Soladovia - Part 2 - Capture
Herein, Setha-Vim shares a memory from his distant past: the day following his capture and his introduction to slavery.
ON NAMES
"In Xithuatlian culture, names held a special significance. They were not simply given, as they are in most other societies. When we hatched, we were known only as 'Hatchling', and 'Hatchling' we remained, until such a time as we had earned a Name.
There was no particular method through which Names were earned... it was possible, albeit very rare, for a Xithuatlian who was an adult by every other metric to still be a Hatchling, if their life had simply been unremarkable. Those who lived their lives as Hatchlings were pitiable... we still accepted them and cared for them, they were still a part of our society, but they were the lowest among us. Similarly, there was no requisite age before one could earn a Name. Some Xithuatilians shed their Hatchling designation very young indeed.
For some, it was an act of courage or bravery. One young Hatchling that was known to me saved his brother's egg from a crocodile, and was awarded a Name in honor of the feat. Another climbed the tallest tree in the jungle, and returned with bark from its highest branches as a trophy. He, too, was awarded a Name - not all such feats need to be benevolent or altruistic.
Others earned their Names through demonstration of abilities that would prove a boon to the tribe. For instance, I had a sister, once, long ago, whose prowess at hunting earned her her Name. She rarely came back from a hunt empty-handed, and it was said that she could throw a spear and cut a hanging vine in two from fifty paces.
Still others earned their names through significant thoughts or ideas. A Hatchling designed a device that removed impurities from our tribe's water, and his aptitude earned him a Name. He had many more thoughts that improved the lives of our tribe, and we revered his intelligence.
In some cases, Names are earned from distinctive personalities. Such was the case with me. Ever since I was very small, I liked to talk. I would tell stories, deliver messages, or give speeches. I even learned to write - an uncommon choice among Xithuatlians. While most of us could read, writing was a whole different matter. Our language was constructed from letters written with straight, overlapping lines of varying width, and we wrote with brushes of fine hair and a special ink. Creating the letters just so took significant time and effort to learn. Not many had the time nor the inclination, and so came to those of us who knew the craft when they needed something recorded or cataloged.
For this distinction, I was given the Name 'Setha-Vim' - 'Free Tongue'. I was known as a storyteller, a chronicler, and a scribe. I recorded the Names of many of my brothers and sisters on the great stone tablet in the center of our village on their own Naming Days.
It did not matter what earned us our Name - they held great personal significance, and on our Naming Days, we became true members of the Tribe, a Hatchling no longer. It was from this day, not the day on which we hatched, that our age was measured. In all my years, I have never experienced a pride stronger than that which I felt on that day."
- Setha-Vim, Tribe and Totem: A Historical Record of Xithuatlian Culture, pg. 28
CAPTURE
"For more than a century, newly hatched Xithuatlians have not been given so much as a taste of freedom. Our eggs are the property of our Masters, and young Xithuatlians are slaves from the moment they break through their shells and see light for the first time. The lucky ones know their mothers, the luckier still know their fathers, too, but most are never even given that privilege. They are taught from their first breath how to serve their Masters' interests. Most are put to work before they are even large enough to have a collar put around their necks.
In this regard, I am privileged, in a sense... I was not always a slave. I spent my first years living in the jungle, in a Xithuatlian village. The oppression of our people had begun only a few short years before I hatched from my egg, and they had not yet managed to find us all. I grew up experiencing our people, our culture, our way of life. Yes, that means I have been alive for more than a century. My kind are very long-lived... it was not uncommon for some of us to reach two hundred - even three hundred years of age before we died... but not anymore. Now, I am one of the oldest of us. An 'elder', I would have been called, even though I am still in my prime.
In another sense, my situation is even more pitiable than those who hatched as slaves, because I remember what we lost. I know the way the jungle smelled, the way our food tasted. I know our language... I am one of the few who still carries that knowledge. I have done what I can to teach younger Xithuatlians about the way things were, but it is clear to me even as I tell it that they do not truly understand, and how could they? This life is all they have known. Perhaps I should simply let it go, let it be lost to time, but I cannot. I will carry these memories for as long as I am able, and I will do all that I can to preserve them before my time comes.
I can still recall, as vividly as if it were yesterday, the screams and cries when the slave-takers found us. We had made our home in a small, well-concealed valley deep in the jungle. We kept ourselves hidden, did not venture from our village... we thought we had evaded attention. That day, we discovered that we had merely made ourselves inconvenient targets.
They came in the night, and set upon us while we slept. We had lookouts, of course, but by the time we knew what was happening, they were already on our land... in our village, in our homes. We thought ourselves their equals. You must not think us foolish... we were simply ignorant. We had no concept of the weaponry they brought to bear against us. We had bamboo spears and shields. We had bows and arrows and slingshots... They had guns, loaded with tranquilizers.
I am not ashamed to admit that as soon as I realized what was happening to us, I fled. I was not a fighter, but even if I were, we simply had no chance against them. We out-numbered them, but even so, I do not think our warriors so much as wounded even one of them. Perhaps, if I had gotten away, I could have helped some of my brothers and sisters escape, but in the end, it did not matter. One of the slave-takers spotted me, and gave chase. I made him chase me as long as I could, and if I had been a little stronger, a little faster, I might have made it. I did not even see my pursuer - the last thing I remember of my flight is the bite of a dart in my shoulder. A moment later I was falling, and then the world went black.
When I awoke, I was on my knees, held upright by a rope around my neck, tied to a wooden pole that had been driven into the ground behind me. My hands were tied behind my back, and both my hands and feet were tied to the pole, as well, my tail lying on the ground between my legs;I could barely move. It was already light out... I do not know how long it had been, or even if it was the same day. I looked around as best I could, but none of my brothers or sisters were anywhere to be seen. I let myself hope that some had escaped, that the slave-takers had chased me instead, and my flight had allowed even one of them to make it to safety. I took solace in those thoughts, but even then, in the back of my mind, I suspected that it was not true.
Only two of the slave-takers were there with me. I assume the others had my brothers and sisters elsewhere, but I do not know for certain. There was a third among them, but she was not a slave-taker... she was a slave. I knew why our kind were being taken... I was not that naive, but I had never seen it with my own eyes before, and it was a jarring sight. She was much older than I. Her scales were a dull green color, and had a dirty appearance. She was taller, and she looked strong - if she had been part of my village, she might have been a great warrior. She had bronze-colored shackles around her wrists and ankles, and she was hobbled with a chain, able to walk only in short, stunted steps. The horns on her head might once have been beautiful, but they had been broken off, and left as jagged nubs. Most jarring of all was the thick bronze collar around her neck.
She looked utterly exhausted, like she had not slept in days, and she was watching me as I stared at her. The humans were looking the other way, arguing over a piece of paper one of them was waving about.I tried to gesture to her as best I could in my bonds, to call her to me. I thought maybe she would set me free. She saw me, but she appeared unsympathetic to my situation. She pointed at me, rattling her chains, and said something to one of the humans. I do not know what it was she said, as I did not yet speak their language, but I imagine she simply told him I was awake. They set down their paper, and both turned their attention to me.
I was surprised, at the time... I felt betrayed. I could not understand why she would help them, rather than helping me. It was simply not our way. Now, though, I understand perfectly. She was not one of us anymore. I do not know how long she had been a slave, but it was long enough... her spirit was broken. She had probably been forced to stand there, perhaps without food, while the slave-takers went about their business, had probably been told to keep an eye on me. To her, seeing me wake up meant she might be one step closer to being allowed to rest. If she had helped me, she would have paid for it, dearly, and to what end? She did not even know me. She was not from my village. The only similarity we shared was our species. I did not understand then, but now, I do not blame her at all for what she did. I would likely have done the same, if it had been me in her position.
The slave-takers came closer to me, and she hobbled over, as well, arriving a few minutes after they did. They did not look happy, or unhappy... they looked bored, as if this was a very normal afternoon for them, and it well may have been. I stared at them... they were the first humans I had ever seen, in the light of day, and I found their features unsettling. The way their skin was just... bare. No scales or carapace, no fur, just... flesh. They reminded me of a diseased animal, stricken with mange, whose fur had all fallen out. Their clothes covered their entire bodies, save their hands and heads, and I was glad for that... I found their faces disturbing to look at, and I did not want to think about what the rest of them must look like.
One spoke to me, his voice lacking emotion. I could not understand him. I could not even move my hands or head to gesture in response; all I could do was shake my head, if only a little. The Xithuatlian walked up beside them accompanied by the sounds of her chains, and translated their words into the language I knew: "What is your Name?"
If it had been only them speaking to me, even if I could understand their words, I expect I would have been more reserved, more reluctant to answer. Less cooperative. However, hearing it come from her, it felt somehow safe. I was scared, alone, overwhelmed... I did not know what was to become of me, or where my brothers and sisters had been taken, but seeing her, hearing her voice, set me at ease, at least to a degree. I was not speaking to them, the men who had raided my village, enslaved my people, taken me captive... I was speaking to her, a fellow Xithuatlian.
"I am Setha-Vim," I answered, or tried to answer - it was not until I tried to speak that I realized how dry my mouth was, and my words came out raspy and weak, like you might imagine a snake would sound, if one could speak. She seemed to understand, though, and turned to the two men, saying something to them in their language, some of which sounded like my Name. They repeated it to her... their accents were foreign, and the pronunciation was poor, but I recognized my Name in their words. She nodded.
They spoke again, looking down at me once more, and she translated their words for me. "Your life has been claimed for the Solidovian Empire. You are, and will be for the rest of your days, the property of the Empire and her people, in accordance with the Ruling Council's decree. Do you understand?" Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but even worse was her tone. Unapologetic, uncaring. There was no compassion, no understanding, no sympathy in her voice - she was simply repeating what they had told her to repeat. It felt to me like she, personally, was condemning me to slavery, but to her, they were simply words, nothing more.
How was I to respond to that? I knew why I had been taken, of course... but hearing it still made my heart sink in my chest. I stared back at her, as best I could, and I became acutely aware of the feeling of soft, wet grass beneath my bare legs, the ropes digging into my wrists, the pole behind my back. The reality of the situation hit me like a freshly felled tree. Perhaps it was her words, or perhaps the drug that had been in their dart finally starting to wear off... I wept. Tears ran down my face like rain, and I hung my head in despair, as much as the rope around my neck would allow.
The men had little tolerance for my delays, and impatiently barked some words to my translator, who looked down at me once more. I do not know what they told her, but what she said to me felt like her own words, not theirs, and I heard a hint of emotion in her voice - fear. "If you do not answer," she told me, "they will punish us both. It will only be harder for you if you try to fight them... please, just do as they say, I am begging you." I looked up at her... I could see on her face that she believed it. She looked like she, too, was on the verge of tears... perhaps out of fear for her own safety rather than my own, but even so, I felt a small connection to her and at that moment, I believed it, too.
I took a breath and exhaled, trying to calm myself. I wished I could wipe the tears from my eyes and face, but I had to settle instead for blinking them away as best I could. "I... understand," I said, my voice shaking. In my head, I was not answering their question... I was answering her.
She turned back to them and said something in their language, and one of the men responded. She asked him something, and he answered her, then she turned to me once more. "They will inspect you. You must be still, let them do as they wish. Don't fight, please."
I did not know what she meant, and I started to ask, but she seemed to tense when I opened my mouth to speak, and the slave-takers were starting to look impatient. I did not want to push my luck, nor did I want to see them take their irritation out on her. I closed my mouth and nodded my head in response. Some forms of body language, I would find, are shared between my kind and theirs; the men did not need to wait for her to translate.
I did not know what 'inspecting me' would mean, and I was caught off guard when one of the men came forward and took hold of my jaw. He pulled my mouth open, much harder than he needed to. He held my mouth open far wider than it was meant to be, and a jolt of pain shot through me. He did not seem to care what damage he might be doing, though, and the other man stepped up in front of me, where he looked into my mouth. He made a comment to the first man after a few moments of looking, who nodded in turn and released his hold on my jaw, letting me close my mouth again, only to have my head forcibly turned to the left, and then to the right a minute later.
The men looked at my eyes, my ear holes, and my horns... they paid special attention to my horns. They ran their fingers over them, talking to one another as they did so, and I started growing nervous. The Xithuatlian stood in front of me while they talked, but did not translate their words... I could see her broken horns, and wondered if I would suffer the same. She reached up and touched the jagged remains of her own horns as she watched... she looked forlorn.
When they were satisfied with my face and head, the slave-takers moved around behind me, and I tensed immediately. I tried to turn my head to see what they were doing, but the rope around my neck and pole behind me made it impossible to turn far enough. I began to tremble, and the Xithuatlian before me seemed to take notice. I felt the men grab hold of my hands. I did not fight him, even when the ropes around my wrists dug in painfully, but I could not help wincing. They looked at my claws, and my fingers, then turned their attention to my feet. Again, I felt them feeling around my claws... I did not know what they were hoping to find, but they seemed to be satisfied, and came around to my front once more. They spoke to me again in their then-incomprehensible language, and again the translator repeated their words to me. "They say you have healthy teeth and strong claws, and that if you behave, you will be allowed to keep them..."
I looked up at her, and I tried to answer, but my dry mouth and utter shock at that statement made it impossible to speak intelligibly. I must have looked awful, kneeling there in the wet grass, a dumbfounded look scrawled across my face. I felt my hands start to shake, and I grabbed hold of the pole behind me to make them stop. I did not know what not being allowed to keep them would entail, and that made it worse than if she had spelled the whole process out for me, because my imagination ran wild.
"You will be taken to one of their towns, on the outskirts of the Empire, where you will be taught. When they are satisfied, you will be sold. It will be easier for you if you do as they say." She repeated the rest of their words, then turned to them and said something in their language. I was hardly listening. My head was aching; this was all just too much for me. I was breathing quickly, starting to panic. The dire reality of the situation was truly starting to sink in.
I heard the sound of metal against metal, and looked up again to see one of the slave-takers holding an iron contraption. It was shaped like a Xithuatlian snout, but made of thin bars, and it had leather straps attached to the open end. I would become well acquainted with them over the days, months and years to come, but I was young and naive, and I did not immediately recognize it for what it was: a muzzle.
I was confused, scared, thirsty, and startled by the sight of the muzzle moving towards my face, and I panicked. It was, perhaps, the worst thing I could have done. I turned my face away from the muzzle and screamed, as loudly as I could. No actual words came out - just noise, and when I was out of air, I sucked in a fresh breath and kept screaming. The Xithuatlian looked at me wide-eyed, she begged me to stop, but I could not, did not, until a few moments later when one of the slave-takers' fists connected with my jaw, and for the second time that day, everything went black.
When I awoke this time, I was lying face-down in a moving cart, amidst sacks and crates. I had shackles around my wrists and ankles, now - no longer only simple ropes. My hands were behind my back, chained together, and my legs were similarly restrained. The muzzle had been put over my face... I could not open my mouth more than an inch before the slats of the metal cage dug into my flesh, and it was held tightly in place by leather straps, two going around the sides of my face, and another up the middle, right between my eyes. My jaw ached where I had been punched, and my ribs hurt each time I drew a breath... they clearly had not stopped hitting me when I had lost consciousness.
I lifted my head, and immediately regretted it as a throbbing pain tore through it, drawing a raspy gasp from me, which in turn sent a new wave of pain through my chest. I laid my head back down on the floor of the wooden cart, and instead rolled over onto my side. The sun was starting to go down... I had not had anything to drink in at least a day, maybe longer. I do not know how long I was out.
My vision was blurry, but when my surroundings slowly came into focus, I saw the Xithuatlian who had translated for me, walking alongside the cart, watching me. She looked like she had been struck, too... dried blood stained her face, beneath her nostrils. I could not see much of her over the side of the wagon, but from the way she walked, it appeared that her hands were tied together, and that they were tied to something ahead of her, forcing her to keep walking or be dragged behind them.
She was clearly exhausted; I could see her struggling to keep up, and it made me feel even worse. I felt guilty to be lying in the cart, as if my fortune - if it could be called that - was directly causing her misfortune... as if, had I been forced to walk, too, it would have alleviated some of her discomfort. I was certain that it was my behavior that brought this treatment onto her. I felt guilt well up inside me. I tried to speak, but the muzzle pressing against me kept my mouth mostly closed. All I could do was mumble. "I am sorry," I said to her. I could barely understand myself... my mouth was parched, and I had not yet learned to speak through a mostly closed mouth.
She watched me for a few more minutes, trudging along beside the cart, before speaking. She kept her voice low, so low I could barely make out her words over the sounds of the cart's wheels, and the horses that drew it... I suspect we were not supposed to be speaking to one another, and that she was risking even harsher punishments, perhaps for both of us, by answering me at all. "Are you thirsty?" she asked me. I nodded my head against the floor of the cart... it was all I could manage. She looked ahead for a few moments, I assume to make sure she was not being watched, then started walking faster.
I thought she was gone, that she had abandoned me to my fate, but she returned a minute later, something held in her hands. She struggled with it, her hands bound together in front of her, but by quickening her pace, she introduced some slack to the rope and it gave her enough control to toss the object into the cart in front of me. I tipped my head to look, and saw the greatest gift I could have hoped for in that moment: a waterskin, still half-full, lying a mere foot from my head. It was uncorked, and the water trickled from it, across the floor of the cart and out through cracks in the wood.
I struggled to crawl to it, and managed to maneuver my feet against one of the crates and painstakingly push myself forward, a few inches at a time. My chest ached, but I ignored it and pressed on, the sight of the water giving me strength. The metal cage around my mouth prevented me from drinking properly, and the best I could manage was to lay in the path of the trickle, and lick at it with my tongue. Most of the water was lost to the ground below, but even the little I managed to get felt life-saving. I laid there for many minutes lapping at it, and while it did little to alleviate my headache, it left my mouth and throat feeling a little less dry.
When I had drunk all I was able to capture, I looked up again, and saw her walking beside the cart once more, watching me silently. "Thank you," I said, my words still impeded by the muzzle, but more comprehensible than they had been. "Thank you... thank you," I repeated, not knowing what else to say.
She bowed her head in acknowledgement, and a few minutes later, she spoke to me again. "The sooner you learn to accept that this is how things are now," she said, her voice as quiet as before, "the better off you will be. You cannot fight them. You cannot win. If you insist on resisting, your life will be a short one, and it will be filled with pain."
I laid there staring up at her for a few minutes. "How can you just give up like that?" I asked. She regarded me with a forlorn look, and shook her head.
"I have not given up," she said. "I have learned to keep my head down, and to do as I am told, and I am still here. To fight them is to give up. To fight them is to die. Do not give up your Spirit so easily, Setha-Vim. Do not let them take it from you."
I did not have an answer for that, and remained silent for a long time. I did not appreciate her words then, but looking back now, I believe they may have been the most important thing anyone has said to me in all my life. They are the reason I am still alive today, to tell you this story. After a long silence, I looked up again, and asked her, "What is your Name?"
She had directed her attention forward, but turned to regard me again. She watched me for a long few minutes. I saw a tear roll down her face as she answered. "I was once Named Narish-va-Tathi." Her voice was quiet and tinged with sadness. "But now, I am Hatchling once more."
Narish-va-Tathi... It means 'Protector of Spirit'. She had probably been a... you would call her a priestess, or a wise woman, before she was captured. A spiritual leader for her Tribe. One who provided guidance, advice, and comfort for her tribemates during difficult times. She felt she had not lived up to her Name, that it was undeserved. She had relinquished it.
I wish I could tell you that I offered her a kind word, a bit of comfort, or even thanks for her advice, but I was young, and naive, and I did not understand what she had meant. Not fully. It was the last time she spoke to me; she walked beside the cart in silence, and at some point on our journey, I fell asleep; I did not wake until we had reached our destination, and by that time, she was gone... taken, I presume, to translate her Master's words for someone else. I never saw her again, but neither have I forgotten her.
Many times during my life, I have felt that I simply could not go on... that it was not worth fighting any longer. I have often thought how easy an escape it would be to simply embrace oblivion. Such thoughts are taboo among my kind... but still, I thought them. And each time, I have remembered her words, embraced them, and they have given me the conviction to continue. They may seem like a small thing to you, but you are not Xithuatlian. I wish I could have told her what she did for me. She called herself Hatchling, but I will always remember her as Narish-va-Tathi. Even now, more than a hundred years after our brief meeting, her wisdom still protects my Spirit."
- Setha-Vim