I say that they branded me and I say that they tied me to the wheel. Nothing

prepared me for what they were actually preparing to do to me. First, they tied

me to a wheel that they had laid out on the ground expressly for this purpose.

This wheel was old, it was splintery, and apparently had never been really well

cared-for, so that even where there were no splinters, the wood still scraped

hard against my skin. I was completely naked. They’d thrown me roughly

against the wheel, without any care for my distress, my modesty, or even any

respect for my identity as a living, feeling, being. Already there were bruises on

my face and on my arms. Even my flower was bruised from their inspection.

Also, before tying me to the wheel they’d lashed my back with one of their

whips, a multi-corded thing with little knots on the ends. When I asked why

they lashed me, Dashsnare simply smirked and said, “Pride.”

All of this seemed quite unreasonable to me. I felt completely invaded, and

attacked, and I responded. It took them some work to tie me down: I kicked,

screamed, and fought as hard as I could. Both of them, Dashsnare and the other

man, broke out into a sweat before they were finished tying me down.

Dashsnare left in frustration when he finished.

Finally, though, the fire was lit. It burned down after a time to red coals. The

short slaver tended the fire carefully, adding wood now and then. It was clear

that he was trying to create a body of very hot, white coals, and that he wanted

to sustain it at that level of heat. I was tied, helpless, arms above my head, legs

apart, the thigh about to be branded, completely immobilized.

“What is your name?” I asked the short slaver, “I have not heard it spoken by

the others.”

“Curiousity is unbecoming in a slave,” he replied gruffly.

I persisted. “Tell me your name, please. You are going to do something

horrible to me, at least tell me who you are.”

He looked me in the eyes, almost as if he was taking the measure of my spirit..

“You are nobody,” he replied, “and no one will ever pay attention to anything

you say again, as long as you live, so it makes no difference what I do, or do not,

tell you – because if you tell someone I told you my name, they won’t believe I

did it.” He laughed. “My name is Lachesis.”

“But that is not a use name. That is your real name, is it not?” I answered.

“Aye,” he replied, “it is my name. If you were free, I would not tell you. But

you are not free, and as I say, no one will believe you.”

“Where are you from?” I asked. Really I was hoping to engage him in

conversation so that he would forget his task.

“I am from a city in the foothills, near to the road that leads to the Priest Kings.”

“And you are a warrior? You were a warrior?”

“Look at my belly, girl” he laughed. “I war only with ka-la-na, and with paga”

“What do you mean?”

“Only that a man like me would never be a warrior.”

“oh?”

“I am a poor man, or would be, except for this trade. I am a man of low caste,

unlike your family.”

This annoyed me a little. “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Only this: your grandfather, the physician, I suppose he goes about in your

city. When he goes out, people greet him with deference. They start all their

conversations to him with words like “If you please, Master,” “Would you mind,

Master,” “May I ask, Master” or “May I approach, Master,” he laughed again.

“Everyone probably speaks to him like that. No one shouts at him, no one tells

him to get out of the way. If your grandfather had a son, your grandfather

would only have to seek out a master of whatever profession he wanted for his

soon, and request an apprenticeship for the boy. Warrior, artisan, scribe,

whatever he wants. All doors are open.”

I listened quietly, trying not to look at the fire.

“But,” continued Lachesis, “the best I can hope for my daughter is to sell her to

an important man. Perhaps he will enjoy her, notice her. Perhaps in time, he

may come to love her, perhaps free her, perhaps make her his Companion, a

member of his family, his homestone, his caste. Those are the best dreams I

have for my daughter: to sell her as a slave to a man like your grandfather.”

He poked at the fire with a stick. Lachesis had gray hair, and it was dirty, like

his fingernails. Yet his eyes were not entirely glazed over with cycnicism, like

Twistcharm’s, nor were they dull and stupid, like Dashsnare’s. They were dark,

but held a spark of intelligence, of feeling. I realized suddenly, that Lachesis was

a man who might, occasionally, be troubled by his work. He straightened up

quickly, and looked almost as if he had heard my thoughts.

“Your world,” he said quietly, “your grandfather’s world, requires the existence

of men like myself. If I did not do this work,” he continued, “another man

would. Better for me to do it, and perhaps, someday, I might not have to sell

my daughter in order to get her a future.”

After he said this, he walked over to the front of the wagon, and after a bit, he

pulled out the brand he wanted. He walked back to the fire, and threw the

brand into the coals. Gradually the brand began to glow red. Then he pulled

the brand out of the fire.

“Prepare yourself” he said. Before I could realize it, he stuck the brand onto my

thigh. The shock of the burn, to me, was such that at first I did not feel it. I

heard the sizzle, I saw the smoke, I smelled burning flesh, but I experienced

these things before I felt the pain. The pain, when I felt it at last, was horrible.

It was more than pain. It was as if my entire body, mind, spirit, and soul, had

become simply one huge blue-white flame. I could not even cry out. I could not

even imagine where the pain began and where it ended. All I could do was

experience the pain, gap-mouthed and silent, until the pain overwhelmed me,

and everything went black.

When I returned to consciousness, Lachesis was there, watching me.

“This sometimes happens” was all he said, addressing nobody in particular. He

had a cloth soaked in some serum that I did not recognize. My mouth moved as

if to form a question.

“Of course you would not know this serum,” he said, as if anticipating my

question. “Physicians have made special serums and potions for slavers for a

very long time.” Then he smiled at me. “Physicians live with very few

illusions.”

Lachesis placed the cloth over my thigh, and tied another cloth around it to hold

it in place. Even that was almost too much for me. The nerve endings in my leg

being exposed and injured, everything he did to me was an agony.

The night passed slowly. I was torn between exhaustion and pain, and perhaps

I should say agony. A person who has never been badly burned cannot

understand the agony of charred skin and muscle. Lachesis returned every two

hours to tend the wound.

“Why are you so careful?” I asked him.

“The scar needs to be beautiful,” he replied, or we lose money.”

What he said was true. My grandmother’s house slaves would tell stories

sometimes, of slaves they met, who had been sentenced to a life time of service

as pot girls because of a careless brand. They’d spoken of these pot girls both

with sadness, and relief as if they were glad to have avoided their fate. A pot

girl is less than nobody. She will never serve the master personally. She will

never be noticed. She lives out her days among iron pots and kitchen refuse. It

is almost like what warriors call “garbage death” except that the sleens never

come to put an end to it. Emotionally, pot girl is a living death.

Thinking of this, I turned my head towards Lachesis, as best I could.

“Thank you,” I whispered hoarsely.

He said nothing, but appeared a little shocked.

The sun was high when I awoke the next day and it was hot. A dry wind blew hard

and everything seemed parched. The dryness of the wind suggested that there must be a desert

nearby. I had slept, but I was still tired. I was still sore.

Lachesis appeared, bearing a bowl of something.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Food.” He replied quietly. I was still tied to the wheel. Lachesis, working quickly, untied me. “Get up.” he ordered.

Moving stiffly, I got up off the wheel. I stood up, but my ears began to ring and I felt faint, so I sat down.

“You need to eat” was all he said, and handed me the bowl. In the bowl

was some kind of soup. I tasted it, and it was cold. It had no real flavor – just water,

meal, some white roots, green leaves, and shredded blue roots.

“What is this called?” I asked, because I had never seen it before.

Lachesis laughed. “I am sure this dish is served in your grandfather’s house,” he said, “it’s slave porridge.

You’ll be eating a lot of it in the future.” He laughed again. “It will be a long time before you taste an eel or a blueberry again, girl,” was all he said.

I did not truly realize the truth of what he said that day, but he was right. I learned to eat

the porridge, but I never really learned to enjoy it. In my house now, of course, I do

not permit that dish to be served. Since I have only two slaves, their diet is the same as

mine. I do realize, though, that it would be impossible to do this in a large house with a dozen slaves. The expense would be terrible.

After I ate, Lachesis came and took the bowl from me. Then he said to

me “Get up. You will join the other slaves now.” I got up with some trouble but

the dizziness did not return. Following Lachesis, I walked across the camp to an area

under a large tree where four other slaves sat. Lachesis pointed at them in turn as

he said their names: Afsana, Dunya, Mirit, and Tovah. Then he pointed at me. “Etana” he said, mispronouncing

my name. The consonant he pronounced as a “t” instead of a “d”. I was not about to argue

with him about it, though. Then Lachesis spoke again. “Teach her what she needs

to know, or I will beat all of you.” Without another word, he turned his back and walked away.

The first one to speak was Mirit, who appeared to be the senior member,

or leader, of the group. “Welcome,” she said, “join us.” She said this very

quietly, and she smiled when she said it and her smile appeared sincere. Her eyes were full of concern.

“Thank you,” I replied, trying to smile. I was not sure exactly what I needed

to know, and I was not sure I wanted to learn it, but it was clear that

survival required me to learn whatever she was about to teach me. “Have you been a

slave long?” I continued, “and why are you being sold?”

“Curiousity is unbecoming in a slave, Etana. ” she said gently. Her voice was beautiful and silky

like the lower registers of a flute. “You ought not to be curious, and even if you have a question,

you should never speak it. Just let the question go.” Her response, delivered so sweetly, did not

seem like the rebuke that it was. She was beautiful, and perhaps more surprising, she wore her

nakedness with a grace that was difficult to describe. “little one, you have much to learn.” When

she said these things, it was like her voice smiled, like she had some light in her spirit, and it glowed

through her words, comforting, like a candle in the first dark of evening. “Let this be your first lesson.”

The other girls laughed. They did not have her beauty or her grace. I could imagine that they would

be sold. But Mirit – the name means “sweet wine” – seemed very close to perfection. I could not

imagine that anyone would let her go. It just shows you how little I knew, then.

Mirit was indeed beautiful, but she was young, like me. It takes a very long time to learn to be a

slave and it is much more of a process, like learning to play a musical instrument, than it is something

that you might pick up, like learning to do a certain kind of needlework. It is not so much learning

as it is transformation of character. It is true when I talk to free people, that they immediately

say, when speaking of the idea of slavery, that a slave gives up freedom. Of course a slave gives up

certain freedoms, but free people also give up certain freedoms. What a free person will not address,

and what a slave will talk about, is the slave’s freedom to express their inner nature in a way that

free people either can not or will not express it. It doesn’t seem to occur to free people that this

freedom to express one’s true and inner self has any value. It does not seem, I have found, to be

something that a free person finds important. Yet I learned, because I had both good, and bad,

masters, that the best master will help you teach yourself just exactly who you are. I have no idea

how the best masters accomplish this, but they do it. People fear masters, because they do not understand

what a master is. A master cannot make a person be who they are not. It is not in their power to do that.

The best master, however, can show you, and teach you, to be your best self, if he is any good at all. This

idea seems very complicated for people, but it seems to me to be the reason why a slave often adores her

master for reasons she cannot explain. When a master places a collar on a slave, if it is a true collar, it

creates a bond between them. It is important to say, also, that not every collar is a true collar. A physical

collar means nothing. The bond is what matters. These ideas as I say, seem very complicated, because

they rely on a standard of mutual self-honesty that is very challenging and apparently almost impossible

for people to maintain. But. I am old, and again, I wander from my story.

I spent some days here, learning, among these girls. I ate the slave porridge, and sul – a kind of vegetable

soup, and sometimes redfruit and tospit fruits. Mirit spoke to Lachesis often on my behalf, and obtained

oils and lotions for my hair and skin. Mirit was clever and never spoke of my need as a personal need.

She always presented these things as essential to getting a good price for me. She also saw that my flower

remained clean shaven, and she taught me different gestures and postures.

At first, I learned to “tower”: kneeling with knees together, back straight, leaning on my knees. I thought,

when I learned this, that being a slave was not too demanding, although I was still embarrassed to be

naked, and even more embarrassed to be unveiled. Having my face unveiled seemed much more horrible of the two.

One day, Mirit said to me: “Today, I will teach you to nadu.” The word was unfamiliar to me, of

course, so she showed me what to do: she knelt in Tower, and then spread her thighs very far apart.

Then she placed her hands, palms up, on her thighs.

I was of course absolutely horrified when I realized that she wished me to assume this position.

She was completely exposed, and no modesty was left to her at all.

“Now,” she said, in that beautiful gentle voice, “ you do this.”

“No” I replied firmly. I could not imagine it.

“You must. This is who you are now.”

I knew she was right. I hated that she was right, but she was right. Doing this well would

determine my future, probably. I remembered what Lachesis had said about his ambitions

for his daughter: be a slave, be loved, be freed. This was now also my path.

Almost tearfully, I knelt in Tower, and opened my thighs wide. Mirit watched me carefully.

“Edana,” she corrected me, “straighten your back! Do NOT try to hide!” Her voice was unusually firm.

I did as she said, but she wanted more.

“Straighter!” she said “Make your back like a stick”. Then she said: “Look like you think you are a captive queen!”

“Why?” I asked, “I am just a slave!” I felt completely humiliated sitting like this. Humiliation, in me, leads to rebellion and defiance, I learned.

“Girl!” she frowned, “do you want to be pot girl, or first girl?”

I didn’t know what she meant, and she saw it in my eyes.

“Do you want to be loved by a master, or do you want to wash his dishes?”

She looked hard at me.

“Do you think a master wants a swayback, sloppy, badly groomed girl in his bed, or do you

think he wants a beauty that his companions will envy? Do you want to be bought low, or

high, on the chain? All of this is up to you. Set aside your past. It is gone. Look to your future.”

That was all she said, and she said it gently, and quietly. Mirit also taught me the position of

submission, with my hands over my head. Learning to Nadu without embarrassment or shame

was more difficult for me than being branded, and it taught me that slavery was a condition

of the heart and spirit, not of the body. Mirit taught me other things as well, because she was

generous, and wanted me to do well in my future life. She also taught me to speak of myself in

the third person, to say “this girl” instead of “I”. This particular thing I learned so well that to this day

occasionally I will lapse into speaking this way. It is an odd thing to command servants with sentences

that begin “This girl…” such as “This girl wishes you to change the flowers downstairs in the vases.” Or

“This girl wonders why the meal is late.” I sometimes even have spoken to my grandchildren this way.

“This girl wishes you to finish your sul before you may have your cherries and chocolate.” My grandchildren,

raised with slaves, find these kinds of things amazing to hear. I remember Mirit kindly, however, because

she taught me what was important to know: that my future depended on my attitude in the present.

It is a lesson I did not forget, and I bless her memory for teaching it to me.

Lachesis came, one evening, and gave me a contraceptive serum. The next morning, we were awakened

early. “Hurry,” he grumbled, “we will go to market today. You will be sold” He got out the big chain

and fastened us to it. Position on the chain was very important. I found that I was third on the chain.

It was a warm morning. My future was about to become known to me