On and on, to the tenth and final lash.
Gasping for breath, his face, hair, and naked torso streaming with
sweat, Habrunt held his hands low in the tall grass, and made sure that
no one saw when he took a small leather pouch from the left side of his
belt, swollen with animal blood, pinched it's contents upwards and drew
the end of the whip through it several times to coat it. Then he also
dipped the heads of a handful of long severed wheat stalks in the blood
pouch and shook it over Si'Wren, spattering her skin liberally with the
blood.
Then he knelt down in the tall grass so low as to be completely out of
view from anyone watching, stooping close beside Si'Wren.
Still in shock, Si'Wren watched as he scooped up a handful of small
pebbles and cupped his hand carefully as he poured them into the pouch.
Without a word to her, he noosed the pouch and knotted it tightly so
that it's contents might not chance to escape.
Then he rose to full stature and he stood over her, his face
expressionless as he coiled the bloody whip and held it in a
red-stained fist. Without so much as a backward glance at her, he
turned on his heel and marched down the slope to the stream, where he
cast the pouch far into the middle of the peaceful beaver pond. It hit
with a small splash and sank. Because the pond was on the far side of
the hill from the others and blocked them from view, none saw what he
did.
Then, finished, Habrunt turned and marched off to make his regular
rounds.
Up on the top of the hill, Si'Wren lay motionless in the grass, utterly
bewildered.
Each time Habrunt had cracked the whip at her she had cringed
involuntarily, only to hear as it banged harmlessly above her and spent
it's fearsome energy upon the air before falling uselessly across her
prostrate and quivering body.
After her first bloodcurdling scream, she had lain silent and only
trembled uncontrollably each time at it's evil, snakelike touch,
fearing that he had simply missed, and that surely the next delivery,
or the next, should not fail to find it's mark. Of a truth, she was
covered with the rain of fallen grain stems, cut by the whip as by the
sharpest scythe, and her eardrums still rang from the deafening bang of
the whip-crack so close to her head, but there was not a single scratch
on her.
As soon as Habrunt had gone, Geth himself came scurrying as quickly as
his bent frame could carry him up the opposite slope of the hill, with
a group of field hands following fearfully behind him.
The fact that Geth the Fieldmaster had not so much as looked back at
them with the usual admonishment to return to work only emboldened the
other slaves to follow all the faster on his heels, the sooner to see
to the poor girl's condition. Most whippings were conducted with
punishment in mind, something to return the violator to useful duty.
But what they had witnessed from afar was the virtual destruction of a
human being, and they expected to find almost a slaughtered corpse,
something more akin to the remains of a wild animal attack.
When they finally arrived on Geth's heels at the top of the grassy
knoll, they found Si'Wren looking about her with a dazed expression,
propped up on one hand in the soft grass with which she was sprinkled,
totally unscathed.
"I see blood on her, but--the maid is unharmed!" cried one man in
disbelief.
"There's blood in the grass!" cried another.
"It's a miracle!" cried a woman in a quivering voice as she sank to her
knees and raised her hands to the sky. "Gods be praised!"
Old Geth surveyed the scene with a sage and skeptical eye, considering
all as he shook his tired old head, looking down at the mysteriously
unharmed girl. She had suffered so much already. What Slavemaster
Habrunt had accomplished was good enough at the fore, but--where would
it lead to in the end?
But finally he threw up his hands in the air and bowed low his hoary
white-haired old head, as he cried out loudly with the others, "Ahh,
what a miracle is done here, for with mine own eyes did I see the
cruelly flayed flesh of this poor wretched girl, and her wounds all
laid open like gaping mouths and the slitted bellies of so many gutted
fish!"
"Aye," cried out a stout middle-aged slave-woman, picking up on the
pretense the better to seem a part of the miracle herself, although she
could not have cared less if Si'Wren had lived or died. "The red flesh
closed up again before my very eyes!"
Si'Wren, watching them all as if they were mad, found no difficulty in
holding her peace in the face of such folly. Indeed, although she had
always been upright and honest in all her dealings with others as to a
fault, she could in all good conscience speak no evil thing this day,
for she was sworn not even to speak anything at all for the rest of her
life.
"Did you not feel the cruel whip against your flesh?" cried the stout
woman to Si'Wren. Si'Wren stared at her wordlessly a moment, then
nodded once, abruptly, with an expressionless, emphatic look. It was
only the truth, for after every time the whip had banged above her
head, it had fallen harmlessly upon her immediately afterwards.
Geth, momentarily unnoticed in all the excitement, studied Si'Wren a
moment longer.
"Come!" Geth clapped his hands in stern, proprietary fashion.
"Everyone; back to work! Have you all so soon forgotten your duties? To
the fields, lest the Master see you so slack, and tempt the gods to
work more such miracles on your backsides!"
At this, the foolish gawkers fled from their marveling over Si'Wren
and returned anxiously to their work in the fields.
* * *
Slavemaster Habrunt approached his Master Rababull and dropped to one
knee as he bowed low, and clapped his right fist across his hairy chest.
"You called, oh Master."
It was in the afternoon, and Master Rababull had heard strange tidings
from the slave quarters.
He had sent for his Slavemaster to come to one of the most ominous
places, the head of the wide, hand-hewn stone steps leading up the
broad entrance of the House proper. It was where Master Rababull
frequently met with those in whom he had found reason for some
particularly odious displeasure, and the significance of this was not
lost on Habrunt, who was at pains to look oblivious.
"Slavemaster," said Master Rababull deliberately, "did I not command
you to punish my servant Si'Wren for her reckless abuse of one of
Sorpiala's noble slave-cohorts? What is this mad talk I hear about
'miracles'?"
Habrunt kept his head bowed, eyes locked on the stone steps as he
replied in a low, and what he hoped would be a genuinely confused tone
of voice, "I know not, Master Rababull. I only know that I fulfilled my
Master's wish to punish the servant; ten lashes of the whip, which I
laid upon her as commanded."
"Interesting," ruminated Master Rababull.
Not looking up, Habrunt found insufficient reason to respond to the
informal remark of his Master.
"Look at me!" said Master Rababull, his voice sounding tighter.
Habrunt lifted his head without expression and regarded Master Rababull.
Behind Master Rababull was a blood-encrusted bull whip coiled on the
flat top of a waist-high stone pedestal which stood beside the House
entrance proper. The blood was the color of rusted steel, and the
fearsome braided leather bull whip was never placed on the stone
pedestal -nor left there for very long- unless it's owner had found
some particular reason and intended to use it in very short order.
Master Rababull regarded his chief underling with a faint sneer and
barked, "Swear to me Slavemaster that all you have spoken is truth and
that my every command was obeyed to the fullest!"
"I, Habrunt, so swear it!"
Habrunt dared not say more. One must be utterly unshakable, and make no
effort to justify one's self upon another's blind graces at such a
time. Was he not entrusted with the charge of all the slaves of the
House of Rababull? Should he then waste mere empty words with such
self-justification as any common thief would not hesitate to do?
Master Rababull said nothing to this, but remained frowning silently
for a long time. Suddenly he turned and clapped his hands, cocking his
head in an imperious gesture and called, "Bring her in!"
Huge and powerful, Prut promptly emerged from the House, where he had
obviously been waiting all of this time just out of sight. His big fist
held Si'Wren's thin upper arm in an unshakable grip as he escorted her
forward to stand in front of Master Rababull at the top of the front
steps.
Others who happened to be going about their duties in the huge
courtyard began to stop and stare, but said nothing lest they should
suddenly become unwilling victims of Master Rababull's unpredictable
wrath and irritation. Danger lurked. Let the slightest offense occur
now, and it could mean certain death to the offender regardless of the
reason, for here was every sign of a fearsome judgement already in the
making.
Si'Wren stood before Master Rababull and Slavemaster Habrunt, eyes
downcast as she waited for it all to begin again. The horrible
pronouncements, the endless anguish, the shame and torment--this time
with the promise of real punishment. In her heart, she was utterly
defeated. There was no hope anymore. There was only Master Rababull's
relentless, inescapable justice, and this time his word must surely
spell her doom.
Master Rababull regarded her, and tossed an open-handed gesture to Prut
that he might release Si'Wren's arm.
As one totally insensate to his immediate surroundings, Prut, his
empty-looking eyes locked straight ahead, dutifully let go of Si'Wren's
arm and remained standing on guard at her side.
Master Rababull walked around her, one slow step at a time, his spotted
leopard-skin robes and purple garb trailing graciously behind him as he
surveyed her untouched skin critically.
Most of the blood had been cleaned off her by now, and so far as Master
Rababull could determine, no whip had touched the girl's skin, ever.
Not so much as a single lash.
Completing his examination, he paused and stood looking scornfully and
distrustfully at Habrunt, who was still kneeling.
"A miracle--in our very midst!" admired Master Rababull mockingly. He
looked at Si'Wren as if the better to marvel, and back at Habrunt.
"Praise the gods! Six hundred and seventy-eight years have I walked
this earth, and many wonders have I seen, but never, ever, have I seen
such a thing as this!"
Master Rababull turned his head toward Si'Wren again, but she was too
afraid to meet his scornful look, and he surveyed her contemptuously
before returning slitted eyes to Habrunt's bowed figure.
"To which of the gods shall I give thanks?" Master Rababull demanded
rhetorically. "After all, seeing that my explicit orders were destined
to be put at naught, I must hasten and make obeisance, that I might not
displease the deities. What totem might I have offended, had my
punishment been carried out? What must I do to show myself blameless
before men and gods alike, in the face of this colossal supernatural
marvel?"
Master Rababull paused, walking slowly from one end of the upper
landing to the other, with a dead-silent Habrunt on the one hand on the
steps, and Si'Wren with Prut looming beside her, on the other hand at
the entrance to the House. Master Rababull's anger was obvious, but
still in check, if only barely. Reaching the far end of the landing, he
turned to look back at them both and remained ominously silent, during
which interval Sorpiala and two of her maidservants peeked out
whispering excitedly to one-another and then ducked their heads back
before Master Rababull should deign to properly notice them.
For who knew what he might do at a time like this?
More onlookers had gathered in the courtyard to watch, knowing from
past experience, that by now, Master Rababull would enjoy their
audience more than their intrusion. It was too much of a spectacle for
them to miss. This was real entertainment! Perhaps heads would even
roll, as had happened with the still comparatively recent punishment of
Nelatha. In fact this was even more fun than to throw stones from the
stream banks at a drowning animal or person, another popular pastime.
"Slavemaster, what I find here is a signal act of the gods which I,
even I, Master of the House of Rababull, dare not contradict. What
would my servants -my friends?!- think of it? In fact, should word be
passed around, I must ask myself before I cast doubt on the
authenticity of such a marvel, whether the Emperor himself might not be
displeased to think of such religious insubordination on my part."
Master Rababull paused again, as if regaining his breath before going
on. He pretended to be unaware of the presence of Sorpiala, and as he
looked out on the gathering crowd, there was a frown locked on his
brow. Their word-of-mouth would hound him to his dying day if he made
the wrong decision now.
He turned like a strutting peacock, and stared at Habrunt from the side
as he went on, but Habrunt dared neither turn his head nor look up in
acknowledgment as Master Rababull waxed eloquent.
"But still, in spite of my generosity and many past mercies upon such
acts of stupidity and foolishness as I have witnessed in all of my
days, I must ask myself the following question..."
Master Rababull stopped to look out across the courtyard of the great
House of Rababull, and fairly glared at the trembling slaves who had
gathered to watch.
"Come!" he commanded loudly. Hesitantly, a few shifted forward several
steps, but not too close. Master Rababull repeated, "Come, and behold
the handiwork of the gods! Come and see the foolishness of the mortals,
for what man is there who can put at naught what the very gods have
decreed?!"
The crowd watched with lurid interest. Many resented Habrunt his
position. Perhaps here was a chance at long last to watch Habrunt be on
the receiving end for a change, for clearly Master Rababull was vastly
displeased.
Master Rababull turned to stand between Habrunt on the one hand, and
Si'Wren on the other. Prut was a nonperson, seemed almost as invisible
as the mythical Invisible God Himself, and would remain so until called
upon to do whatever Master Rababull commanded of him.
"Look at me!!" Master Rababull shouted at Habrunt suddenly, and
automatically Habrunt lifted his head and froze.
Master Rababull's eyes were like coals of fire, locked upon Habrunt's
like those of an eagle upon it's four-legged prey.
In an unexpectedly mild tone of voice, Master Rababull went on, almost
conversationally, "Slavemaster Habrunt, I must ask of you, my most
noble and trusted servant; Which is the greater miracle? The cruel lash
of the whip, which cuts through a young girl's flesh like a hot knife
through lard, and leaves her very skin unharmed?..."
"Or..." Master Rababull turned to Si'Wren, "the dewy eyes of love,
which but lightly touch upon the stony heart of a slave, and leave that
worthless organ slashed to RIBBONS?!!!"
Habrunt, still kneeling, did not so much as dare to flinch nor venture
the slightest response.
Master Rababull walked jerkily, haltingly, a step at a time, like a
dusty, strutting cock bird preparing to fight and make love at one and
the same time as he walked thusly down the stairs until he could step
across behind Slavemaster Habrunt, and continued in this manner on
around, climbing the steps again slowly, with agonizing slowness, to
his original starting point where he halted and remained standing in
front of a kneeling Habrunt at the top of the wide stone steps again.
Habrunt had not dared to move so much as his eyes during this malignant
promenade.
Then without warning Master Rababull suddenly turned in a whirl and
snatched up the blood-stained bull whip from the pedestal and gripped
it by the pommel as he jerked his arm back and snaked it's slithery
braids out behind him.
"I propose a test," declared Master Rababull, "to see this miracle for
myself. How much more is it my privilege and my delight as one
noble-born to witness the repeat of such a miracle with my own eyes? I
desire to know, and I have a right to know; was the miracle bestowed
upon my loyal Slavemaster, the girl, or the whip?"
Still Habrunt dared not make a reply to this madman.
Master Rababull jerked his whip arm out behind him, turning his head in
the direction of Si'Wren as if about to lash out at her, while watching
cleverly out of the corner of his eye to see if Habrunt might betray
himself.
Habrunt silently, invisibly clenched his right fist as he held it
solidly across his chest, impotent to do the slightest thing to stop
the Master, with Prut and any number of omnipresent slaves ready to
mindlessly oppose him at a moment's notice, and no sword readily to
hand.
Master Rababull froze, and lowered his whip hand, laughing with wicked
indulgence.
"Not so, Slavemaster! Witness another miracle, the stayed hand of
justice. The high price of her sale is needed to pay for the cost of
the broken jade goddess. With her unsullied beauty, Si'Wren shall bring
much money in the slave market, when I sell her myself to some
wretched, stinking, foul-breathed old man with rotten teeth and many
diseases, and gold coins for eyes."
At this, Habrunt stifled his rage but still dared not so much as
protest.
"Forsaking that, there remains but one way to appease my nagging
curiosity," declared Master Rababull with bitter sarcasm, "and may the
gods strike me dead this very day if I have ruled unjustly..."
At long last, Master Rababull suddenly lashed out with his whip and
brought it snapping around with expert timing, catching an unprepared
Habrunt fully across the side of the head.