Chapter 3: Crescent Moon

Looking up into the night sky, it is the first and smallest of the moons. From the darkness, only a sliver can be seen; it appears in the shape of a crescent. It is the most fragile of the phases: a delicate balancing act between establishing its position in the sky and hiding itself from the reach of the sun. But where the other phases of the moon only appear once before waiting their turn again, the crescent moon appears four times. Twice, it is bathed in the light of the sun and twice it receives its shape from the pure darkness. Because of this, the crescent moon, though small in stature, commands the most power and attention.

The Free Woman in Gor performs a balancing act of her own. She is tasked with the unenviable responsibility of being able to stand shoulder to shoulder with the men of the world, but must also be the matriarch and glue of the family- the most precious commodity in Gor. To accomplish this, she must earn the respect of men by playing a strong hand in the game of politics, while birthing and caring for a large and prosperous family.

In the forest, the women know that each walks their own path alone.

At least, that is how it worked before. Panthers were runaways, escaping a life they once knew in order to one day die in the harsh wilderness. The Sa-ta-Tor did not escape. They were a group of survivalists. Where a city has a home stone to unite its people, they had a symbol. It was a simple mark: three moons in three phases over one sky. If you asked one of them what it meant, you would receive no answer at all. Then again, if you asked a man of a city what the home stone meant, you would receive a similar answer. It meant everything and it meant nothing. The symbol was a bind that held them altogether.

* * *

They finally decided to set their roots in the midst of a small canyon dug within the sea of endless greenery. There, they built a camp and family. There were rules. There were friendships within friendship. If a man somehow managed to penetrate the walls of the camp, he could have sworn they were experiencing normal city life. But no man could voluntarily enter the sanctuary of the camp. So a man would have to dream of the life inside. What it would be like if he could hide in the trees and watch them.

The trees rise above them, seemingly stretching towards the sky. Interspersed amongst them are the little huts where they sleep at night. In the middle of the clearing, a big campfire roars providing the warmth for all the women, sitting on logs beside it.

At the head sits Eve; her legs are crossed one over the other with a finger against her cheek in quiet contemplation. What she contemplates, no one in the tribe can know.

To her right is her Second, Gretchen. She looks into the eyes of her En, and knows no good can come from that look, so she mentally prepares herself to silently clean another inevitable mess. Her hands look strong and rough. Her eyes are lakes of calm, scanning the entire camp to ensure that she bring peace to the places of turmoil.

To her left is January, her self-proclaimed rock. It’s a subtle movement, a simple touch to Eve’s shoulder. Words are whispered though no one can know what they are. All they can know is that they bring a smile to Eve’s lips, something no one else in the tribe can do with such seeming ease.

At the foot of the fire lies Azalea. Her body is turned towards the warmth of the fire, drying herself after receiving a bath courtesy of a wild tharlarian she was hunting. Her hands reach to her long hair and she squeezes out the river water. Only Azalea would be fearless enough to think she could hunt a tharlarian alone.

Jayda stands close by, waiting for the moment to chastise her sister. Of course, every sister knew better than correct Azalea. To do so would be suicide. But there is a triumphant smile in Jayda’s eyes; even if she cannot voice the words, she is happy knowing that, for once, she is not the one breaking camp rules.

From somewhere in the distance, a quiet thud of an arrow hitting a tree trunk can be heard. It is Kathy, splitting arrow after arrow into the same spot with her bow. Behind her stands Quruni, unsure of whether she should be standing or kneeling. There seems to be a natural attraction between them: the one who collected slaves and the former slave. They seemed like a perfect match.

Suddenly, his ears fill with a sweet sound of a flute wafting through the night air. The tone begins with a sorrowful long bass sound. The note holds and then changes into a rhythmic pulse. She cannot be seen, but Lily is perched somewhere in the trees, looking out into the vast expanse of the forest as she plays. She shares her gift with all those deep into the canyon and beyond. The range is so deep and the music so beautiful that it is not inconceivable that many men of the forest outposts would sneak to the edges of the forest in hopes to catch the faint whisper of such music.

The music brings Becca to her feet. She is beauty incarnate, seemingly chiseled from marble. She is breathtaking. Her perfectly formed and rounded breasts; her slender hips sway in time to the beat. It is an intoxicating sight; any man witness to this scene would succumb to his desire. Of course, it is not just men that would be hypnotized by such movement. There is a slight movement just behind Becca. It is Night. Only, Night’s hand is not reaching out to touch Becca. No, her fingers slip into her furs. Her eyes are filled with lust by the simple movements of her sister. Her lips form into that familiar “O” and then produces the ever satisfying sigh accompanied with it. It is no wonder why so many men, even when caught and humiliated when placed in a collar, have no desire to escape their reality immediately.

…And then, a bang out of nowhere. It’s Nosyrb, throwing her…no one can really know what she was throwing. Whatever it is, it is loud and bright. The blast echoes in the canyon, distracting everyone. But no one can be mad at her for long: the pure joy on her face would make anyone laugh. Of course, the noise makes Jenny roll from the side of her hammock and stare at Nosyrb. If eyes could kill, Jenny would have exacted a gruesome death on her sister. It is the look that has sent a chill down many a man's spine, reminding him of the warning: when you came to the forests of the Sa-ta-Tor, you would live in a constant state of fear. With one simple look, it is easy to know why.

Kneeling by the logs, it is Madison holding her knife. She is skinning some small forest creature. While her hand expertly separates skin from muscle, she chatters happily to Solange, who stands above her. Solange has her hand placed on Madison’s shoulder, just as a mother would do when guiding her child through a task. In fact, that is exactly what is happening.

Sitting near them is Bhakta, the broken soul. The sorrow in her eyes is evident as she stared into the fire. There is an unspoken longing in her body. Of everything within the camp, it is her expression that is most familiar.It is the look of the woman who needs no independence but is stuck in the middle of nowhere, alone with her thoughts. It is the look of a woman who needs a Master. Almost on cue, Maria slips behind her sister and covers her eyes with her hands. Maria’s joy is contagious. Before long, both of them are laughing and holding one another. Whatever lonely hunger there was disappeared with the familiar touch of a friend. The camp jester lives up to her title.

Sylvia, the newest and youngest member of the tribe, stands at the edge of camp, with a finger in her mouth. She watches the whole scene like an outsider; she does not know where she fits in. Almost in understanding, a chilly breeze floods the camp, bringing goosebumps to her skin. The forest beckons her closer to her sisters and she finds a seat by the rest of the sisters by the fire. They accept her without a word; she had never needed their acceptance, she just needed to take her place amongst them.

There were more names and faces that pass through that camp. Sometimes they stayed for a few days; others stayed for years. But each, once they were accepted within the ranks of the tribe, became family forever. There would always be a spot for them around the campfire.

* * *

A panther tribe cannot exist completely on its own. Sometimes the forest is kind and offers total sustenance: food, shelter, and clothes. Other times, it cannot provide enough. In those times, a panther must seek trading points, exchanging goods and services from merchants and other dealers for things that they need. While a panther is not known to be a social creature, circumstance and timing dictated that sometimes she could not choose to walk her path alone.

The art of the trade was difficult to perfect. The Sa-ta-Tor were immaculate. They would scout a suitable location for days. They would pick a dip in the terrain as the spot for their trade point, marked by a small fire and surrounding logs. They always made their own trade point. The traders- Rahn, Prometheus and Shand were the regulars- would be attracted by the smoke of the trade fire; they would come and see nothing. There would only be a note, informing them that if they waited, a trade would be conducted. For some reason, they always waited. The cover of darkness would come and envelop the trading the point. Without warning, the panthers would begin to emerge from the shadows, filling the trading point. Gretchen would approach the trader, Azalea opposite her. The others would form a ring; there would be no escape from this point. And then Eve would appear and sat down, directly opposite the trader. She sat because she did not fear them. There would be no escape from the negotiation: either it would be successful or he would gain nothing. The trader could never win the confrontation. He could only hope to accomplish his task without injury.

Of course, artful negotiation was not enough; the parties had to meet first. Eve was smart enough to know that men would not be naturally inclined to trade with panthers. Why would they? What did they have to gain? So, as it was with everything in Gor, it became a game of politics. She needed to cull relationships and friendships with people. She had to make men trust panthers in areas of neutrality.

* * *

Once, as the Sa-ta-Tor were returning from a pilgrimage to the Sardar, a silkened kajirus followed them into the depths of the forests. Showing interest, the Sa-ta-Tor took him back their camp were they enjoyed him for a few days. Eventually, they decided to sell him off when they discovered from their trade point. A man stood there, sent by the Ubar of a faraway city. He had been sent to collect the favorite kajirus of the Ubara. Failure to return the kajirus unharmed, the man warned, would result in a war of sorts. Men would flood the forests until the slave was returned.

The threat was shocking. Starting a war over a kajirus? The man was sent away with a message for the Ubar: the Ubar himself would have to return to the post. But he would return to purchase a sleen.

A few weeks later, a grand caravan arrived. The Ubar and his companion emerged, draped richly in the robes and jewels common of their city. Eve took her customary seat opposite the Ubar and informed him that she had a sleen to sell. The Ubara shrieked and screamed to high hell: she wanted her boy, not a sleen. The Ubar managed to finally silence her after a long while and then motioned for the En to explain. With a wave of her hand, a huge sleen was brought from behind the hill controlled by several panthers. The Ubar looked confused as Eve demanded payment. He continued to look at her and she continued to return his gaze. Neither said anything as the sleen thrashed about and the Ubara screamed in fear at being so close to an untamed beast.

Finally, something seemed to click in the Ubar’s mind and he motioned for a great amount of coin to be brought. After the coin was laid out in front of Eve, the sleen was handed over to four very confused looking guards. Just as the panthers turned to slip back into the forest, Eve looked to the Ubar.

"Ubar, I suppose it would do no good to send such a fine beast on such a long journey without food."

She plucked the boy from the shrubs by the post and tossed him in front of the sleen. She nodded to the Ubar, collected her coin and disappeared.

She had protected the forest from potential danger. He had received the kajirus back. He lifted his gaze, catching her eye from across the crowd and paused. A smile found his lips and he tipped his head in respect. They had both exited the trading point with their reputation in tact.

* * *

It is said that every panther walks her path alone. Of course, that cannot always be true. Every once in a while, a situation arises which requires a strong hand at the game of politics and a large, supportive family. Without those ingredients, no woman can truly survive.