Among folks as different as Tuchuks and Torvaldslanders, for example, poetry is seldom written down. It is memorized and sung about the fires, and in the halls, and thus is carried on the literary tradition. And poets such as Hurtha, it seemed to me, were even less likely to be deterred by illiteracy than many others. 'He leaped out at me, from behind a wagon, with his ax!' said the fellow. ' 'I am a poet, he announced, his ax at the ready. 'Would you care to purchase a poem? 'Yes! cried I, for my very life, hastily scribbled on this slip of parchment.'
'You did so, of your own free will,' I noted, thinking it was important to emphasize this fact.
'I want my silver tarsk back!' he said.
'It is a very fine poem,' I said.
'You have not read it,' he pointed out.
'I have read others of his,' I said. 'I am sure it is every bit as good.' Indeed, I had already read three others this very night. The Tabor merchant was the fourth fellow who had come by to look me up. Too, coincidentally, he was the fourth fellow who was demanding his silver tarsk back.
'To me,' said the merchant, 'it seems merely strange, or perhaps, at best, unmitigated trash, but then I am a simple man of business, and not a scribe. Doubtless such things come more within their jurisdiction than mine.'
'That is true,' I said, encouraging him.
'Would you care to interpret this line?' he asked, pointing to a line. 'No,' I said.
'What about this one?' he asked.
'I do not think so,' I said.
'What about this?' he asked, ' 'Her eyes were like green moons. ' 'That is an easy one,' I said. 'Doubtless moons are supposed to suggest romance, and green the vitality and promise of life.'
'It is addressed to a wounded tharlarion,' he said.
'Oh,' I said.
'I want my silver tarsk back,' he said.
'Of course,' I said, emptying my wallet into the palm of my hand. It was not hard to do. 'Perhaps that tarsk is it,' I said.
'I suspect so,' he said. 'You only have one there, and that is stamped with the mark of the mint of Tabor.'
'So it is,' I said, handing it back to him. One thing about Hurtha. He thought highly of his poems. He did not let them go for nothing. They were not cheap. He maintained his standards. Still, it seemed that a silver tarsk was a high price to pay for a poem, even if it were as good as one of Hurtha's, particularly one, one had to copy oneself. Indeed, many lovely women on Gor do not bring as much as a silver tarsk on the slave block.
'Thank you,' said the merchant.
'Yes,' I said. He was still there.
'I am surely entitled to something for my trouble,' he said. The other fellows had not taken this attitude. Still, they had not been merchants.
'Here,' I said, giving him a copper tarsk. That left me with two.
'Thank you,' he said, after scrutinizing the change in my palm.
'Your welcome,' I said. He then left.
'Alas,' said Hurtha, coming up to me disconsolately,' I fear I have made a terrible mistake.'
'How could that be?' I asked.
'In my good-hearted enthusiasm to assuage our needs,' he said, 'I fear I may have suffered dishonor, if not ruination.'
'How is that?' I asked. That was certainly an interesting thing to hear. 'I have been selling my poems,' he said, collapsing near Mincon's fire, by the wagon. He sat there, with his head in his hands.
'Oh?' I said.
'Yes,' he said. 'Surely you recall the four silver tarsks I gave you earlier in the evening.'
'Of course,' I said.
'I received them from the sale of poems, my poems!' he said, shaking with emotion.
'No,' I cried.
'Yes,' he said, miserably.
'I had thought it must be from the sale of numerous rich gems, doubtless sewn in your jacket,' I said.
'No,' he said. 'I looked about the yards, and when I found fine-looking, sensitive-looking chaps, splendid- seeming fellows, of apparent refinement and taste, those of a sort I thought might be capable of appreciating my work, I offered them one of my poems, and for no more than a mere token of appreciation, a silver tarsk.'
'That was incredibly generous,' I said.
'It was a terrible mistake,' said Hurtha.
'I am glad you realize that,' I said.
'What?' he asked.
'Nothing,' I said.
'My poems are priceless,' he said. 'You think you should of asked for more than a silver tarsk?' I asked, alarmed.
'No,' he said, 'I should not have sold them at all.'
'I see,' I said, relieved. 'But they are probably not really all that bad.' 'What,' he asked.
'Nothing,' I said.
'I realized it with the last poem,' he said, miserably. 'I looked down at the silver tarsk in my hand, and at the poem in the fellow's hand, and it all became clear to me. I saw then how terrible was the thing I had done, selling my poems, my own poems, my precious, priceless poems! They now belonged to another! Better I had torn my heart out and sold it for a tarsk bit!'
'Perhaps,' I said.
'I then begged the fellow to take back his worthless tarsk, and return the poem to me.'
'And did he do so?' I asked.
'Yes,' said Hurtha, looking up at me.
'Well,' I said, 'it all ended well then.
'No,' he said, tears in his eyes. 'You do not understand.'
'We are now short a tarsk?' I said.
'No!' cried Hurtha. 'There were four other poems sold! I shall never be able to recover those poems! They are gone, gone!' He put his head again in his hands, sobbing. 'I shall never be able to find all those fellows again.' Scarcely had I sold them the poems then they all hastened away, covetous, lucky, greedy fellows, lest I change my mind. Now I shall never be able to find them again and appeal earnestly, fervently, to their better selves, and higher natures, to take back their filthy money. What a fool I was! My poems, gone! Sold for a mere four silver tarsks! Waste! Dishonor! Misery! Ruin! Tragedy! What if this story should ever get back to the wagons? I am unworthy of my scars!'
'Hurtha, old fellow,' I said, gently.
'Yes,' he said.
I placed my hand on his shoulder.
'Yes?' he asked.
'Look,' I said. He lifted his head and looked up.
'Here,' I said, softly. I held forth to him the four copies of poems which had been given to me earlier by his four customers, or patrons.
'Is it they!' he cried, wonderingly, tears in his eyes.
'Yes,' I said.
'You knew!' he cried.
I shrugged.
'You could not let me go through with it!' he wept. 'You sought them out! You purchased them back! You have saved me from myself, from my own folly!'
'It is little enough to do for a friend,' I said.
He leaped to his feet and embraced me, weeping, tears in his eyes. I struggled for breath, clutching the four poems. I speculated that this must be much like the grip of the dreaded, constricting hith. Surely that, capable of
