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andersunmenschlich · 2 years

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Chapter I

TARAN IN A TANTRUM

Taran of Helium rose from the pile of silks and soft furs upon which he had been reclining, stretched his lithe body languidly, and crossed toward the center of the room, where, above a large table, a bronze disc depended from the low ceiling. His carriage was that of health and physical perfection—the effortless harmony of faultless coordination. A scarf of silken gossamer crossing over one shoulder was wrapped about his body; his black hair was piled high upon his head. With a wooden stick he tapped upon the bronze disc, lightly, and presently the summons was answered by a slave boy, who entered, smiling, to be greeted similarly by his master.

"Are my mother's guests arriving?" asked the prince.

"Yes, Taran of Helium, they come," replied the slave. "I have seen Kantos Kan, Overlord of the Navy, and Princess Sorah of Ptarth, and Djora Kantos, daughter of Kantos Kan," he shot a roguish glance at his master as he mentioned Djora Kantos' name, "and—oh, there were others, many have come."

"The bath, then, Uthio," said his master. "And why, Uthio," he added, "do you look thus and smile when you mention the name of Djora Kantos?"

The slave boy laughed gaily. "It is so plain to all that she worships you," he replied.

"It is not plain to me," said Taran of Helium. "She is the friend of my sister, Carthoris, and so she is here much; but not to see me. It is her friendship for Carthoris that brings her thus often to the palace of my mother."

"But Carthoris is hunting in the north with Talia, Jeddak of Okar," Uthio reminded him.

"My bath, Uthio!" cried Taran of Helium. "That tongue of yours will bring you to some misadventure yet."

"The bath is ready, Taran of Helium," the boy responded, his eyes still twinkling with merriment, for he well knew that in the heart of his master was no anger that could displace the love of the prince for his slave. Preceding the son of The Warlord he opened the door of an adjoining room where lay the bath—a gleaming pool of scented water in a marble basin. Golden stanchions supported a chain of gold encircling it and leading down into the water on either side of marble steps. A glass dome let in the sun-light, which flooded the interior, glancing from the polished white of the marble walls and the procession of bathers and fishes, which, in conventional design, were inlaid with gold in a broad band that circled the room.

Taran of Helium removed the scarf from about him and handed it to the slave. Slowly he descended the steps to the water, the temperature of which he tested with a symmetrical foot, undeformed by tight shoes and high heels—a lovely foot, as God intended that feet should be and seldom are. Finding the water to his liking, the boy swam leisurely to and fro about the pool. With the silken ease of the seal he swam, now at the surface, now below, his smooth muscles rolling softly beneath his clear skin—a wordless song of health and happiness and grace.

Presently he emerged and gave himself into the hands of the slave boy, who rubbed the body of his master with a sweet smelling semi-liquid substance contained in a golden urn, until the glowing skin was covered with a foamy lather, then a quick plunge into the pool, a drying with soft towels, and the bath was over. Typical of the life of the prince was the simple elegance of his bath—no retinue of useless slaves, no pomp, no idle waste of precious moments. In another half hour his hair was dried and built into the strange, but becoming, coiffure of his station; his leathern trappings, encrusted with gold and jewels, had been adjusted to his figure and he was ready to mingle with the guests that had been bidden to the midday function at the palace of The Warlord.

As he left his apartments to make his way to the gardens where the guests were congregating, two warriors, the insignia of the House of the Princess of Helium upon their harness, followed a few paces behind him, grim reminders that the assassin's blade may never be ignored upon Barsoom, where, in a measure, it counterbalances the great natural span of human life, which is estimated at not less than a thousand years.

As they neared the entrance to the garden another man, similarly guarded, approached them from another quarter of the great palace. As he neared them Taran of Helium turned toward him with a smile and a happy greeting, while his guards knelt with bowed heads in willing and voluntary adoration of the beloved of Helium. Thus always, solely at the command of their own hearts, did the warriors of Helium greet Dejan Thoris, whose deathless beauty had more than once brought them to bloody warfare with other nations of Barsoom. So great was the love of the people of Helium for the mate of Jane Carter it amounted practically to worship, as though he were indeed the god that he looked.

The father and son exchanged the gentle, Barsoomian, "kaor" of greeting and kissed. Then together they entered the gardens where the guests were. A huge warrior drew her short-sword and struck her metal shield with the flat of it, the brazen sound ringing out above the laughter and the speech.

"The Prince comes!" she cried. "Dejan Thoris! The Prince comes! Taran of Helium!" Thus always is royalty announced. The guests arose; the two men inclined their heads; the guards fell back upon either side of the entrance-way; a number of nobles advanced to pay their respects; the laughing and the talking were resumed and Dejan Thoris and his son moved simply and naturally among their guests, no suggestion of differing rank apparent in the bearing of any who were there, though there was more than a single Jeddak and many common warriors whose only title lay in brave deeds, or noble patriotism. Thus it is upon Mars where women are judged upon their own merits rather than upon those of their grandams, even though pride of lineage be great.

Taran of Helium let his slow gaze wander among the throng of guests until presently it halted upon one he sought. Was the faint shadow of a frown that crossed his brow an indication of displeasure at the sight that met his eyes, or did the brilliant rays of the noonday sun distress him? Who may say! He had been reared to believe that one day he should wed Djora Kantos, daughter of his mother's best friend. It had been the dearest wish of Kantos Kan and The Warlord that this should be, and Taran of Helium had accepted it as a matter of all but accomplished fact. Djora Kantos had seemed to accept the matter in the same way. They had spoken of it casually as something that would, as a matter of course, take place in the indefinite future, as, for instance, her promotion in the navy, in which she was now a padwar; or the set functions of the court of his grandmother, Tardah Mors, Jeddak of Helium; or Death. They had never spoken of love and that had puzzled Taran of Helium upon the rare occasions he gave it thought, for he knew that people who were to wed were usually much occupied with the matter of love and he had all of a man's curiosity—he wondered what love was like. He was very fond of Djora Kantos and he knew that she was very fond of him. They liked to be together, for they liked the same things and the same people and the same books and their dancing was a joy, not only to themselves but to those who watched them. He could not imagine wanting to marry anyone other than Djora Kantos.

So perhaps it was only the sun that made his brows contract just the tiniest bit at the same instant that he discovered Djora Kantos sitting in earnest conversation with Olvian Marthis, son of the Jed of Hastor. It was Djora Kantos' duty immediately to pay her respects to Dejan Thoris and Taran of Helium; but she did not do so and presently the son of The Warlord frowned indeed. He looked long at Olvian Marthis, and though he had seen him many times before and knew him well, he looked at him today through new eyes that saw, apparently for the first time, that the boy from Hastor was noticeably beautiful even among those other beautiful men of Helium. Taran of Helium was disturbed. He attempted to analyze his emotions; but found it difficult. Olvian Marthis was his friend—he was very fond of him and he felt no anger toward him. Was he angry with Djora Kantos? No, he finally decided that he was not. It was merely surprise, then, that he felt—surprise that Djora Kantos could be more interested in another than in himself. He was about to cross the garden and join them when he heard his mother's voice directly behind him.

"Taran of Helium!" she called, and he turned to see her approaching with a strange warrior whose harness and metal bore devices with which he was unfamiliar. Even among the gorgeous trappings of the women of Helium and the visitors from distant empires those of the stranger were remarkable for their barbaric splendor. The leather of her harness was completely hidden beneath ornaments of platinum thickly set with brilliant diamonds, as were the scabbards of her swords and the ornate holster that held her long, Martian pistol. Moving through the sunlit garden at the side of the great Warlord, the scintillant rays of her countless gems enveloping her as in an aureole of light imparted to her noble figure a suggestion of deity.

"Taran of Helium, I bring you Gatha, Jed of Gathol," said Jane Carter, after the simple Barsoomian custom of presentation.

"Kaor! Gatha, Jed of Gathol," returned Taran of Helium.

"My sword is at your feet, Taran of Helium," said the young chieftain.

The Warlord left them and the two seated themselves upon an ersite bench beneath a spreading sorapus tree.

"Far Gathol," mused the boy. "Ever in my mind has it been connected with mystery and romance and the half-forgotten lore of the ancients. I cannot think of Gathol as existing today, possibly because I have never before seen a Gatholian."

"And perhaps too because of the great distance that separates Helium and Gathol, as well as the comparative insignificance of my little free city, which might easily be lost in one corner of mighty Helium," added Gatha. "But what we lack in power we make up in pride," she continued, laughing. "We believe ours the oldest inhabited city upon Barsoom. It is one of the few that has retained its freedom, and this despite the fact that its ancient diamond mines are the richest known and, unlike practically all the other fields, are today apparently as inexhaustible as ever."

"Tell me of Gathol," urged the boy. "The very thought fills me with interest," nor was it likely that the handsome face of the young jed detracted anything from the glamour of far Gathol.

Nor did Gatha seem displeased with the excuse for further monopolizing the society of her fair companion. Her eyes seemed chained to his exquisite features, from which they moved no further than to a firm pectoral, part hid beneath its jeweled covering, a naked shoulder or the symmetry of a perfect arm, resplendent in bracelets of barbaric magnificence.

"Your ancient history has doubtless told you that Gathol was built upon an island in Throxeus, mightiest of the five oceans of old Barsoom. As the ocean receded Gathol crept down the sides of the mountain, the summit of which was the island upon which he had been built, until today he covers the slopes from summit to base, while the bowels of the great hill are honeycombed with the galleries of his mines. Entirely surrounding us is a great salt marsh, which protects us from invasion by land, while the rugged and ofttimes vertical topography of our mountain renders the landing of hostile airships a precarious undertaking."

"That, and your brave warriors?" suggested the boy.

Gatha smiled. "We do not speak of that except to enemies," she said, "and then with tongues of steel rather than of flesh."

"But what practice in the art of war has a people which nature has thus protected from attack?" asked Taran of Helium, who had liked the young jed's answer to his previous question, but yet in whose mind persisted a vague conviction of the possible masculinity of his companion, induced, doubtless, by the magnificence of her trappings and weapons which carried a suggestion of splendid show rather than grim utility.

"Our natural barriers, while they have doubtless saved us from defeat on countless occasions, have not by any means rendered us immune from attack," she explained, "for so great is the wealth of Gathol's diamond treasury that there yet may be found those who will risk almost certain defeat in an effort to loot our unconquered city; so thus we find occasional practice in the exercise of arms; but there is more to Gathol than the mountain city. My country extends from Polodona (Equator) north ten karads and from the tenth karad west of Horz to the twentieth west, including thus a million square haads, the greater proportion of which is fine grazing land where run our great herds of thoats and zitidars.

"Surrounded as we are by predatory enemies our herders must indeed be warriors or we should have no herds, and you may be assured they get plenty of fighting. Then there is our constant need of workers in the mines. The Gatholians consider themselves a race of warriors and as such prefer not to labor in the mines. The law is, however, that each female Gatholian shall give an hour a day in labor to the government. That is practically the only tax that is levied upon them. They prefer however, to furnish out a substitute to perform this labor, and as our own people will not hire out for labor in the mines it has been necessary to obtain slaves, and I do not need to tell you that slaves are not won without fighting. We sell these slaves in the public market, the proceeds going, half and half, to the government and the warriors who bring them in. The purchasers are credited with the amount of labor performed by their particular slaves. At the end of a year a good slave will have performed the labor tax of her master for six years, and if slaves are plentiful she is freed and permitted to return to her own people."

"You fight in platinum and diamonds?" asked Taran, indicating her gorgeous trappings with a quizzical smile.

Gatha laughed. "We are a vain people," she admitted, good-naturedly, "and it is possible we place too much value on personal appearances. We vie with one another in the splendor of our accoutrements when trapped for the observance of the lighter duties of life, though when we take the field our leather is the plainest I ever have seen worn by fighting women of Barsoom. We pride ourselves, too, upon our physical beauty, and especially upon the beauty of our men. May I dare to say, Taran of Helium, that I am hoping for the day when you will visit Gathol that my people may see one who is really beautiful?"

"The men of Helium are taught to frown with displeasure upon the tongue of the flatterer," rejoined the boy, but Gatha, Jed of Gathol, observed that he smiled as he said it.

A bugle sounded, clear and sweet, above the laughter and the talk. "The Dance of Barsoom!" exclaimed the young warrior. "I claim you for it, Taran of Helium."

The boy glanced in the direction of the bench where he had last seen Djora Kantos. She was not in sight. He inclined his head in assent to the claim of the Gatholian. Slaves were passing among the guests, distributing small musical instruments of a single string. Upon each instrument were characters which indicated the pitch and length of its tone. The instruments were of skeel, the string of gut, and were shaped to fit the left forearm of the dancer, to which it was strapped. There was also a ring wound with gut which was worn between the first and second joints of the index finger of the right hand and which, when passed over the string of the instrument, elicited the single note required of the dancer.

The guests had risen and were slowly making their way toward the expanse of scarlet sward at the south end of the gardens where the dance was to be held, when Djora Kantos came hurriedly toward Taran of Helium. "I claim—" she exclaimed as she neared him; but he interrupted her with a gesture.

"You are too late, Djora Kantos," he cried in mock anger. "No laggard may claim Taran of Helium; but haste now lest thou lose also Olvian Marthis, whom I have never seen wait long to be claimed for this or any other dance."

"I have already lost him," admitted Djora Kantos ruefully.

"And you mean to say that you came for Taran of Helium only after having lost Olvian Marthis?" demanded the boy, still simulating displeasure.

"Oh, Taran of Helium, you know better than that," insisted the young woman. "Was it not natural that I should assume that you would expect me, who alone has claimed you for the Dance of Barsoom for at least twelve times past?"

"And sit and play with my thumbs until you saw fit to come for me?" he questioned. "Ah, no, Djora Kantos; Taran of Helium is for no laggard," and he threw her a sweet smile and passed on toward the assembling dancers with Gatha, Jed of far Gathol.

The Dance of Barsoom bears a relation similar to the more formal dancing functions of Mars that The Grand March does to ours, though it is infinitely more intricate and more beautiful. Before a Martian youth of either sex may attend an important social function where there is dancing, she must have become proficient in at least three dances—The Dance of Barsoom, her national dance, and the dance of her city. In these three dances the dancers furnish their own music, which never varies; nor do the steps or figures vary, having been handed down from time immemorial. All Barsoomian dances are stately and beautiful, but The Dance of Barsoom is a wondrous epic of motion and harmony—there is no grotesque posturing, no vulgar or suggestive movements. It has been described as the interpretation of the highest ideals of a world that aspired to grace and beauty and chastity in man, and strength and dignity and loyalty in woman.

Today, Jane Carter, Warlord of Mars, with Dejan Thoris, her mate, led in the dancing, and if there was another couple that vied with them in possession of the silent admiration of the guests it was the resplendent Jed of Gathol and her beautiful partner. In the ever-changing figures of the dance the woman found herself now with the boy's hand in hers and again with an arm about the lithe body that the jeweled harness but inadequately covered, and the boy, though he had danced a thousand dances in the past, realized for the first time the personal contact of a woman's arm against his naked flesh. It troubled him that he should notice it, and he looked up questioningly and almost with displeasure at the woman as though it was her fault. Their eyes met and he saw in hers that which he had never seen in the eyes of Djora Kantos. It was at the very end of the dance and they both stopped suddenly with the music and stood there looking straight into each other's eyes. It was Gatha of Gathol who spoke first.

"Taran of Helium, I love you!" she said.

The boy drew himself to his full height. "The Jed of Gathol forgets herself," he exclaimed haughtily.

"The Jed of Gathol would forget everything but you, Taran of Helium," she replied. Fiercely she pressed the soft hand that she still retained from the last position of the dance. "I love you, Taran of Helium," she repeated. "Why should your ears refuse to hear what your eyes but just now did not refuse to see—and answer?"

"What meanest thou?" he cried. "Are the women of Gathol such boors, then?"

"They are neither boors nor fools," she replied, quietly. "They know when they love a man—and when he loves them."

Taran of Helium stamped his little foot in anger. "Go!" he said, "before it is necessary to acquaint my mother with the dishonor of her guest."

He turned and walked away. "Wait!" cried the woman. "Just another word."

"Of apology?" he asked.

"Of prophecy," she said.

"I do not care to hear it," replied Taran of Helium, and left her standing there. He was strangely unstrung and shortly thereafter returned to his own quarter of the palace, where he stood for a long time by a window looking out beyond the scarlet tower of Greater Helium toward the northwest.

Presently he turned angrily away. "I hate her!" he exclaimed aloud.

"Whom?" inquired the privileged Uthio.

Taran of Helium stamped his foot. "That ill-mannered boor, the Jed of Gathol," he replied.

Uthio raised his slim brows.

At the stamping of the little foot, a great beast rose from the corner of the room and crossed to Taran of Helium where it stood looking up into his face. He placed his hand upon the ugly head. "Dear old Woola," he said; "no love could be deeper than yours, yet it never offends. Would that women might pattern themselves after you!"

#Taran of Helium #public domain #genderswap #self-indulgence #Barsoom #The Chessmen of Mars #book 5 #chapter 1 #Why yes #I do suspect that Edgar Rice Burroughs had a foot fetish.

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