but
unexpectedly by yet another slave, who approached rapidly and bowed
low, clearly needing advice or authority in the furtherance of
something.
After the incident with the two boys who had each lost an eye, Master
Rababull was not in the best of moods. Clearly impatient, he stood
frowning distractedly as he heard the man out.
Si'Wren looked beyond, musing that Master Rababull had been headed
towards the huge, sprawling, open-air mansion which was the actual
House of Rababull, with it's many rooms and beautiful central garden
with a stone fountain that was surrounded on all sides by a wide border
of smooth paving stones.
There, cushions were being laid out so that all of the guests would be
well taken care of when they arrived. He must be sure there was enough
of everything for everybody, and that included floor cushions. None
must have any visible stains or dirt marks on them. Otherwise, some
guest might be insulted.
When it came to fixed seating, invariably the master of the house
himself must unerringly decide in advance who should sit closest to
himself, and who sat on whose right hand, even unto those who must sit
progressively farther and farther from his own seat of honor. It was a
daunting task to so order the hierarchy of the ranks of gluttony, that
none should be insulted by a lower seat than they properly deserved.
Greater men than Rababull had literally lost their heads in sudden
revenge at the sword hands of their former guests for not paying
greater attention to the exacting particulars of such a seemingly
insignificant detail as the proper seating of all guests according to
favor, rank, or privilege. The absence of one important guest, or
unanticipated arrival of another, was always sure to throw everything
into a bewildering chaos of renewed choices over who must come before
who.
To avoid this, Master Rababull chose to let almost the entire house be
used to party in, while he refused to call any seat his own but
wandered about seeing to everyone else's comforts or pleasures, so that
there should be no one spot that could be called better than any other.
An offended brother was more difficult to win back than many cities,
but Master Rababull was already so old and he was no doubt well
schooled in such matters.
Rababull finished his impromptu consultation, and the anxious slave,
having obtained his Master's decision, stepped back with a low bow and
hurried off.
Then as Rababull turned to continue across the courtyard toward the
House, Si'Wren watched as graceful Sorpiala hailed Master Rababull in
her musical voice and pulled him aside with what he obviously regarded
as yet another unwanted distraction. And as Si'Wren looked on unseen
from the spice tent, Sorpiala unwrapped the broken goddess and revealed
it to Master Rababull, talking in a low but animated voice.
Wise Sorpiala, who could always be so proper at even the worst of
times. There she was, soothing a time-conscious Master Rababull's
undoubtedly offended wrath over the expensive, broken goddess. Such a
large piece of jade was surely worth a king's ransom. Si'Wren found it
somewhat amazing the way Sorpiala could resort to her unrivaled
feminine charms to soothe the Master's outrage so confidently. Sorpiala
was clearly greatest in favor with Master Rababull over all other women
in his Household.
Si'Wren looked down at her little clay vase as she carefully filled it,
momentarily distracted. For herself, she would never behave like that.
A proper woman must be modest in all ways possible.
Then Si'Wren paused and looked up again to further observe Sorpiala and
the Master, and started in shock as she suddenly realized that Master
Rababull was glaring fiercely in her direction, as if he could see
through the screening veil of the tent with the eyes of a wrathful god.
Oh no! What could be wrong?! Please, Si'Wren begged her own heart, oh
please let Sorpiala's charms soothe Rababull's off-endedness. Let no
punishment befall her for the sake of the broken goddess.
Suddenly Rababull broke away from Sorpiala and began marching straight
for the spice tent like an avenging destroyer.
Si'Wren looked over at Nelatha, whose head was bent industriously over
her work. Nelatha did not even realize yet that Master Rababull was
almost upon them both. Si'Wren had just enough time to see Sorpiala
scurrying away on swift, dainty little footsteps, leaving the broken
goddess in two pieces on the ground as she made fast her escape--with a
smirk on her face.
Si'Wren's voice froze in her throat as she felt terror. Master
Rababull's face looked so terrible and angry! She was too scared to
warn Nelatha, too confused to think of what to say!
Master Rababull did not bother to come around to the back of the tent
where it was most expedient to enter. He simply stepped up to the front
of it, seized the flaps in both fists, and jerked savagely, ripping
them apart.
Nelatha let out a terrified little 'Eeeek!' as he stepped in and loomed
hugely over her, his trunk-like legs sending mortar, pestle, and all
crashing noisily in a dust heap. Master Rababull reached down and dug
his clawed fingers into Nelatha's long tangled locks like talons of
steel and with a single lifting motion of one bulging arm he twisted
his rippling torso and heaved upwards as he jerked Nelatha bodily to
stand before him. Then with his other arm he reached out and seized
Si'Wren's hair and yanked her painfully before him also.
Standing over them with eyes glaring like lightning and a voice like
thunder, Rababull looked fiercely from one terrified girl to the other
as he shouted, "I was told a tale of a wicked slave who threw down one
of my goddesses, and broke her to pieces, Nelatha!"
But Nelatha, utterly speechless, could only shrink back helplessly from
that terrible stare.
Obtaining no response from Nelatha, Master Rababull turned his awful
look onto a quailing Si'Wren and snarled down at her, "And another was
heard to speak praises of the Forbidden One, the Invisible God!"
He held both paralyzed girls in his iron grip for a long, moment of
dreadful silence. Around her, Si'Wren realized that all the compound
had heard Master Rababull's furious voice and involuntarily stopped
what they were doing to watch. Then Master Rababull turned himself
around with both girls still helplessly in tow and dragged them
physically from the tent by their hair.
"Habrunt!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Habrunt!"
Habrunt came running with two boys trailing close behind him as they
struggled to keep up on their skinny little legs. As he approached he
slowed to a stop and immediately knelt down on one knee and clasped his
fist rigidly across his chest to signify his immediate readiness to
obey Master Rababull, come what may. That he had already taken in the
plight of Si'Wren seemed inevitable, but he betrayed no sign of it.
The two runner boys finally caught up and, terrified by the mask of
rage on Master Rababull's features, immediately threw themselves
face-first flat in the dirt and lay trembling as they fearfully hid
their eyes.
"I come at thy bidding, oh master," Habrunt intoned in his deepest and
most servile do-or-die manner.
Master Rababull stared at Habrunt deliberately for a long moment,
before speaking.
"Slavemaster, I have found corruption, in the spice tent, of all
places," said Rababull. His allusion to the spice tent was especially
ironic, as spices were commonly used to cure infections in the living,
and to embalm the dead to delay the onset of corruption and rottenness
as long as possible. Of course, only those who could pay were so
embalmed. Most could not afford it.
Speaking as to the earth, Habrunt declared emphatically, "Speak, Lord,
and it shall be my will!"
"My prize green goddess has been broken. For this crime, let Nelatha be
slain," said Rababull.
Nelatha's eyes closed as she keened silently in helpless terror.
"And let this little one--" Master Rababull's voice faltered, so strong
and so deep were his feelings for her. "Let this foolish one who spoke
so rashly against her Master's gods, never speak again, only--let her
live."
With that, he hurled both girls to fall prostrate before his kneeling,
perplexed Slavemaster.
"Master," Habrunt protested, "perhaps, with sufficient time for reproof
and correction--"
"You will carry out my commands immediately or you will be next!" said
Master Rababull harshly.
"I hear and obey, Master," intoned Habrunt, clasping his right fist
hard across his chest again as he bowed low in formal acknowledgment.
Screeching hysterically, Nelatha helplessly protested her innocence, as
Si'Wren remained trembling, too shaken to speak.
Habrunt straightened himself up to full stature, and looked stoically
upon the two prostrate girls, his stiffened legs like the trunks of
oaks. Nelatha clutched desperately at his ankles as she continued to
beg for mercy, but his wooden face seemed not to hear her pleadings.
Speaking as if to no one in particular, in a voice as that of one
already dead, he thrust out his right arm empty-handed, and commanded
loudly, "Fetch me a sword!"
Both boys, too scared to think, ran at once into the House. Their
squeaky voices could be heard begging desperately for a sword, any
sword. Si'Wren heard the laughter of some guest, an early arrival, as
he commented upon the humor of sacrificing a human being instead of a
mere animal to commemorate the beginning of the feast. Moments later,
both boys reappeared flying down the front steps and came running at
breakneck speed across the courtyard in returning to a motionlessly
waiting Habrunt, his right arm still stiffly out-held, open-handed.
While all of this was happening, an increasing number of onlookers had
stopped to watch, with the late-comers asking others in hushed voices
what was going on. Upon hearing, each cast by turns horrified looks of
revulsion, disgust, and loathing for Si'Wren and Nelatha, together with
shock, disbelief, and horror at the two pieces of the broken jade
statue, still lying where they had been cast aside by an enraged Master
Rababull. There was no danger of the valuable pieces of jade being
stolen; to touch the broken jade now would mean certain death. No one
was bold enough to say anything directly to Habrunt or the two hapless
girls.
Some of those watching displayed a certain sickening delight at the
sight of a motionlessly waiting Habrunt and the two prostrate girls
kneeling with faces downcast in the dust at his feet.
As the two runner boys dashed across the courtyard to return with the
swords to Habrunt, more people came out of the House to stand at the
head of the front steps to see what had occasioned their unusual
mission.
"Master, here are two swords," one of his runner boys gasped, nearly
out of breath as they both bowed low and held the shining blades out to
Habrunt. But he stood a moment, staring down at the dirt before him, as
if he had not heard.
"One will do," Habrunt said finally, as he looked up, and reached for
one of the shining blades.
With the sword in his fist he stood looking down at Nelatha and she
suddenly paused in her terrified protests, looking up at him with
tear-streaked cheeks as she searched his face with glazed eyes, mutely
imploring him to do or say something to save her.
But Habrunt's countenance was terrible to look upon, so stone-faced and
determined was he now.
"Pray, Nelatha," he said only, too afraid of Master Rababull to risk
more open defiance of either his Master or any temple god.
Nelatha nodded again, jerkily, and bowed her head.
Then, as Nelatha prayed in a series of hysterically rising whispers,
Habrunt slowly raised the sword high into the air in front of a numbed
Si'Wren, held it trembling in his great fist, and then brought it down
in a mercifully swift flashing arc.
Nelatha's prayers were suddenly cut short, and a collection of gasps
was heard from the watching crowd. Habrunt held out the sword behind
him without looking, and the visibly shaking runner boy took it back,
dripping with Nelatha's blood.
Habrunt's eyes, shot through with grief and an inconsolable look of
self-condemnation and awfulness of purpose, looked upon Nelatha's slain
body momentarily. He was no longer Habrunt the kind Slavemaster, to
whom one might look when trouble raised it's ugly head, but had become
an unwilling angel of death instead.
Habrunt finally turned to Si'Wren, who knelt still before him, utterly
speechless and motionless. Looking dazed, she gazed long upon the
bloody corpse of once-cheerful Nelatha, divided in half at the neck,
like the broken jade goddess.
Master Rababull, who was still watching, had said let her never speak
again, but live. What could that possibly mean? thought Si'Wren.
Habrunt reached down and almost lovingly slid his trembling,
work-roughened fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck with his
left hand. As Habrunt tilted Si'Wren's head back her face was lifted up
and her tear-streaked cheeks were revealed beneath eyes looking
ever-trustingly up into his, in absolute surrender to his will,
signifying that she had not the slightest thought of resisting her fate.
But Habrunt could not do what was commanded of him, and hesitated.
There were any number of alternatives, all contrary to Master
Rababull's wishes and hence instantly fatal, but he had a sword.
He could do much with a sword...
Suddenly a third runner boy suddenly came hurrying past them both and
bowed in perfunctory manner as he quickly announced a breathlessly
gasped utterance to Rababull.
"Master, the great Physician is here!"
As Si'Wren lifted up her eyes slowly, her soul quailed at the sight of
Habrunt's upraised fist, yet still she stared submissively into his
tormented eyes, showing that never would she strive against nor resist
he to whom she looked up as to a light in the spiritual darkness for
all of her life however brief. If Habrunt could but know it, Si'Wren
trusted him even more than she ever did Master Rababull or any living
human being.
Then, Habrunt lowered his right fist slowly, as well as his head,
although his left fist remained clenched tightly immobile in Si'Wren's
crush of locks.
"Master, may I speak?" said Habrunt to the ground, as he maintained his
steady grip upon the unresisting girl whose eyes his own had no
strength to meet.
"Speak!" commanded Rababull impatiently. He was barely able to contain
himself in his rage and impatience to get it over with.
Habrunt hesitated further, and dared not look up at his Master as he
spoke.
"Most gracious and noble Master, was not this one greatly in thy favor
before?" pled Habrunt.
He was taking a terrible risk, to speak so boldly of Master Rababull's
former personal fondness for Si'Wren. Master Rababull had but to say
the word, and the remains of Habrunt could end up in the dirt beside
Nelatha.
"What is it?" said Master Rababull, somewhat irritably now, rather than
in a full rage. It seemed Habrunt had struck his mark with the unerring
accuracy of a master archer, as usual.
"Master, I am but a coarse and brutal man, and thou alone art high and
noble and altogether good. Invisible Gods deserve invisible praise,
from invisible voices. If it be your pleasure, let this little one show
with what purity of purpose she might have served her foolish Invisible
God, by swearing a vow never to speak instead. The more she speaks, the
more her Invisible God may be viewed as false."
There was a moment of silence, as Master Rababull thought on this.
"Well spoken, Slavemaster," Master Rababull finally said, his voice
almost back to normal, almost relieved, in fact. "Let her never
speak--forever! If she speak but once, let all bear witness to the
falsehood of her Invisible God by the falseness of her broken vow, and
her life be forfeit! Let her so swear!"
Habrunt had not bargained for this! But what could he do? What was
determined now was not as vile as what had been declared before, hence,
was not enough justification to turn his sword in furious rebellion
against the House of Rababull.
Grief-stricken, he lowered his eyes to Si'Wren, and said resolutely,
"Little one, do you swear by your God never to say one word for the
rest of your days, so long as you shall live and breathe and have life
in you, and to suffer death to yourself and dishonor to your Invisible
God if you should ever fail to do so?"
Si'Wren realized that here was the chance, not only to redeem herself
but her newfound Invisible God as well.
"I swear it," Si'Wren said.
"She has so sworn, Master," Habrunt immediately declared to Master
Rababull.
"Let it be so," rasped Master Rababull. "A fitting conclusion to the
matter."
At that moment, Master Rababull's attention was diverted as he was
approached by the Camel Master. His face remained stern and obnoxious
to look upon, which unintended visage of evil, coupled with the sight
of several slaves carrying away the remains of Nelatha, and the sight
of all the spilled blood in the dust, made the all-observant Camel
Master extraordinarily nervous, although he tried rather desperately
not to show it and failed miserably.
The Camel Master spoke briefly to Master Rababull about something, and
when he had politely heard out the man, Master Rababull turned to
Habrunt.
"Go to now, Slavemaster, and take this silent one with you," said
Master Rababull. "The good Physician must not be kept waiting, for he
will have need of her herbal skills."
As Habrunt listened to the footsteps of Master Rababull and the
obsequiously over-attentive Camel Master receding across the dusty
courtyard, he let out a sigh, sickened by what he had done, and by his
own feelings on the matter.
Harsh, unforgiving punishment must ever hang over Si'Wren's head now,
all because of a broken piece of green rock! Would that Si'Wren was but
stone herself, that she might suffer nothing further. How she trembled
so.
He took Si'Wren gently by the hand, indicating that she should rise to
her feet.
"I am sorry, little one," he rumbled in a low voice when she had risen
to stand upright beside him, speaking so quietly to her that the other
slaves still watching could not discern his words. "Return with me now
to the spice tent and bring what you need, quickly! If any should tempt
you to speak, hold your silence, on your life!"
Si'Wren nodded mutely, waiting for him to lead the way.
Habrunt regarded her a moment, his face unreadable. Then he composed
himself, and in a quiet, firm voice, said, "Come."
He scattered the onlookers, the gleeful and the merely curious alike,
with a wrathful look, and walked Si'Wren to the wrecked spice tent to
help shield her from their otherwise ruinous persecutions. At what
had once been the spice tent Si'Wren trembled at the sight of the
damage. Not only was the tent ruined. Priceless herbs and salves had
been scattered and spilled. The powders of many different sun-dried and
painstakingly ground-up plants had been intermingled in the dirt, and
the bugs were already starting to get into things.
Such was the measure of her Master Rababull's outrage, that he cared so
little for the damage to the spice tent, his own property, in the
course of executing his punishments. The thought of this, and of the
severed body of Nelatha, made Si'Wren afraid to even think of ever
facing her master again, and the fear that possessed her now stifled
any desire to speak, on top of the fact that she had already sworn an
oath not to talk anyways.
"Take what you need," Habrunt said, his face grim. "Hurry!"
His words brought her out of her momentary confusion, and Si'Wren
worked quickly to sort out only that which was needful. Perhaps she
could come back and clean up the rest of the mess later.
When she was ready, she turned and dipped her head in a little nod as a
signal to Habrunt.
Without a word, he turned and led the way. He took her across the big
open compound near to the place where the long caravan of heavily laden
beasts stood chewing their cuds along one high stone wall, just inside
the front gates of the sprawling compound.
He proceeded with Si'Wren still in tow, her small hand engulfed in his
huge one as he approached to where a large number of onlookers was
gathered idly around some unseen activity, and as he approached the
outskirts of the crowd he barked commandingly, "Step aside!" and "Make
way there!"
So speaking, Habrunt shouldered through their midst. When he reached
the center of the crowd, he stood with Si'Wren before the old
Physician, who was already busy at his work with the man with a
toothache from the caravan.
Onlookers were conversing with one another in hushed voices from a
respectful distance, still too fearful to speak directly to Habrunt or
his young prisoner. When a slave met such a fate as Nelatha's, it was
dangerous to risk even the slightest unintentional aggravation. Better
to let well enough alone. None dared say so much as a single word to
grim-looking Habrunt or the timid one he escorted.
Nelatha was dead. Habrunt, supremely miserable, hid his grief and
pretended to ignore them all. When he looked once into Si'Wren's eyes,
he found only continued fear and bewilderment. Well, he had at least
done her this little kindness, and spared her the dread of her original
sentence. Perhaps she did not, even now, realize what had been
pronounced upon her head, before he interceded so recklessly.
That he had actually succeeded in sparing Si'Wren life and limb from
punishment was beyond his wildest expectations, but now she must
forever remain in constant danger of forgetting herself and speaking
out of turn for the rest of her life. Had he really helped her, or only
prolonged her suffering, before the final, inescapable, damning
judgement? Why could he not have thought of a better alternative for
Si'Wren?
"Your pardon, great Physician," he said, boldly stepping forward.
"Aye, what is it?" the white-bearded old Healer asked with a wry and
good-natured impatience, scarcely bothering to look up from his work.
Many bystanders and well-wishers were already there, looking curiously
on at his work as they stood idly by in whispering attendance at every
hand.
"She has brought you the herbs you requested," said Habrunt.
"Good!" the Physician said, studying his patient critically. "Not a
moment too soon."
The Physician took advantage of Habrunt's momentary distraction to set
his mind afresh upon his work, for he was in a crucial part of the
operation, and the patient would never be so ready as he was at that
very moment.
Already in position, he reached in carefully, and clenched down, and
seemed to set himself, and with a nod to those helping him to hold
tightly onto the patient, he pulled hard with a pair of crude iron
pliers or tongs, and yanked out a stinking, rotten, bloody molar from
the jaw of the patient, whose gopher hole of a mouth emitted an
agonized outcry. There ensued a veritable chorus of gasps and
utterances from the crowd.
"There!" the Physician patted the shoulder of the sufferer, as
expressions of relief could be heard from the onlookers on all sides.
"Now, if I may have the herbs I was promised?"
The Physician turned to look directly at Habrunt.
Habrunt looked down at Si'Wren, and said, "Attend, little one!" in a
mild pretense at impatience.
Taking her cue, Si'Wren raised her eyebrows quickly and nodded as she
stepped forward and bowed wordlessly, holding out to the old doctor the
proffered items which she had brought.
"Ah yes," said the Physician, nodding as he sniffed and tasted the
various samples with evident satisfaction. "Whoever prepared these has
done well!"
He turned and said to the dental patient, "You must rinse with this tea
of borage leaf, or the grass that the cattle eat if you run out too
soon. Perhaps also, a little dandelion. Blend it with a pinch of this
barberry herb," he held out in his weathered palm a small leather pouch
noosed at the neck with a cord of dried gut which Si'Wren had furnished
him, "and flush the socket faithfully for seven days. It will stop the
pain and bleeding almost immediately, and you will suffer little or no
infection."
Besides the herbs he was dispensing, the verbal prescription which the
sage Physician had just uttered was known to stop bleeding, and the
anesthetic effect of mere words was already well-known to mothers the
world over in the eternal pooh-poohing of their childrens' many little
wounds of life.
The man from the caravan tried to grin and nod and bow his agonized
thanks all at the same time while moving respectfully backwards to go
and do as instructed. The other members of the caravan gathered close around him to
escort him carefully away. One held up a wine flask, making obvious his
intention to get his comrade drunk, which would afford obvious
immediate relief but no doubt add to his later miseries when he should
awaken with a biting hangover the next day.
Seizing the opportunity, Habrunt leaned conspiratorially close, and
when the Physician inclined his ear Habrunt whispered so low that none
could hear what was said.
As he listened, the Physician's expression became, by turns, first
shocked, then angry, and finally--resigned and infinitely saddened.
He turned his head once, to look critically at the two one-eyed boys
waiting on the sidelines. If he felt anything, it no longer showed on
his wise old face as he studied their identical physical maladies.
Finally, he nodded, turning away from a still-whispering Habrunt and
cutting off the other in mid-sentence.
He was an iron-willed, dutiful man who knew how to do what must be done
when called upon to make decisions. It was not his business to judge
the Master of this House if he, too, did what he saw fit. But he
sighed, a heavy, tired gesture, as if all the evils of the world were a
weight upon his shoulders alone.
Out of a vague sense of fairness, he decided to examine the smaller boy
first, the gentle one who had been innocently victimized, while saving
the bully, on Habrunt's judicious advice, until second.
The Physician called for the two boys with their missing single eyes to
be brought to him. Then, while Si'Wren watched with passionate
sympathy, the Physician prepared to go to work on them.
"Eh--" the Physician hesitated, nodding indistinctly in the direction
of the two injured boys, "--which one did you say first?"
Habrunt made an end of niceties and reached forth an arm,
simultaneously barring the one while favoring the other with one and
the same gesture.
"Ah!" the Physician nodded.
The guilty boy tearfully begged to be helped first or at least at the
same time, but was firmly commanded by his own father to wait his
proper turn.
Waiting patiently until after the interruption was settled, the
Physician beckoned gently to the innocent, smiling in a fatherly
fashion.
"Come, child," he beckoned with a kindly nod of his wise old head.
The little boy hesitated, and Habrunt nodded encouragingly.
"Trust him," Habrunt advised the boy in a quiet but stern tone of
voice. "He is a great Physician, who has been paid much money and come
a long ways to treat you. You must obey his commands without question."
Still somewhat fearfully, but more obediently now, the boy stepped
forward and, at a slight gesture from the Physician, stood motionless
before him.
"Face this way," he smiled, crinkling his eyes. Then he said, "Now that
way." He regarded the boy with just a suggestion of teasing admonition,
and said, "Hold still now."
"That's it," the physician smiled and nodded his approval again
encouragingly, as he inspected carefully. "Aye, I see."
The boy fairly trembled all over, and Si'Wren watched with the others,
mourning the suffering of both boys and temporarily forgetting her own
miseries.
The Physician had turned to rummaging in his kit bag, and now he pulled
out a beautiful unglazed clay jar with dark-colored berry stains all
over the rim and sides. The jar was stoppered with a cracked and
discolored wooden cork.
It seemed only right and proper to the old Physician that the
noble-born Master Rababull, no doubt put on the spot at times by the
mischief of those beneath him, should be the proper court of final
recourse, and in the Physician's view of things, what must be done must
be done. Too bad about the gentle boy's suffering, but right was right,
and the bully had received his just recompense.
"No, that's not it," he said, frowning as he sniffed at the contents.
Although the Physician might secretly have wished for a fairer and less
vindictive world, he could but observe that well had the gods fated
Rababull to be Master.
Could even one of his servants have inflicted such drastic punishment,
and have done it so impartially and without undue hesitation, as he had
just done? The Physician sagely reflected that another could not have
done it at all. Perhaps instead, the other fellow would have become too
emotionally involved and done too much.
Or a man of more timid nature might have betrayed cowardice and chosen
to talk it off haughtily and do nothing at all, thereby engendering a
smoldering spirit of outrage and rebellion in his own subjects. If the
master could not settle the matter to the adequate satisfaction of all,
who could?
But there was more to it than that. What Master Rababull had done was
to make all fear him, and justly so. It was no doubt a telling reason
as to why the man was still alive after so many hundreds of years in
such a deceitful and vicious world.
Anyway, why question what was obviously the will of the gods? Even most
fools knew better than to do that.
He rummaged around some more in the bag.
"Ah!"
He pulled out a soft leather pouch as large as his gnarled hand, and
measured some powder out into his palm. He looked up at the boy,
seeming to estimate his diminutive size and stature visually, and then
poured out a good deal more, peering down and studying the exactness of
the amount with a frown as he openly took the time to gage it's weight
against that of the young boy.
"A little wine is needful," he said, raising his hoary, bewhiskered old
head and looking around vaguely at no one in particular.
At the sight of the Physician waiting patiently with the powder already
measured out into his sweaty palm and ready to be administered, Habrunt
turned to one of his boys and clapped his hands sharply with a terse
nod.
"Do not keep the great Physician waiting!" he admonished sternly. "Get
white wine if you can, or red if you must."
"Aye, Master Habrunt!"
The boy raced off at a dead run, presently to return staggering under
the weight of one of the flasks meant for the party-goers.
The Physician took a small cup from his purse, dropped in the powder,
and Habrunt assisted directly by taking over from the boy and pouring
in the clear, fragrant fruit of the vine. Si'Wren watched as the powder
was commingled to the stained brim with the crystal clear liquid, for
the boy had brought white wine.
Then, in front of the trembling boy, the Physician solemnly uttered a
few gravely-spoken nonsense syllables, and passed his free hand before
him as he gazed deep into his one good eye, and put the cup into his
grasp.
"Drink!" he smiled encouragingly, crinkling his eyes again in the most
engaging and kindly manner, although it screwed up his whole face into
a mass of hairy wrinkles. "Drink every drop, and praise the gods. It is
all you have to do."
The boy took it, held it up, and then began to drink. It was -in
Si'Wren's knowledgeable estimation- possessed of an almost intolerably
bitter taste, but the fine white wine would no doubt commute the
bitterness with it's rare ethers. The boy gasped for air, and declared
bluntly, "It burns in my stomach!"
"Finish it," Habrunt urged firmly.
"Hut!" said the Physician, stopping the boy before he could obey.
The Physician took the cup from the boy, swirled it's contents expertly
to stir up the remaining powder from the bottom, and reached it up to
the child's lips as he soothingly breathed the words, "Drink quickly
now!"
The boy gulped down the rest.
"Now--sit," the Physician said, taking the cup from the boy's hands.
Obediently, the child tried to sit down, and would have fallen clear
over backwards had his mother not anxiously enveloped him in her arms
and ample bosom as she crouched quickly behind him.