I HAVE PURCHASED A SLAVE FOR PERTINAX;
I LEARN SOMETHING OF THE LESSONS OF PERTINAX
“He is a barbarian, Master!” cried the slave, distressed.
“So, too, am I,” I told her. “Get on your knees, put your head to his feet!”
She went to her knees before Pertinax, her head to the floor of the hut. Her small hands were high behind her, as she knelt, her small wrists closely encircled in slave bracelets. The leash, on which I had led her naked from the slave house to the hut, looped up, to my hand.
She was, of course, the former Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers, of Ar, of the house of the Serisii, now vanished.
“Whip her,” I suggested, tossing Pertinax a whip, “so that she understand she is your slave.”
“My slave?” he said.
Pertinax, having become a student in the school of Nodachi, for some weeks now, no longer assisted in the logging, but, at my request, had become resident with Cecily and myself, occupying with us the hut which had originally been put at our disposal by Lord Nishida.
“Yes,” I said. “I bought her for you, from Torgus, from the slave house.”
“For me?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “Do not be concerned. She did not cost much.”
Indeed, I had had her for a handful of copper tarsks, to be sure, not tarsk-bits, but tarsks.
“I was Portia,” said the slave, “Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers, of Ar, of the Serisii!”
I gave her a slight kick, in the side, and she put down her head again, quickly.
“She has much to learn,” I said. “She just now spoke without permission. Perhaps you wish to punish her for that.”
“She was important?” said Pertinax.
“I was entertained many times in the Central Cylinder itself!” said the slave, her face judiciously to the floor. “I was known personally to the Ubara. I shared her table. I drank her wine! I conversed with her!”
“Actually,” I said, “she was really never more than a pampered, spoiled brat, the young, meaningless, but surely shapely, offspring of a wealthy family.”
“Master!” she protested.
“But now,” I said, “she has no more than her slave worth, and that is very little.”
“He is a barbarian, Master!” said the slave.
“I suggest you use the whip on her,” I said, “that she may learn that bondage to a barbarian, just as that to a more civilized fellow, may be quite meaningful, and sometimes distinctly unpleasant. Indeed, she has much to learn, and there is no reason why she should not begin to learn it at the feet of a barbarian. That may prove quite instructive to her.”
“She is very pretty, Master,” said Cecily. “You did buy her for Master Pertinax, did you not?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” she said.
The kneeling slave cast a quick look at Cecily.
“Where did you find her?” asked Cecily.
“I first noted her on the beach,” I said, “at the time of the landing of the ship bearing Torgus, and several others. She was one of a chain of slaves.”
“But more recently?” inquired Cecily.
“In the slave house,” I said.
“I suspected as much,” said Cecily.
“Do you object?” I asked.
“I do not like it,” she said, “but I may not object. I am a slave.”
“I trust you are in no danger of forgetting it,” I said.
“No, Master,” she said. “I am in no danger of forgetting it. And certainly not now. I suppose you put her to your pleasure.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Was she any good?”
The new slave looked up at me, suddenly, startled, indignant, embarrassed, angry. “Please!” she begged.
Cecily, incidentally, in the sense she had in mind, was quite good, even exquisitely, helplessly precious. A touch could ignite her, and she had grown in her bondage, and, clearly, was still growing. Indeed, there is no end to such things, as the horizons of the collar are forever beckoning, and are endless. Too, Cecily and I had been matched to one another, as tormentingly attracted lovers, by the wisdom, cruelty, and science of Priest-Kings. Indeed, she had originally been intended, as a free woman, unbeknownst to herself, to tempt and torture me from my codes, to play a role in my humiliation and downfall. I could not have indefinitely resisted the taking of her, despite the fact that she was at that time free. The intervention of Kurii, in a raid on the Prison Moon, where we were captive, prevented this situation from reaching its inevitable denouement. Later, after having been appropriately thigh-marked on the Steel World, she had come into my collar.
“Yes,” I said.
“Master!” she wept.
Whereas such questions would be highly impertinent, and, indeed, improper, asked of a free woman, they are appropriately asked of a slave. A slave, unlike a free woman, is expected to be good for something, to have her utilities.
“I trust,” I said to Pertinax, “you do not mind that she is red silk, that she is not white silk.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Virgin slaves,” I said, “are very rare.”
“Oh,” he said, “I see.”
“At least,” I said, “she does not have her ears pierced.”
“At least,” he agreed, puzzled.
Commonly, on Gor, it is only the lowest of slaves who have their ears pierced. On Gor pierced ears are regarded by many as a mark of shame and degradation exceeding even the brand. Slave brands are familiar, and taken for granted. They are routine in the marking of a slave. The piercing of ears is not. The brand, too, is covered by the common tunic, whereas the piercing of ears is exposed to all, to the contempt of free women and the interest and stimulation of men. This is cultural, of course, and Earth girls whose ears are pierced, something they have generally thought little of, are often startled when they are brought to Gor, to learn how this tiny thing, to which they have usually attached little importance, at least consciously or explicitly, can provoke unusual interest and lust in males. Certainly the mounting of earrings in a slave’s ears can adorn her nicely. But, too, the puncturing of the softness of the lobes by the rigid bars anchoring the adornments has its symbolic bespeakments. Naturally it is the master who selects the adornments. Some slavers, noting that pierced-ear girls sell well, have the slaves’ ears, whether they be in origin of Earth or Gor, subjected to this simple, homely operation. Initially this is likely to produce a great deal of dismay and stress in Gorean girls. This passes, however, when they discover how much more exciting these things make them. Indeed, some girls are so thrilled with these enhancements to their meaning as a slave and their beauty as a slave that they wear them before men almost insolently, or brazenly, or defiantly, or tauntingly. “Yes, here I am. I am owned. I am a slave. What are you going to do with me?” She relates to free women, of course, quite differently, and there, kneeling before them, will commonly attempt to convey to them a sense of her own self-acknowledged worthlessness, as a pierced-ear girl. In this fashion, thus seeming to accept and share the view of the free woman as to her abysmal degradation, she is less likely to be switched. It is well known that free women often have troubled dreams, inexplicable, unaccountable, frightening dreams, that they dream of themselves, to their embarrassment upon awakening, as having been shamefully branded and collared. One supposes they might, too, sometimes, dream of themselves not only as branded and collared, but as pierced-ear girls, as well. Goreans, incidentally, accept nose rings without any particular ado. Indeed, amongst the Wagon Peoples, where veiling is unknown, such rings are common even with free women.
“At any rate,” I said, “she is yours.”
“Mine?” said Pertinax, uncertainly.
“Yes,” I said.
“What would I do with a slave?” asked Pertinax.
The slave looked up at him, startled.
Did he truly not know what to do with a slave?
“You, Cecily,” I said, “will be first girl.”
“She, too, is a barbarian!” said the slave. “I can tell.”
“Life is hard,” I informed the slave.
I had every confidence in Cecily, that she would be a kind, understanding, tactful, fair first girl, that she would share the work, would not mistreat her subordinate and inferior, and so on. I was less certain that she would maintain an appropriate discipline. One has to introduce a hierarchy amongst female slaves, backed by the power of the master. Otherwise one commonly invites chaos into the house, the kitchen, the gardens, the kennel area, and so on.
“Consider her,” I said to Pertinax. “Put your head down,” I said to the slave. She quickly, again, put her head down. “Look upon the sleek, vulnerable little she-beast,” I said to Pertinax. “I give her to you, as your animal. Scrutinize her slave curves. She is raw, and young, but surely she has collar promise. Consider her waiting on you, hand and foot. Consider her licking and kissing your feet. Consider her, squirming, moaning, and begging, in the furs. Am I to suppose that you, truly, would not know what to do with a slave?”
“Perhaps, Master,” said Cecily, “he would prefer another slave.”
“No!” said Pertinax, suddenly. He then lowered his eyes, embarrassed.
“Another slave,” I reminded Cecily, “is otherwise owned.”
“I do not know what you are talking about,” said Pertinax.
“Have you visited Saru in the stables?” I asked.
“No!” he said, quickly.
“You might enjoy seeing her as a naked, collared stable slut,” I said.
“Surely not,” he said.
“I am sure some of the fellows she knew on Earth would,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“And perhaps you, too, would,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“She is there to be seen,” I said.
“I understand,” he said.
“From what I understand,” I said, “that slavery, that of a stable slut, is an appropriate, excellent slavery for her.”
“Undoubtedly,” he said.
“Certainly she makes a pretty little slave,” I said.
“Doubtless,” he said, reddening.
“You did, I take it, after three days,” I said to Cecily, “inform Pertinax of the petition of the slave Saru, that he might call upon her?”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “But I do not think he did so. And you forbade me to inform the slave of aught of this.”
“Did you make clear the earnestness of the slave’s petition?” I inquired.
“Yes, Master,” said Cecily, “and I begged him that he might consent to accede to her supplication.”
“You are a kindly slave,” I said to Cecily, “to feel the misery of another slave, and beg for her.”
She put down her head.
“But he declined to do so?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Surely,” I said to Pertinax, “on Earth, in your offices, or wherever, you must have considered the former Miss Wentworth as naked, in a collar, or on your leash, or roped at your feet, or such.”
“I did not allow myself such thoughts,” he said.
“But you had them, did you not?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said, angrily.
“Good,” I said. “Then you were vital, and in lively, delightful, robust health.”
“She is worthless, and I hate her,” he said.
“She is not worthless, really,” I said. “She is now a slave, and would be worth something, even if only a few copper tarsks. Only when she was a free woman, busy with being priceless,” I said, “was she worthless.”
“I hate her,” he said, angrily.
I found his vehemence interesting.
“May I speak, Master?” asked Cecily.
“Surely,” I said.
“Master Pertinax,” said she, “the slave Saru plaintively calls herself to your attention. You are her only link with her former life. You must understand how important this is to her, how precious it is to her. What else has she, on this perilous world, seemingly so harsh and strange, to cling to? Who else understands her, and whence she has come, and what has been done to her? Who else is there with whom she might speak, with whom else might she hope to share her thoughts, or fears?”
“She may speak with the tharlarion,” said Pertinax.
Cecily was then silent.
“She is cunning, she is clever,” said Pertinax. “A tear, a trembling lip, a pathetic, stammered sound and I would again be hers.”
“Then you do not truly understand that she is now a slave,” I said.
“She did not treat me well, or others,” he said, irritably.
“Have pity on her,” begged Cecily. “She is now only a helpless, frightened slave! She is much at the mercy of any free person! Do you not feel for her?”
I am beginning to understand manhood,” said Pertinax. “I will not now surrender it.”
“A slave, well handled, well mastered,” I said, “does not produce the surrender of manhood, but assures its triumph.”
“And at the feet of a master,” said Cecily, softly, “the slave finds herself.”
“I hate her!” cried Pertinax.
“She wants to be in your arms,” said Cecily.
“Absurd,” said Pertinax.
“The slave fires have been set and ignited in her belly,” I said. “She now needs men, as a slave needs men. But it is you whom she wishes to serve.”
“Serve?” he laughed.
“Yes,” I said.
“She wants to be in your arms, Master,” said Cecily.
“Oh, yes,” he laughed, “anything to escape the stable, the collar! For that what sacrifice would she not make? Even that of becoming what she hitherto most despised, a wife, or companion!”
“No, Master,” said Cecily. “She wants to be otherwise in your arms, not as wife or companion, but as slave.”
“Absurd,” said Pertinax.
“Do not forget,” I said, “that slave fires have been kindled in her sweet, vulnerable belly. Once that is done, what can a woman be but a slave?”
“I suspect,” said Cecily, “she often fantasized about you as her master.”
“Impossible,” said Pertinax.
“Why else,” I asked, “would she, of all others, have chosen you to accompany her to Gor, to complete her role on Gor, that of seeming to be her master?”
“She brought me with her to have a manipulable weakling,” he said, “one to despise, one to do her bidding, unquestioningly.”
“I do not doubt she thought that,” I said. “But deep within a woman’s belly flow mysterious currents, floods she is unable to control, forces and truths which mock and deny, and stir, the uneasy films and surfaces with which she labors to identify herself.”
“She is humanly worthless,” said Pertinax, “even if not economically so, whatever coin she might sell for, whatever price might take her off a slave block, whether a silver tarsk or a copper shaving. She is despicable. I hate her.”
“Yet,” I said, “as is not unoften the case, you want her.”
“I?”
“Yes,” I said. “You desire her.”
“No!” he said.
“You would like to own her, and have her naked at your feet.”
“No, no!” he cried.
“In any event,” I said, “the matter is moot, as she belongs not to you, but to Lord Nishida.”
Pertinax turned away, to face the wall of the hut.
“In the meantime,” I said, “we have a pretty little slut here.”
Pertinax turned back, angrily, to survey the kneeling slave.
Her head was down. She was on my leash. Her tiny wrists were braceleted behind her.
“She is Gorean, of course,” I said.
“I do not want her,” said Pertinax.
The slave gasped.
What man would not want one such as she, if only to trade or sell her to another?
One of the things a Gorean father often does, if his finances permit, is to buy a young female slave for his son. The son, of course, is familiar with slaves, and, as part of his education, has been taught their management, discipline, binding, and such. Pertinax, of course, lacked these advantages, those of culture, background, and practice.
I thought, however, that giving Pertinax a slave would be not only a thoughtful gift for him, for what is a nicer gift for a fellow than to buy him a lovely slave, but that it would help him to learn the ways of Gor, and, too, in its way, help him become a man.
Too, it should help him learn how he might best relate to, handle, and treat, should he someday wish it, some other slave, say, the former Miss Margaret Wentworth.
His task and challenge, of course, difficult as it might be, would be to make certain she was kept as a full and perfect slave, despite their previous lives and background. Only in this way could they both achieve their very different human perfections. Men and women are not the same. I had little doubt but what she would use every trick, every subtlety and wile, every cleverness, every asset of beauty and wit available to her, to reduce him again to the pathetic level of a typical male of Earth, something at her disposal, and that he would be muchly challenged to resist such artifices, and bring her to his feet, she then fully apprised, to her relief, that such games were over, and she was truly slave.
“You are fortunate I am not of the Pani,” I said. “To refuse such a gift might injure one’s pride, and would certainly generate bad blood. It might even be taken as an insult, that you found the gift beneath you, or unworthy of you. To refuse such a gift might injure one’s pride, and it is not wise to injure the pride of one of the Pani, as they are a well-intentioned, sincere folk, and take such things very seriously.”
“I accept her,” said Pertinax.
The slave, head down, trembled, accepted. She now knew her master. It was Pertinax.
“There are welts on her back,” said Pertinax.
“From switches, in the house of slaves,” I said.
“Did you beat her?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I had no reason to do so.”
The infliction of gratuitous pain would be incomprehensible to most Goreans. It would be pointless, and stupid. One expects such things only in a pathological society where the natural relationships between the sexes are denied, confused, or nonexistent. That a slave desires to please, and attempts to please, is usually more than enough to keep the whip on its peg. Should she fail to please, of course, she will expect the whip to come off its peg. And that, I suppose, is why it almost always remains on its peg.
“If you do not want her, of course,” I said, “there may be a price on her head as a former free woman of Ar, a bounty, and if that is the case you could always turn her in for a good bit of coin.”
“Please, no, Master!” cried the slave suddenly, alarmed, and flung herself to her belly to the feet of Pertinax, sobbing, and covering them with kisses. Her wrists, behind her, jerked against the bracelets, and I noted how her small fingers moved, pathetically, helplessly. “Please, no, Master!” she wept. “I will try to be good! I will try to please you, wholly, in all ways, my Master!”
“Surely you like a woman there,” I said to Pertinax, “at your feet.”
“It is not displeasing,” he said.
Doubtless he recalled how the startled, terrified Miss Wentworth had once been at his feet, though somewhat differently, in the pavilion of Lord Nishida.
Needless to say, it is pleasant for a fellow to have a woman at his feet.
Then he said to the slave, “Kneel up, keep your head up, that I may see your face. No, you may kneel with your knees closed.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”
I hoped he would have the common sense to be strong with her. The slave wants strength in a master. Too, she responds to it, in obedience, and sexuality.
She turned in the leash collar and smiled at me. She then clenched her knees even more closely together, victoriously.
I expected that when he became more accustomed to the mastery, and more excited, and so on, he would better see the slave as an object, a possession, from which great pleasure might be derived.
Then I expected he would see to it that her knees would be spread appropriately, nicely.
“You will need a name for her,” I said.
“My name,” she said, “is Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers.”
“‘Was’,” I reminded her.
“Was,” she said. “But surely I might suggest a suitable name.”
“Certainly,” said Pertinax.
“‘Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers’,” she suggested.
“That should draw in bounty hunters,” I said, “like zarlit flies to honey, urts to cheese, sharks to blood.”
“True,” she said, quickly. “Perhaps then something like ‘Lady Philomela of the Amaniani’?”
“I doubt that the Amaniani,” I said, “to whom I doubt that you are related, would appreciate the borrowing of their name, particularly by a slave.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But my aristocratic origin should surely be suggested.”
“Not at all,” I said. “You are no longer an aristocrat, but are now only a vendible, curvaceous, little she-beast.”
“What of ‘Lady’?” she asked.
“It might do for a domestic she-sleen,” I said, “but not for a slave. As you know, ‘Lady’ applies only to free females, not slaves.”
“What of ‘Philomela’?” she asked.
“Too fine for a slave,” I said. “It is better as a free woman’s name.”
“We do need a name for her,” said Pertinax.
“Not really,” I said, “but it would be useful to have one, say, to summon her, order her about, and such.”
“I do not know what to call her,” said Pertinax.
“In any event, it is your decision,” I said.
“True,” he said, regarding the slave.
“Why do you not call her ‘Margaret’?” I said.
“No!” he said. “No!”
“Pick, then,” I smiled, “another name.”
“You bought her,” he said. “You name her.”
“Very well,” I said. “I think that ‘Jane’ is a lovely name for a female slave.”
“No!” cried the slave. “That is a barbarian name! I am Gorean! I once had an Earth girl, a serving slave, by that name! Men wanted her. I often had to switch her, for she would sometimes dare to look at them! How she wanted to be in their arms, as a slave! In spite of being my slave, a lady’s slave, a lady’s serving slave, she was no better than a needful tart! Disgusting! Despicable! She was an insult to me! I later arranged that she be sold to a kaiila drover, and she was muchly pleased, so I whipped her well and lengthily before I had her delivered to him.”
“‘Jane’ is a lovely name,” I said.
“Do not belittle me!” she begged. “Do not shame me! Do not so demean me! It is a slave name, fit only for a barbarian brought here for the markets! Men will see me as a low slave! They will see me as no more than switch meat!”
“I am now going to name you,” I said.
“No!” she wept. She cast a wild look at Pertinax. “Please, no, Master!” she wept.
“Be silent,” said Pertinax. I gathered that he was not overly pleased with the slave’s view of certain names. Too, he probably agreed with me that ‘Jane’ was a lovely name. I had never understood why its simplicity and beauty, on Earth, was not more widely recognized. I could understand that the name on Gor, being a barbarian name, was associated with kajirae. But men on Gor certainly had no objection to the name because it, as most female Earth names, suggested a barbarian slave, and barbarian slaves, though not selling as well in some markets as Gorean slaves, particularly those once of high caste, tended to be prized by many masters. The general reputation of the barbarian slave was that of a chattel who would soon prove to be hot, devoted, and dutiful. Indeed, given the sexual desert from which most Earth slaves were extracted, and the mechanistic social ecology of that world, which alienated both men and women from their depth natures, Gor came to many as a welcome revelation. On Gor, many found a human and sexual redemption, a rescue and a salvation. Typically, kajirae from Earth adapted quickly, and gratefully, to their collars. In them they enjoyed a medley of fulfillments and gratifications which might have been not only denied to them on Earth, mindlessly execrated, and such, but might even have been incomprehensible to them on Earth. To be sure, Gorean women, too, soon learned their womanhood at the feet of masters.
Women, after all, are women.
“Look at me,” I said. “I am now going to name you.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. Her eyes were bright with protest, and tears.
“You are Jane,” I said. “Rejoice that you are no longer a nameless slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“‘Jane’, Master,” she said.
“Who are you?”
“I am Jane,” she said, “Master.”
“Perhaps we should now think of supper,” I said to Cecily.
“She is clothed,” observed Jane.
“To some extent,” I agreed. A slave tunic leaves little to one’s imagination.
Jane looked to Pertinax. “Master,” she said, “will surely see that his slave is attired.”
“Certainly,” said Pertinax.
“Decorously, as befits a former free woman of Ar,” she said, and then she added, with a glance at the brief tunic of Cecily, “and not as a barbarian.”
Cecily said nothing. She had been a slave long enough to appreciate, and relish, and take delight in, the freedom of the tunic. Too, it thrilled her, in her vanity, well aware of her considerable beauty, to be shamelessly exhibited for the delectation of men. She knew herself to be an excellent specimen of the most desirable of all human females, the female slave.
The slave is not ashamed of her beauty, but proud of it.
Let the free woman be concerned with her veils, and fear that an ankle might be glimpsed beneath layered robes.
The slave loves men, and wishes to be found pleasing.
“It is true,” I said, “that it would be wise to see that the slave is attired, for there are strong men in the camp.”
A subtle tremor betrayed the slave’s apprehension.
“Do not fear, Jane,” said Cecily. “After supper I will go to the supply shed and obtain some cloth.”
“I will come along,” I said.
“Master?” said Cecily.
“I have been wondering,” I said to her, “how you would look in a camisk.”
“A Turian camisk?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “the common camisk.”
“Never!” cried Jane.
“Once you have seen your girl in a common camisk,” I said to Pertinax, “I suspect that you will not permit her to kneel with her knees together.”
“Oh?” he said, interested.
His Jane was a shapely brat.
“Too, I will look into a collar,” I said to Pertinax. “I did not have one prepared, as I did not know how you might want it engraved.”
“What would you suggest?” he asked, again evincing some interest. I took this as a good sign.
“Something like ‘I am Jane. I am the property of Pertinax of Tarncamp’.”
“Excellent,” he said.
“I do not need to be collared, Master,” said the slave. “I am branded. None will mistake me for a free woman.”
“No,” he said. “Nor will any be in doubt as to who owns you. You will be collared.”
She looked at him, angrily.
He still retained the whip I had tossed to him when I had first brought the slave into the hut.
“Do you wish to be displeasing?” he asked.
He shook out the blades of the whip. It was a simple five-stranded slave whip, designed for use on female slaves, designed to punish, and well, but not mark.
“No, Master,” she said, hastily.
“Perhaps you should beg to be collared,” I said.
“Please, Master,” she said, “collar me.”
“Who begs?” I inquired.
“Jane,” she said, “Jane, the slave of Pertinax of Tarncamp, begs to be collared.”
“It will be done,” said Pertinax.
She sobbed.
“You may thank your master,” I told her.
“Thank you, Master,” she said. “Jane, your slave, thanks you for having her collared, for permitting her to wear your collar, for deigning to grant her the honor of wearing your collar.”
“To his feet,” I said.
The slave then went to the feet of Pertinax.
When I thought she had performed sufficiently I freed her of the bracelets and leash.
She knelt then, naked, but free of bonds, at our feet. She put her arms about herself, and trembled.
I then reminded Cecily that we might think of supper.
“Come, Jane,” said Cecily. “I will find you something to wrap about your body. We must gather wood. We must make supper. We have work to do.”
Soon the girls had exited the hut.
“Pertinax,” said I, “how do your lessons proceed?”
He had been studying for some weeks now with the warrior in the forest, a master of the sword, who was known as Nodachi. I had never seen this person. The arrangements had been made through the thoughtful offices of Tajima. I had given Tajima one of the rubies I had retained from the Steel World, that Nodachi might be compensated for his services, but Tajima had returned the stone to me. Food might be brought to the swordsman that he might live, but he was unwilling to set a price on his instruction. “One does not sell life and death,” he had informed Tajima. “No price is to be set on such things.”
“I do not know,” said Pertinax.
“How is that?” I asked.
“How can one see what cannot be seen?” he asked.
“What do you think is meant by that?” I asked.
“It is poetry, is it not?” he asked.
“I suspect,” I said, “it is a poetry which speaks of differences, say that between the living and the dead. One, I suppose, must sense things, infer things, expect things.”
Sometimes one understands things without understanding how one understands them.
How does one know that one man who smiles is a friend and another is an enemy? Perhaps one sees what cannot be seen.
“Much makes sense to me,” said Pertinax, “the nature of the ground, the position of the sun, day and night, the season of the year, but much seems mysticism.”
“There are probably mysticisms and mysticisms,” I said. “Some, I suspect, speak of the world.”
“One should not die with a weapon undrawn,” said Pertinax.
“Do not be taken by surprise,” I suggested.
“One should pay attention to little things,” said Pertinax.
“They can be important,” I said.
“From one thing learn ten thousand things,” he said.
“Things lead to one another,” I suggested. “They are bound together.”
“One who has faced death at the point of a sword has an elevated understanding,” said Pertinax.
“I think that is true,” I said. “At least one is different, and one has a better sense of life. For such a one the world is then other than it was.”
“Step by step walk the thousand-mile road,” he said.
“Be patient,” I suggested. “Do not give up. Excellence is not easily achieved.”
“Are there such things in the codes?” asked Pertinax.
“There are many things in the codes,” I said, “similar, and different. Much of this, I think, is wisdom, doubtless deriving from one teacher or another, in one place or another, perhaps over centuries.”
“There are many things,” said Pertinax, “many, many things.”
“Few will understand them all,” I said. “Be humble, learn what you can.”
“The spirit of fire is fierce,” smiled Pertinax, “whether it is large or small, and the spirit is like fire, and can be large or small.”
“Master Nodachi, I suspect,” I said, “has a large spirit, and, unseen, it burns fiercely.”
“I am learning swords,” he said.
“And what is the purpose of the sword?” I asked.
“It is to kill,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
There was something much like that in the codes. The purpose of the sword is not to fence, not to match blades, and not to exhibit skill, nor is its purpose to reach the enemy, nor even to cut him. Its purpose is to kill him.
He shuddered.
“Are you strong enough for that?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
Some who excelled in the dojo were the first to fall in the field.
“Seek to learn more,” I said.
“If I would live?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.