Well, the next thing I have posted is a fragment of a small story that appeared on a website. It is a written adaptation of the last story of the film HEAVY METAL (1981), that of Taarna the warrior. It is the scene where she is tortured by her enemies. This scene that does not appear in its entirety in the movie, turns me on a lot. See the web:
http://author-me.com/fict02/legendoftaarna.htm
The Legend of Taarna
Adapted by Adam W. Smith
Taarna had never been captured before, and the next few hours were to be the most degrading and humiliating of her life. The soldiers cautiously opened the net and threw ropes first about Alata's neck, then around hers. Several men held the bird and bound his legs while she was dragged out of the net and thrown to the ground. The rough cord cinched tight around her gorge, nearly choking her. A man sat on her back and held her while another bound her wrists. Then she was unceremoniously stripped and shoved, stumbling, through an annular passageway to a small, dank room. Like the rest of the complex, it was dark and decrepit.
A massive, foreboding rack awaited her. It squatted in the middle of the room, an ancient abomination of torture realized in stone, wood and iron. By a handwheel bolted to a vertical screw, its height could be adjusted to apply relentless tension. Four large, metal eyelets were affixed to its front. Blackish brown bloodstains--mute testimony to the anguish of past victims--dotted its heavy beams.
She was led to it, turned, and pulled spread-eagle as each of her limbs was tightly bound to the iron loops. The rope around her neck was then removed, and she gasped in great, ragged breaths.
At first her arms and legs were slack. But then one of the men disappeared behind her, and with a rusty, grinding sound, the rack was slowly raised and she was pulled taut. The strain of the rack and the weight of her body quickly made her wrists ache, and her hands began to tingle and go numb. She tried to maintain the circulation by opening and closing them. Pain blossomed in her feet and ankles as the sinewy fibers bit down into her skin.
Another soldier lugged in a large pail of cloudy, brackish water. He stopped before her and heaved the entire bucket into her face. As she coughed and gagged he withdrew a rag from his pocket and began wiping her down, wrenching her hair as he squeezed the water from it. With obvious relish he lingered at her breasts and pubis as the others stood by, leering. Yet, perhaps fearing punishment by his master, the man went no further.
They left the room, and for a period of time she was by herself, alone with her pain. She looked around at the disgusting surroundings. From cracks in the walls water leached down the broken, vertical surfaces. Moss and mildew grew in the corners, and here and there climbed toward the ceiling. There was a steady drip, drip of water. Insects crawled secretly along the musty surfaces. She heard the distant shouts and activities of the soldiers. The wind blew through the adjoining passageway, making a low moaning sound.
She tried to think of something, anything other than where she was and what horrors awaited her, but could not blot out the bleak surroundings and her wretched situation. She felt abandoned.
She opened her eyes at the sound of approaching footsteps. Two large, burly men entered the chamber. The smaller of the two—he had a scar across his right cheek which terminated in a shriveled, empty eye socket—motioned to the other, who clambered up to the handwheel on top.
“He heard that she was too comfortable,” the maimed one announced to his companion, a sly, knowing grin touching his lips. He reached up and tugged on the rope which bound her left arm, but was unable to move it; it was as rigid as steel. “Yes, much too slack.” Smiling, he gave the nod.
Slowly, the rack exceeded what Taarna had mistakenly thought were the limits of her capacity to stretch. In her lower back she felt her spine unload and straighten, the vertebrae decompressing from one another. She could only utter a
huh-huh-huh sound—a fear-filled panting noise—as her mind tried to deny what was happening. She mouthed a moan, but no sound came out, and she cursed her impotence of voice in the presence of an overwhelming need to scream.
The rusty wail continued at regular intervals as the hands grasped and turned, grasped and turned. The muscles in her legs and arms cried out in agony.
Oh my God please no more please—
She felt and heard a
pop of cartilage in her left shoulder, the one she had dislocated over ten years ago. The maimed one must have heard it too, for he gestured to the other to stop.
He leaned forward and feigned interest in her contorted features. “That’s just about right,” he proclaimed. “Can’t have her
too damaged.” He leaned even closer, and she smelled the foulness of his breath. His eyes crawled over her. “Too bad you’re so pretty. Well . . . that will change.”
The other climbed down, and together they grabbed hold of the rack. With grunts and complaints at the excessive weight of the device, they wheeled her from the room and down the hallway.
Like a trophy Taarna was brought into a large hall before the barbarian chieftain, who sat in a chair on the far wall. He was flanked by two large, feral, rat-like creatures which made guttural growling sounds as the rack creaked to a stop. He scratched the head of one absent-mindedly while watching Taarna with interest. A half dozen or so guards stood at intervals around the chamber, and off to the side in the shadows stood one of his lieutenants, feet apart, arms crossed, watching emotionlessly.
He stood and approached her, his heavy boots clanking on the plate metal floor. She managed to glare at him, but given her vulnerability and utter helplessness, he found this amusing. Yet, part of him secretly feared her gaze. She looked as though she would leap upon him and tear his eyes out with her bare hands if she could. His enormous arrogance, however, allowed him to quickly and easily squelch the unsettling emotion.
"So
this is the Taarakian," he announced at last with a chuckle, hands on hips. Quite a prize, he thought to himself. He reached out and grabbed her cheek. Carefully avoiding her mouth, he forcibly turned her head to examine her neck and confirm her marks. "Somehow, I thought it would be more . . .
difficult to capture a Taarakian," he said contemptuously.
He expected her to reply, but she said nothing, and her expression did not change. Her defiant attitude angered him, but he was not surprised by it--the Taarakians, after all, were legendary warriors from the northern country, renowned for their steely resolve.
It was the fact that she was a woman, coupled with his pride and sadistic nature, that led him to the mistake of not killing her.
"My whips," he said softly. He would break her silent defiance, crush her loathsome spirit. When he was through with her, she would look at him with nothing but fear, and his perverse desire to see that fear was worth keeping her alive--for awhile. His lieutenant dutifully stepped forward, and the heavy weight of a whip dropped into his raised hand.
Taarna's hands felt leaden as the barbarian stood before her; there was no more feeling left in them. Her entire body was a throbbing mass of pain. She tried gamely to take his measure, but she did not find much comfort in that--he would obviously be a formidable opponent in combat, assuming she ever had the chance to fight him.
She had guessed that she would probably be flogged, or worse, but imagining it and actually seeing the long, thick whip in his hands, with its several tails, were very different things. Her breath caught in her throat as she waited for the first lash, the dreadful knowledge of her utter inability to twist, turn, or somehow escape bearing down upon her.
The flogging began.
The pain was astounding, traveling from her fingertips to her toes. From top to bottom her body quivered in every nerve. Where the whips stuck she felt as though she was being impaled with a knife or spear. The time between each stroke seemed interminable, yet the next blow came too soon. She was unable to scream, but in her extremis she bit her tongue, and soon her own blood filled her mouth, choking her. She could feel the sticky wetness of her blood on her abdomen and legs, and the ever-increasing icily painful spots where her skin was being flayed open.
The whipping was not over quickly; after thirty-five lashes, she lost count. The time since the punishment had begun seemed like the only period of her life. She felt as if she had always lived in pain and torture, and that her lifetime before this awful day was a dream long past. Despite every effort it became impossible for her to think of anything except the next blow.
Between blows with an inner voice she began to beseech her god in terrified and broken fragments.
God you are not with me I am forsaken--
--I cannot continue I--I cannot be strong for You any more--
--No more no more no more, please let this end, let me die O kill me now--
The barbarian leader grew increasingly frustrated at her silence and began to whip her harder and faster.
Beg, scream, say something you Taarkanian whore! Why did you come here when you’ve no chance of doing anything!? At last he could no longer restrain himself. Chest heaving, he threw down the whip, wrenched off his helmet and struck her with it. The heavy metal connected solidly with her skull and her head reeled back, then flopped sideways to her chest.
Taarna's body hung limply as a guard finally lowered the rack. The barbarian chieftain looked on with pleasure, gratified with his handiwork. What had been preserved in beauty over the lifetime of a young woman he had ruined in forty-five minutes. His boots and pants were flecked with blood. Thin strips of flesh lay about his feet. He grabbed her by the hair and lifted up her head to stare into her unconscious face, but she did not stir. Blood and spit rimmed her lips and ran down her chin from the corners of her mouth.
He remained impressed by the fact that she had neither screamed nor cried out. He could recall no previous victim of his torture who had stayed completely silent throughout the brutal experience. Lips pursed, with a dismissive gesture he yanked her head down roughly and relinquished his grasp.
When your arms and legs are dislocated you will scream, he said to her silently.
I will make you.
aarna awoke lying prone on a rocky prominence in a large, dim pit. Head hanging over the side, she could see more ledges below her, but the bottom was veiled in deep shadows.
Her head throbbed mightily, and her tongue was swollen and dry inside her mouth. The copper taste of her blood lingered in the recesses around her teeth and gums. She longed for water.
Her body hurt so much that at first she was incapable of movement. For some interminable period she tried to remain frozen and breathe as little as possible. At last she found the willpower to pull herself to her hands and knees.
It was then that she realized the extent of her injuries. Her breasts, abdomen, and thighs were smeared with dried blood and dirt. Her wrists and ankles were severely abraded from the ropes which had bound her so tightly. She had a large, misshapen bruise over the left side of her torso from her fall into the pit. Breathing was painful, and after gingerly feeling the area she realized that her ninth rib was broken.
The pit was filled with a powerful, almost overwhelming smell of death and corruption. The closest source of the stench was a moldering pile of bodies on the ledge near the pit's wall. She estimated that there were twelve to fifteen of them, festering in varying states of decomposition. It appeared that most of them had been killed by arrows or crossbow bolts and then dumped over the edge. The sweet, sickening miasma brought back memories of battlefield carnage that she had witnessed, bodies of enemy dead bloating in the sun.
The ledge was thirty feet from the top of the pit, the rim of which was studded with large spikes. Above them she saw a handful of soldiers gazing down at her. As she looked up, one of the men dropped her clothes over the side. They landed in a tangle beside her.
From the shallow angle of the light slanting into the hole, she guessed that it was now quite late in the afternoon. She was very hungry, and sitting down for her morning meal seemed an eternity ago.
The palpable atmosphere of despair settled over her like a gray, smothering blanket. There was no possibility of climbing to the opening above. Even if she climbed atop the corpses, she would still be more than twenty feet from the top. The moist, slippery walls of the pit offered few projections to scale them, assuming the unlikely possibility that she could do so undetected. The nearest ledge below her was much farther down, and there was no promise of an exit below.
The walls of her prison were not uniformly solid. Rather, they were pocked with innumerable holes and caves of varying size and depth. An abundance of dank, foul water ran from many of them, trickling quietly in weird, irregular courses down into the darkness. As she grew accustomed to the silence, she noticed that infrequently she could detect sounds of unseen life, slithering in the network of caves.
I am lost; this is the end, she thought hopelessly.
How stupid I was to fly straight into capture.
I deserve to die here, in secret. This way, she thought, no one would know how the last Taarakian had disgraced herself and her people.
Taarna heard footsteps and scuffling above. She looked up and saw a man being hoisted over the precipice. He was deliberately thrown out into the pit so that he would miss her ledge. In a shocking instant he tumbled past her, screaming, his arms flailing. There was neither time nor opportunity to act. Eyes wide, she watched him fall out of sight, then heard the chilling impacts as he struck unseen obstacles far below. She was filled with pity and horror. A chorus of jeers and laughter followed from above, and the barbarians smirked down at her.
Witnessing this cruel and senseless death banished all feelings of self-pity and drove her to action.
I’m still alive, she thought.
That has to be worth something. Slowly, stiffly, she began to put on her gear. Doing so was exquisitely painful, but she bent her will to the process and tried to master the pain. Her mental and physical conditioning helped her to regain movement. As she dressed, she heard a familiar sound: the screech of her bird.
Some distance away, the barbarians were having a difficult time putting the animal down. Three men were trying to hold him with ropes, while two others prepared to kill him with a large, bolt-firing weapon.
"Hold it still and I'll put an arrow through it’s head!" shouted the gunner. He looked through his sights and found his target. He squeezed the trigger and fired, but he was premature--his companions did not yet have control. Beating his wings furiously, Alata jerked to the side, and at the last instant one of the soldiers was pulled into the path of the missile. It struck him squarely in the back.
With only two holding the ropes, the bird was able to break free. He rushed at the gunner and his helper, knocking them down before they could fire again. Soaring into the air, he pulled the last two men along behind. They continued to hang onto the ropes until Alata flew low over a sturdy pipe. They struck it forcefully and were flung to the ground.
Taarna had just finished pulling on her boots when to her surprise, Alata suddenly appeared over the pit, into which he dove with a loud, courageous cry.
In an act remarkably agile for someone so battered, Taarna leapt off the edge. She relied entirely on instinct, having no time to gauge time or distance. For a heart-stopping instant she was suspended in space, her body out over the pit. She strained for the horn of the saddle, and then suddenly she
had it, and she fell into the seat as the bird passed. The sudden jolt caused pain to shoot through her from the broken rib. She was able to find the reins, however, and at her signal Alata powered his way upwards to freedom.
