Hamilton twisted. Gunther’s hand was cruel in her hair. “Here, William,” said Gunther, “is the fair enemy. Behold her, your beautiful foe. Should she conquer, the adventure is done, grandeur lost, man fallen, not risen, the arrow of promise broken, the ships left rotting on the beach.”
“Please, Gunther,” wept Hamilton.
“And Herjellsen told her to turn their eyes to the stars!” scoffed William.
“Herjellsen was insane,” said Gunther.
“But she need not conquer,” said William.
Gunther’s hand tightened in her hair, and Hamilton winced. “No, my dear,” said Gunther, “you will not conquer. You will be ruthlessly dominated. You will not keep us, and others, from the stars. We will take you to them, following us, carrying our burdens. No, my dear, you will come with us to the stars, if necessary in chains.”
“Yes, Gunther,” wept Hamilton.
He threw her back, and she wept. Flower, lying on her stomach, William’s hand on her neck, was frightened.
“Kneel as you were before,” said Gunther. Hamilton did so, head to the stone.
Gunther regarded her.
“It is natural, and wise,” said Gunther, “for a man to control such desirable creatures. They are by nature his enemy, he by nature their master. Freed they are petty and dangerous; enslaved they are delicious and useful.”
Flower whimpered. William silenced her, by tightening his fingers on the back of her neck.
“You see, William,” said Gunther, “you need not be ashamed of your desire to dominate a woman. It is an expression of your manhood. She who tells you otherwise lies. Regard the hunters. Listen to the song of your blood. Furthermore, if you do not dominate her, she will own and rule you, inch by inch, until, like a bled, drugged, tethered lion, you lie at her mercy, helpless. One or the other must be master. The right by nature is yours. Will you take it or will you ask the advice of the slave?”
“But what of her?” asked William. “What of the woman?” “What of her?” asked Gunther.
“I see,” said William.
Hamilton trembled.
“Slave,” said Gunther.
“Yes, Master,” said Hamilton.
“Are you the enemy of your precious hunter?”
“No,” said Hamilton. “I am his slave. I love him!”
“But he can buy and sell you as he pleases,” said Gunther. “Of course,” said Hamilton.
“And yet you love him?” asked Gunther.
“Yes,” said Hamilton.
“How do you feel about your slavery?” asked Gunther. Hamilton’s shoulders shook. She dared not raise her head. For a long time she did not answer. Then she spoke softly. “It is indescribably thrilling,” she said.
“Do you love your slavery?” asked Gunther.
“Please, Gunther,” she wept.
“Do you love your slavery?” asked Gunther.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Slut,” said Gunther. Then he turned to William. “You see, William,” said he, “in the depth of the brain of the female, as old as the genes selected for in the time of the hunters, lies a desire to submit, to belong. These are complementary natures formed in man’s dawn by laws more harsh and terrible than we can conjecture, laws that formed the flank of the antelope, the teeth of the tiger. Just as it is your nature to hold it is hers to be held; just as it is your nature to own, it is hers to be owned; just as it is yours to be master so it is hers to be slave.”
Gunther regarded Hamilton again. “Do you love slavery?” he asked.
“Yes!” she cried.
“Serve me, Slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered. ‘
Hamilton heard Flower cry out as William drew her to him. Then she felt her own shoulder blades forced back against the stone of the floor of the cave. Her left shoulder lay in warm ashes. She thought of Tree. Then helplessly, a slave, she began, unable to help herself, to respond to Gunther’s touch. She knew he would force her to yield fully to him.
21
“I will cut meat first,” said Knife.
He stared across the roast carcass of deer, hot and glistening. The group fell silent. Even William and Gunther, who knew little of the language of the men, sensed the sudden stillness. Hamilton, kneeling behind Gunther, held her breath.
It had come.
Spear did not seem surprised. He had expected this for more than a year.
“I will cut meat first,” said Spear. Hamilton watched them, crouching across from one another, over the meat.
Stone puzzled as to why Spear, in the last years, had not killed Knife. There were none in the group who did not know that Knife wished to be first. Tree thought he knew why Spear had not done this thing. Had Tree been Spear, he, too, would not have wanted to do this thing. The two men, Knife and Spear, stared at one another over the carcass of the deer. Short Leg, behind Spear, wondered why Spear did not strike. The two men, in many ways, seemed not unlike. There was a heaviness about the jaw of each, like rock, the same narrow eyes. Yet there seemed in Spear a heaviness, a weightiness, that was not in the younger man, Knife. Spear’s eyes, too, were quicker. Tree knew that he himself would not have wished to fight Spear. He knew that Spear, the leader, would have had little compunction in killing him. But with Knife, it was different. Knife had walked before Spear once in the last month, entering the camp first; he had said once, in the men’s hut, that Spear was old, that he could not hunt as well as Knife; then, ten days ago, he had taken meat from one of Spear’s women and given it to Flower. But Spear had not killed him for these things. Tree had little doubt that Spear would have killed any other in the group who had done these things. But he did not kill Knife. He did not seem to notice.
“No,” said Knife.
Seeming to pay Knife no attention, Spear thrust the flint blade into the cooked meat.
With a cry Knife, his own flint blade in his fist, leaped across the meat.
With one arm Spear struck him to the side and stood up. The women screamed. William and Gunther leaped to their feet. The men remained sitting, watching. Knife rolled twice and seized up his flint ax. Spear, standing by the fire, over the meat, did not move. His eyes, strange for Spear, who had often killed with equanimity, seemed agonized. “Kill him,” said Stone to Spear. Spear did not move.
Many times, subtly, then brazenly, had Knife challenged Spear, and sought to undermine his authority. He had interpreted Spear’s patience, his unwillingness to take action, as weakness.
There were few in the group who understood Spear’s unwillingness to slay Knife. Tree thought he understood, and perhaps Arrow Maker knew, and Old Woman.
Tree wondered if Spear were too old to be first. Perhaps, after all, that was why he had not killed Knife. Perhaps Spear was after all, afraid of Knife.
Knife raised the ax. Spear stood there, like rock.
“I am first,” said Knife.
“No,” said Spear.
“Take your ax,” said Knife.
“I do not want to fight you,” said Spear.
“I am first,” said Knife.
“No,” said Spear.
Brenda screamed as the ax struck down. It hit Spear on the upper left shoulder. Spear’s body shook with the impact but he remained standing. Almost immediately the shoulder was covered with blood. “That is not how one kills with an ax,” said Spear.
“Show him,” said Stone. He thrust an ax into Spear’s hands.
Again Knife struck, his two hands on the handle of the ax, but this time Spear, with the ax handed to him by Stone, blocked the blow.
“That is better,” said Spear. “Strike always for the head, above the eyes, or at the back of the neck.”