Sanal Khuree: The Gift

*****

Prologue

Rachel led her horse up the valley rim trail, picking her way carefully up the steep and stony path. Morning was her favorite time for this, and if she woke early, and quickly finished her chores, she could be up to the break point just before sunrise, in time to see the first rays emerge from the east to illuminate the endless plains stretching north. Break point was her own name for it, that one last turn in the switchback trail when the scenery of her village's secluded valley was replaced by views of the rest of the world.

She made the turn and began her gazing routine. Somewhere out there, to the north, was her land. She had been born there, before the fateful raid that led to her being adopted into the clan. Her life was good—there was no doubt being the daughter of the chief had many advantages—but something to the north called her and she struggled to recapture what it was, feelings she had felt more strongly and specifically as a child. But there was still a yearning.

She was a disciplined girl, having been raised in a loving but austere environment. The time she gave herself for this indulgence was limited to the duration of the sunrise itself. As soon as a small gap appeared between the full circle of the risen sun and the horizon, the time for dreaming was over and she was to wheel Horizon back to descend the precarious path. The name Horizon was her choice—her father had allowed her the honor for the beautiful horse which she mostly claimed for her own; in searching her imagination there was only one possibility. Horizon to her meant the future, dreams, open possibilities, new things. It is what she wanted most in this world, but life was difficult and there was no guarantee the chance would be offered.

This day when she pulled on the reins to turn Horizon for the descent, a glint barely caught her eye, far to the north. Something had reflected the sun's light back to her, from miles away. She looked for it to reoccur but could see nothing, so she waited. She was exceptionally good at waiting. All the villagers were.

Then she saw it again, a distinct flash. It must be from the main road north, she thought. She didn't know of any other traveled paths through those plains. It could be some kind of trader's wagon train, having started very early before sunrise or finishing a delayed overnight journey. Neither seemed likely, though, as the road was seldom used. There had been little peace between the peoples on either side for years; not since before she was born, anyway.

Then her eyes resolved the cloud of dust. It was not a slow-moving wagon train. These must be horses, and moving swiftly. Many of them. It could only mean one thing and to her that was terror. The Northland invaders were beginning a raid. The main road ran nowhere else before heading further south but through the lower gap—west a mile from where she was at her scenic break point—and straight into her family's village in the valley.

She waited as long as she dared, watching, willing them to turn course or somehow vanish, but they only grew closer by the minute. Finally she turned so that she could make it down to the village to warn them, although already her brain jumped ahead and wondered what could possibly be done to prepare with so little time. She might have a thirty minutes advantage on the invaders, she hoped. Her father must be the first to know. He would have a plan.

*****

Rachel

It was late afternoon when the curtains parted and our clan chief stood at the opening to the hut. His bearded face showed only exhaustion and misery; his clothes were matted with the dirt of battle, and blood—smears of blood we hoped came from our enemies and not our brothers. He leaned his staff against the door frame and looked to the floor, spent. Next to me, my mother shivered and gathered her courage. She looked carefully at the expression on her husband's face, then spoke in the softest voice. His ragged image demanded tenderness on a day when he had surely had none.

"Jan, please. Don't tell me they are all dead."

He raised his eyes to scan the six of us women standing expectantly, then locked his gaze onto his wife's to answer the implicit question.

"Marta, my love, we gave our full effort. We lost. But thankfully there are not so many deaths." Then his eyes fell to me, and I saw sorrow—or was it regret?—as he looked at his youngest daughter. "I made a deal," he said, without wavering in his stare. I sucked in my breath sharply. He struggled to say the words to me.

"Rachel, it was the only way to save our people, especially our women. You must be brave now and behave as the eldest daughter of the clan chief. You have already done one duty today, warning us this morning. It was a great help, and I thank you. The villagers thank you. But, unfortunately, your duties are not yet finished in this most important of days."

He coughed, hacked really, short of breath, and paused to look at my mother, then back at me. There were tears in his eyes; he was a beaten man. He cleared his throat and continued. "I agreed to give you on sanal khuree to their king. He knew of you, and indeed they are on the road behind me. He will be here soon."

Sanal khuree. This was a phrase we all knew from childhood, told in circles by the fire. Nighttime stories of the bogeymen from the Northlands, coming to take us away. Stories to scare us so that we would behave and do our chores and not wander off to be lost. I never knew if they were truth or legend, the stories where women were given as gifts to the chiefs of other clans in war, or as tribute in peace.

I didn't know much of the Northland language, but we all knew that sanal khuree translated literally as "offering frame" or "offering board" on which the girl was secured. Now it was my turn to shudder, for I did not know what torment was to be mine today, and indeed for any day in my life from now, if this was true that we lost the battle for our clan independence.

I wanted desperately to run, to flee this place of danger, maybe to go east into the woods to join the scattering of village women and children that my warning had sent in the early hour before the village was encircled in battle—I felt proud that I at least had done that much. But I wanted, needed, to pursue my own dreams, my own horizon. I looked at my father's slumped figure, though, and knew that my only path forward was a hard one: to draw from the strength deep within myself and do whatever was asked of me. I breathed deeply and resolved to be brave for his sake, and for the sake of our people.

There was little time to prepare. The other women left the hut and two servant girls sponged my face and arms while my mind raced with a thousand questions. I dug through the hutch to find my best blouse, combed my hair straight down to where it hung at my shoulders, and looked at my reflection in the glass shard to make sure I showed the beauty for which I was known in the region. I ran my hands up and down my hips and chest feeling the curves which were still slightly foreign to me.

Within minutes we heard horses arrive outside, and I peeked out from the curtains to see rough men already dismounted and talking to one another in their strange language. And then laughter, the casual humor of the victors, so cruel for the conquered to hear. My father lay prostrated on the ground in a deep bow. When he noticed me, he rose slowly and backed slowly to the door of the hut, looking at the ground, not turning his back on his conquerors.

"Please, now, Rachel. It is time to come out to us."

I was brought before their king in the late afternoon light. He stood in the meadow with men surrounding him on each side in an arc, and I stood opposite with my father and our remaining servants. The king was old and thick, with a full white beard and a grizzled face. I was repulsed by the idea of being given to this man for any purpose, but to my surprise he did not seem interested in me and barely glanced in my direction. They were discussing among themselves, perhaps of what to do with the gift of me, or perhaps of the dividing of other spoils from today's battle.

I had the full attention of one young man. A very strong and vibrant man, taller than the average Northlander but with blazing eyes and a chiseled face. With his arm to the side, he balanced his heavy battle sword casually as if it were merely a boy's stick. He was quiet and confident, and looked slowly from me and back to his king while the others chattered. When his gaze fell on me it was with intensity and I became uncomfortable, and needed to drop my eyes to look at the ground. He didn't smile, but it wasn't a look of malice, either. It was simply a look of interest, and possession. When he finally spoke, the others became quiet, even his king.

I couldn't understand, but my father translated their discussion as he could; he said quietly next to me, "My dear Rachel, their king has given you to his son. He was brave in battle today, as I saw myself, and you are his reward." I looked over at the silent young man who had been staring at me, and still was, and a shiver ran from my toes up to my neck. My father continued. "You must be brave, and help our people. The king has promised to hold their soldiers from pillage, if we are faithful to this arrangement and you satisfy the son."

I was shocked. "Do we trust them, father?" I asked, naively, whispering so that no-one else would overhead. "Will they really do this?"

"Perhaps, my child. I hope. There is nothing more that we can do," he replied. I swallowed and nodded. I would do what was required by my father, our chief.

He wasn't my birth father. I was found as a baby after a deep raid in the Northlands years ago, abandoned, with parents either dead or unable to be found. The chief's new young wife, still without child, and who later became the woman I called my mother, fell in love with the pretty baby and raised me as her own. My own heritage was likely of mixed race due to the history of skirmishes across that porous border during the past hundred, even thousand years. Somewhere in the world I hoped there existed a peaceful place without war, enjoying only endless calm, but it was not this place.

The legend which sprang from this story grew until I was rumored to be the most beautiful child in all the region, and as I grew to a young woman I came into my own adult maturity to fulfill that legend. Sometimes as I grew, I cursed this beauty and its fame, the trouble that it caused me in many ways, but now if it was the reason that we could save our people from further strife, then I was glad for it.

My father listened to the men, and again translated for me quietly. I thought I heard the dreaded words "sanal khuree" from one of the king's men in their discourse, although the pronunciation was not the same as that we used. A middle-aged woman was ushered from the back near the tethered horses and pushed towards me. She did not look unkind; there was a beauty that was similar to my own, and she flashed a tired smile when her eyes met mine in a cautious glance. It was a small gesture of compassion, and even love. I felt an unexpected connection with her. Who knows, she could have been a Northland relation of mine, or even my mother. My father continued.

"Rachel, the rest of them will be here in shortly, with . . ." His voice trailed off and he did not finish the sentence. He meant the device, I assume. Then he pointed to the woman. "This matron will help you prepare." One of the king's men approached, a rough man, and turned my father by the shoulder, fastening a collar and rope to his neck. They began the march towards the village center. My father had his own agony and humiliation to prepare for tonight, having lost the key battle of his life, but he held his head proudly as he was marched as a prisoner. I again stiffened my resolve to do my part this day.

Back in the hut, the matron began my preparations, but first she held my face in her hands, uttering a long sentence of Northland language that neither my servant girls nor I understood. I took it as a speech of encouragement for my task that lay ahead. She brushed my hair with a comb fashioned from animal bone, then briskly stripped me of my blouse and underclothes, and from her bag took out some lotions and a sharp razor. I flinched back, but she smiled gently, and carefully applied the lotion and razor and began to remove all the hair from my body. My servants brought a bucket of water and they followed after the path of the matron, scrubbing and cleaning every inch of my skin. If it weren't for the threat of what was to happen after, it would have been pleasurable to have this much attention spent on me.

Then a commotion of horses and men began outside our hut and the matron dashed a large blanket over my entire body and ushered me into a corner. I didn't sense danger, but adherence to the propriety that I not see, nor be seen. As I was covered, I heard squeaking of wheels and wood, and men's commands. This took some time during which I remained still, but when it quieted I took a peek over the edge of my blanket. The matron was ushering my servants out of the hut and in the center of the room there was now an assembly, a bulky and foreboding device, that filled the room. I knew this must be the sanal khuree. I shivered again looking at it. I had a fresh appreciation for the magnitude of what awaited me.

The main assembly consisted of a large board, the height of a man, polished and curved, mounted upright in a heavy wooden frame. There was a small depression for a person's head—my head—at the top, and as the board dropped from there it curved outwards in a bow so that, assuming I was to be fastened facing outwards, my chest would thrust towards the room. There was an opening for my buttocks, and then two small wooden shelves for my feet. I couldn't make out some additional mechanisms behind the frame, but there seemed to have been quite a lot of engineering.

The machine didn't look torturous, necessarily, but it did look uncomfortable. The foot platforms, and similar ones for my hands, were mounted on long rods attached behind the board, with ropes running up to pulleys at the top. It looked as if my arms and legs could be set into any desired position by the adjustment of the ropes. It seemed to be a device that—depending on the intention of the one in command of it—could be used for varying levels of punishment.

The matron moved efficiently and without expression as she mounted me into this device. I stepped carefully up to it, and submitted to her will. I supposed that the machinery was familiar to her, as she moved quickly and efficiently. I knew that I dare not resist, as she fixed my hands and feet securely with cords wrapped so tightly that I could not move an inch once they were tied. I leaned back against the headrest and tried to become accustomed to this position of my body being pinned upright on display. I was fully clothed, although I wondered how long that would last. She gave me a last, soft caress on the cheek and chin, with a look of understanding and sympathy, then left the room.

My fear grew as I watched the door of the hut for the next act of this play. But as the minutes passed into tens of minutes and then perhaps into an hour or more, my fear softened and even turned to boredom. There was only silence, with the occasional sound outside of men. Maybe I wasn't very important to this king's son, after all, that he could leave me waiting this long. Or then again, perhaps he was so confident of his new possession that he could afford to wait and clear his other obligations before retiring with me for the night. I shivered again and resolved to do my duty.

And then, in a surprise to me, as events can seem after a long wait, he burst through the curtains and was suddenly inside the hut. It was about to begin.

He was a strong man, larger than I realized from watching him in the clearing outside. A strong odor hit me. It was the smell of battle. Of men and sweat, of leather and horses, and of blood. He still wore his battle kit, and as he moved to set down his armaments and other possessions, I watched with detachment, noting the strange details of his Northland clothing. He hadn't yet looked at me directly, although I knew that would change.

Soon he was nearly naked, and I couldn't help admire the figure of this man. A large blood-soaked battle dressing wrapped his upper thigh, and he stooped to attend to it. When he attempted to pull on it he winced, and stopped, snapping his fingers impatiently. An attendant who must have been lurking outside the hut for just such a call rushed in and some harsh Northland language was exchanged. It must have been for a doctor, because some minutes later an older man entered without a glance at me and began working on the injured leg. As the dressing came off, I remarked on a large gash up the inside of his thigh. The bleeding had long stopped, but it was clear that this had been close to a mortal wound.

I found myself in an incomprehensible mixture of emotions. Here was this man, a strong warrior who just this day had fought against and likely injured or even killed my own people in battle, and yet he was in my own hut, naked, vulnerable, and in pain. As the doctor stripped him of his remaining clothes, my emotions increased in intensity as I felt a twitch between my legs. I couldn't believe that I was becoming sexually aroused by this man, my enemy, and attracted to him. But he was beautiful and strong. And I could not avoid noticing as the doctor worked on him that he had a large manhood, more so than any of our own young men I had glimpsed during bathing time. I closed my eyes to avoid the lure of this man moving slowly and deliberately in a state of undress in front of me.

The doctor finished his work on a new dressing, and after a Northland servant gave the warrior a sponge bath, he turned them all out of the hut and walked to me. I held my breath and my heart skipped a beat. He was naked except for the new white cloth dressing on his thigh. He looked directly into my eyes and I tried not to flinch. I was his and I had no choice to let him do as he wanted with my body tonight, but I resolved that he would not have my mind. I was not going to be afraid of his gaze, avoiding it like a coward.

At my defiant glare he seemed surprised, and not unpleased, and smiled gently with a long gaze up and down my entire length as I was mounted on the board. I knew that my chest, which was already well figured, must be a tantalizing site thrust towards him by the curve of the board, and that my legs fastened tightly together by the binding and covered only partially by the blouse must also be having an effect.

He touched my lip with one finger, and brought my face to his, kissing me. I did not resist. But then in a surprise, he ran his hand down to my chin, neck, chest, then to my blouse and tore it open. A breast popped out. He stared eagerly. I struggled not to react so I held my ground and looked at the bridge of his nose. I didn't care to look down to see what effect I was having on his manhood. Then he spun around and snapped his fingers again to call someone outside.

I watched the smooth muscles of his buttocks flex as he walked away from me to the door—limping to favor his injured thigh—to give more instructions to his servants in their language. I listened to the sounds and wondered if it was in my future that I would learn this tongue. It wasn't unpleasant, and had a certain rhythm that felt familiar even though I could not resolve any words. Perhaps I had the patterns deep in my brain from my very early life.

A moment later, a new woman, some kind of peasant girl, was roughly thrust into the room. I watched intensely, without knowing what turn this new development was going to take. I tried to see her face in the attempt to identify her, but I couldn't make it out as he positioned her directly in front of me, facing away. Then to my surprise he rudely bent her over at the waist, to which she complied, and pulled her skirt up and her underclothes down. Her rounded naked buttocks and pubis were exposed to us both.