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Jack Shaftoe had often passed quiet hours wondering what would have become of him, how differently his life might've turned out, if he hadn't parted company with Eliza of Qwghlm during that edifying (if oddly hazy) Hexen-party atop the mountain near Bockboden. Perhaps she'd have demonstrated some more secrets learnt from Books of India: Jack had been quite taken by her knack with his chakras. On the other hand, she might have driven him mad (madder, to be exact: the Pox was manifesting again) with her incessant babble of feelings, and sentiments, and other such courtly and impractical notions.
Of course, Eliza's conversation had not been limited to romantickal nonsense. She had also waxed vehement on the subject of slavery, which by some strange coincidence was much on Jack's mind at present. Fortunately, he was beset by sufficient hallucinations and phantasmagoria to ignore almost everything that was happening around him: the weeping women, the stench of unwashed bodies, the hearty bellow of the auctioneer, the rattle of fetters. An impertinent fellow wrangled Jack out to the middle of the marketplace, and the auctioneer spouted a catalogue of lies and deceptions. (Jack spoke no Turkish, but was familiar with sales technique the world over.) And the hallucinations, whether Pox-driven or sent by some Imp, were especially glossy today, for Jack could not only see that very Eliza of whom he'd been thinking, but could hear her dulcet (yet strident) tones.
When the impertinent lackey rechained Jack with his hands in front of him and a collar at his neck, he began to wonder how long the hallucination would last.
"Hello, Jack," said Eliza. "I have to say this isn't quite how I'd imagined our reunion."
*
There followed an interminable amble through narrow streets, accompanied by a pair of thugs who apparently knew no language save the universal lingo of physical violence. Jack would have panicked more if Eliza (who was proving a very unsatisfactory hallucination) hadn't assured him that she had freed him from the onerous shackles of slavery. (Jack had tried to point out that he'd have preferred to be freed from the actual shackles of slavery, but nothing doing.) Eventually he was deposited in a kitchen-yard, relieved of his chains and prodded towards a pump. With vague memories of a happier time when Eliza'd encouraged cleanliness as a prelude to carnal pursuits, Jack ducked himself under the cool water and scrubbed himself as best he could. There was soap: there was, by some miracle, a razor. Jack eyed the guards at the gate, but elected not to try this new weapon against their heavy swords and studded leather breastplates. He shaved off his beard and hacked at his hair until he felt like a man again. The corsair galley that'd enslaved him had not placed a high priority on personal hygiene.
"That's better," approved Eliza when Jack was led into her presence.
"I'm very grateful for your assistance," said Jack, looking around. She'd landed on her feet all right. There were paintings on the wall, and a carpet covering the smooth stone floor. There was fancy incense smouldering somewhere, and it made Jack sneeze. And Eliza herself: well, either this was some deathbed vision perpetrated by the Pox (Jack was keeping an open mind on whether Eliza was present in any real and tangible form: but he had to admit that this was an exceptionally detailed and durable delusion) or she'd come into money. Her green silk dress would've fed Jack's family in Wapping for a year, and the rings on her slender fingers were set with emeralds of the finest water. Jack was prepared to be very grateful indeed, if Eliza was willing to share her good fortune.
"Glad to see you've come up in the world," he congratulated her. "Do let me know if there's anything I can do to repay the favour."
"Jack, I really don't think you have a firm grasp of the situation," said Eliza, with a cool smile that made Jack a little nervous. "You see, I bought you. You're my property."
"I thought you were a fierce opponent of the slave-trade!" cried Jack. "Lord knows you went on and on about -- that is, I'm sure you mentioned it, when I saved your life and you travelled under my protection."
Eliza laughed daintily, hand to her mouth. "Youthful idealism, nothing more. I'm a respectable married lady now, Jack."
"Who's the … the lucky man?"
"The Count of Bad Harzburg," said Eliza.
"How delightful," said Jack, straightening his spine and doing his utmost to look handsome and heroic. "Does he know you spend your pin-money on strapping young male slaves?"
Eliza turned an appraising look upon Jack, similar to the one he'd focussed on her accessories. "The problem with the Count," she confided, beckoning him closer, "is that that's all he does."
"Eh?"
"He counts, Jack. He's very rich -- and so, therefore, am I -- but he cares nothing for me, only for his money."
"Tragic, but I don't --"
"That's where you come in," said Eliza.
"Well, as you may recall from that blessed day when first we met," smarmed Jack, "I find myself, due to an unfortunate incident in Dunkirk, without the wherewithal to satisfy your nubile urges. Though if you happen to have any of those Books of India lying around, I --"
"That's quite all right, Jack," said Eliza sweetly. "I see your tongue is quite intact: and you still have both your hands."
*
If anybody had told Jack Shaftoe that he would end up a bed-slave in a fine house in Ragusa, servicing a beautiful young woman neglected by an uncaring husband, he'd've guffawed with laughter and enquired about enrolment. Yet now it came to it, Jack (his fingers cramping, his tongue growing numb and his nostrils rebelling against the perfumed oils that Eliza required him to anoint her with whenever she grew weary of carnal pleasure -- which was not nearly often enough) found himself curiously … dissatisfied.
"P'rhaps," Jack suggested diffidently, during one such respite, "you might see your way to a spot of reciprocity, eh?" Working on Eliza's softly rounded curves and warm, wet concavities had roused seldom-stirred portions of his own anatomy: he'd have seen to it himself, but painstaking experimentation had failed to replicate the effects that Eliza herself -- via techniques cribbed from Books of India -- had induced so long ago in that Bavarian hovel.
"What's that, Jack?"
"I seem to recall, from our daring adventures where I --"
"Yes, yes: you were most helpful during the journey from Vienna. And it's true I bestowed a favour or two 'pon your mutilated and undeserving corpus. But, Jack?"
"Yes?"
"You must say, 'Yes, madame'," digressed Eliza. "Say it, Jack."
"Yes, madame," said Jack, ungraciously.
"You still don't understand the concept of slavery, do you?"
"I understand it excruciatingly well," said Jack, flexing his sore fingers. "'Tis when a wealthy man -- or woman, as it may be -- purchases a man who possesses neither wealth of his own, nor freedom to acquire said wealth."
"The point, I fear, has escaped you," said Eliza, rolling onto her back and wriggling lewdly.
Jack suppressed a groan. "Again? Already?"
"'Tis one of the benefits of the feminine state, Jack: a woman's pleasure is not only greater than a man's, but more frequent and more prolonged. Besides," and Eliza pushed herself up to her elbows, "you, Jack Shaftoe, are my property: and if you don't obey me, I shall have you whipped."
"Fine!" said Jack. He sat back and folded his arms over his chest. (Damned if he'd bother concealing what remained of his privities from this harpy. 'Sides, she'd seen it all before.) "You do that, madame, for I've had enough of this one-sided and frankly interminable make-work you've set me to."
Eliza sat up too, clapping her hands and laughing. Jack scowled blackly at her.
"Now you understand me, Jack!"
"What? What are you on about?" You demented shrew, Jack just about prevented himself from adding. That whipping was by no means inevitable, not just yet.
"Slavery, Jack, is about inequality: all for the master -- or mistress -- and none for the slave. I had hoped you understood this already, but once I'd purchased your freedom and brought you here, I realised that you still needed lessoning in the essential injustice of the system. A more cynical woman might almost think, Jack, that you'd forgotten our conversations on the road from Vienna!"
"Perish the thought," said Jack, nodding gravely and letting the flow of her words wash over him. Lessoning: right. His chances of carnal release were not looking promising, and Eliza looked set to talk all night. On the other hand …
Eliza's finely-plucked eyebrows were raised, and she'd fallen silent. Jack nodded so hard that his neck twinged, and was rewarded by a brilliant smile.
"So if I've learnt my lesson -- an' if I've attended to my studies," Jack said cautiously, eyeing Eliza's still-naked and undeniably attractive form with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, "then I'll be … what, free to depart?"
"Of course, Jack! Why, my husband -- who is away at present, counting some Genoese silver in Scutari -- would be most disturbed to find such an infamous blackguard in his household!"
Jack inclined his head graciously, and began to look around (as casually as possible) for the clothes he'd been wearing.
"I'll give you some money to set you on your way, of course," Eliza went on.
"Payment for my hard labour, I --"
"Hard?" said Eliza, glancing at Jack's groin.
Jack bared his teeth. "As I was saying: remuneration for my efforts, which otherwise might be seen as the work of a slave -- or of a paramour, who might outstay his welcome and be here to greet the Count himself."
"Very well!" snapped Eliza. "I'll give you as much again as I already invested in your freedom, providing you make full use of that freedom to hie thee hence. I'd suggest you make for Venice, where you should be able to find passage to the New World. I'm told that the Caribbean offers a host of fascinating opportunities to competent and determined individuals."
"Been there," objected Jack, on principle. "Din't much care for it."
"Perhaps you'd rather stay a slave?"
"Well! When do I leave?"
-end-