The Standing Dead - Stone Dance of the Chameleon 02

by Ricardo Pinto

  'And is he going to feed our people?'

  'He did last year.'

  'And who's going to fetch water? Who's going to protect our women from raveners when they work in the ditches?'

  'You mean the Bluedancing?' said Carnelian.

  'Shows how much you know.'

  Carnelian was horrified. 'Did their water run out?'

  Fern's hand gripped his arm. 'When we returned, we found them well enough, but the Master commanded that they should be sent off to the koppie of the Tallgreen.'

  'Why?'

  'He didn't say.'

  No doubt Osidian intended they should dig a killing field in the home of the Tallgreen with which to slaughter another heavener herd.

  As if that thought had summoned him, Carnelian felt his presence.

  'How pleasing,' drawled Osidian in Quya, 'my Lord must find the company of savages.'

  Carnelian could just make him out, an immense shadow in the night accompanied by his guards.

  'I came to hear news of the Ochre,' Carnelian said.

  'I.could have provided you with all the news you seek, Carnelian.'

  As the clear voice faded, Carnelian became aware that across the escarpment he could hear nothing but the pattering of rain.

  'You shall be left to rule this place in my stead.'

  'What about the Oracles?'

  They will keep to their island: the rest is yours.'

  The rain began falling more heavily.

  The sartlar must continue to cut salt.'

  'What of the Ladder?'

  'Make sure you understand, my Lord, the production of salt must be your paramount concern.'

  'But you still wish to have the Ladder repaired?'

  'With whatever labour you have left. Besides, it is best to wait until the rain stops. Currently, the cables will be sodden and heavy.'

  Carnelian considered his next question carefully. 'Who will be left here, my Lord, to oversee the sartlar?'

  'I will leave you Plainsmen.'

  'Ochre?'

  'Oh no, my Lord ...'

  Carnelian could hear the smile in Osidian's voice.

  The Ochre will all be coming with me.'

  Carnelian knew more harm than good was likely to come from arguing. Clearly, Fern and the rest of the Ochre would be hostages to ensure his good behaviour.

  'I trust we understand each other, my Lord?' 'I understand,' Carnelian said, resigned. Waiting for more, it was a while before he realized Osidian was gone.

  'What did he say?' Poppy whispered.

  That tomorrow you all leave with him.'

  'And you?' asked Fern, the resigned tone of his voice suggesting he already knew the answer.

  ‘I am to remain behind again.'

  Then I'm staying with you,' said Poppy.

  'No,' said Carnelian, outraged at the thought.

  'Surely he intends to leave some of us here with you?' said Fern.

  'No Ochre.'

  Their talk was spreading murmurs across the encampment.

  'Why are none of us to stay here?' said Hirane. 'Doesn't he trust us?'

  'Have you forgotten the riches beneath our feet?' said Ravan. 'Did he mention Krow?'

  'He mentioned no one by name.'

  'Are we returning to the Koppie?' Ravan demanded, rancour loud in his voice.

  'I have told you everything he said, Ravan.'

  'I'm sure,' the youth said, bitterly.

  Carnelian felt Poppy stroking his hand. 'Why can't I stay with you, Carnie? Please, let me stay. I've been so unhappy.'

  He reached out for her, found her head wrapped in soaked cloth and leaned his cheek on her. 'You know I'd have you here if I could. It'll make things much easier for me if I know you're safely at home.'

  Beneath a frowning sky, a vast tree caged a darkness Carnelian was terrified to enter. A yearning drew him in to search for his loved ones. It was only when he tried to cry out their names he realized he had forgotten them. Pulsing anguish, he could not even see their faces in his mind. He wandered, a blind betrayer, within the caverns of the tree that were hung with overripe fruit. Feeling a warm hand slip into his own, he saw Poppy looking up at him. Her eyes were an anchor in his despair. Hunted, they fled away across raw, red earth.

  He awoke and saw her leaning over him, alarmed.

  'Carnie, you're frightening me.'

  He struggled to sit up against the sodden pull of the blanket. Poppy's hair clung in feathers to her skull. He registered the look in her eyes.

  'You were moaning in your sleep,' she said.

  Carnelian frowned. 'A dream.'

  He became aware of the commotion around them, men everywhere saddling their aquar, stowing away their dripping blankets, plodding through the mud, hanging their heads in the downpour, squinting against the water pouring down their faces.

  A hand slipped into his. 'Please, please, let me stay, Carnie.'

  Her pleading eyes made his heart resonate to the haunting rhythm of his dream. He gripped her hand, so small in his. His nod was rewarded by her dazzling delight.

  Carnelian and Poppy watched the aquar churn their way up through the mud of the escarpment. Nearby, miserable and downcast, stood the Plainsmen who were staying behind. The colour of wet wood, Carnelian's Marula warriors loped up in a mass after the shrouded Oracles. Among them Osidian rode with Krow and Morunasa, the forbidding heart of the march.

  Carnelian was remembering Fern's morose face when they had said goodbye. Everything seemed so hopeless. A movement at the edge of his vision made him glance round and see a sartlar creeping towards him. It was Kor, her spade feet bringing her steadily up the slope, her mane plastered over the angles of her ruined face. He felt Poppy edging round him and, glancing down, saw she was trying to hide.

  'It's only Kor, Poppy. There's nothing to fear.' The sartlar woman knelt in the mud. 'Get up, Kor,' Carnelian said, 'I'd like you to meet Poppy.'

  The woman rose, reddened by the mud that smeared her rags and legs. Carnelian coaxed Poppy out in front of him and held her there by gripping her shoulders. Though she was of a height with the sartlar, Kor's bulk made Poppy appear as fragile as a leaf stalk. Woman and girl nodded at each other.

  The Ladder, Master?' asked Kor.

  'Not until the rain stops,' Carnelian answered.

  'Salt then?'

  Carnelian nodded.

  He sensed Kor was waiting for him to accompany her. Carnelian turned to look for the departing host, but they had already faded away into the rainy murk.

  Later, Poppy told him how things had been in the mountains after the Master had taken their men away. How the Tribe had tried to carry on as normal without success. How when Harth and others had tried to give orders again, the people were too afraid to listen. Fading, Akaisha moved little, spoke less, so that Whin had become hearthmother in all but name. When the men had returned, the Tribe's joy was soured by news of what had happened in the koppie of the Darkcloud and the discovery of the Upper Reach. Carnelian saw how haunted Poppy still was and sensed how all this had reopened the horror of the massacre of her tribe. It was Fern who had taken the time to help her through those first few days, though Sil and he were constantly arguing. Carnelian wondered about this but he decided that to ask Poppy for details would be prying.

  * * *

  Day after dreary day, the rain fell unabated. High in the baobab they were sharing, Carnelian and Poppy tried to amuse themselves by telling each other stories; gossiping about the people they knew; sharing their hopes and dreams. Mostly, the monotonous hiss of the rain would wear their speech away to silence and then they would sit at the opening of the hollow and gaze out. The amount of earth left upon the escarpment showed the passage of time. Streams coursed down so filled with red earth they could have been blood. The knoll had become an island in the midst of a sea of stone. Streams gushed past on every side so that Carnelian feared that at any time the trees that rose from the knoll would lose their grip and the whole mass would slide down into the c
hasm.

  Carnelian had divided what food there was among the Plainsmen and the sartlar. The sartlar had carried their portion down into their caves. The Plainsmen had followed his lead and carried theirs up into the dryness of other baobab hollows. Each day Carnelian had to force Poppy to chew gnarled fernroot. They were careful with it, but still, their store was running low.

  Everyone dreaded the coming of night. In the darkness the roar of the falls seemed to become a deep and rumbling voice. Poppy became obsessed with the notion it was speaking to her, though she could not tell what it said. Carnelian could no more than her discern words, but the sound poured its malice into his dreams.

  Sometimes a morning would bring with it a pause in the rain. The ceiling of clouds might even thin enough for the sun to peer in. In that light, the scoured and bony escarpment would not appear so bleak.

  On one such morning, the lookout Carnelian had posted let out a cry that had them all scrambling down from their trees and searching in the direction he was pointing.

  Poppy saw them first and cried out with excitement. A line of aquar and drag-cradles winding down towards them from the Earthsky.

  She tugged on his arm. 'Let's go and meet them, Carnie.'

  Carnelian shook his head, needing time to prepare himself. Desperate for, but dreading, the news the visitors might bring.

  'You go,' he said, 'I'll wait here.'

  For a few moments Poppy hesitated, wanting to be in both places at once, but then, whooping, she ran after the other Plainsmen. Carnelian watched her, smiling and then began to work out his questions.

  They were all young; some in the first flowering of their manhood, many still boys. Everyone had his face painted white in imitation of the Master. One uncovered his drag-cradle with a flourish, pleased at the cries of delight greeting the sight of the bales of djada, the neatly stowed fernroot and some luxuries besides.

  Carnelian had been watching from a distance. As he approached them, the visitors all at once fell onto one knee. Carnelian registered Poppy's surprise at this deference, unease even, before, angrily, he told them to get up.

  'I'm not the Master.'

  Their reverence just served to make him fear even more the news they brought.

  'Which of you is the leader here?'

  A youth stepped forward and Carnelian beckoned him to approach. The youth bowed his head and came to stand before Carnelian with his eyes downcast. He has made slaves of you, Carnelian thought.

  'What's your name?'

  'Woading Skaifether,' said the youth, his Vulgate thick with the accent of another koppie.

  'Come, Skaifether, walk with me.'

  Carnelian began climbing the knoll, shortening his stride so that the youth could keep up.

  The supplies you brought; where did they come from?'

  'We took them, Master,' Skaifether said, in a rush of pride.

  'From which tribe?'

  The Lagooning.'

  'Didn't they resist you?'

  'Oh yes, but the Master broke them in a great battle.' 'Was there much slaughter?'

  The youth shrugged. 'Not much. The Master is the father of battles.'

  Carnelian nodded grimly. 'And what did he do to the Lagooning once he conquered them?' 'He took their men into his army ...' Carnelian waited, knowing there would be more. 'And their children that were marked for the tithe.' Took them where?'

  'Back to the koppie of the Ochre. They'll be kept there until it's time for my tribe ... the allied tribes' - the youth looked proud — 'until it's time for us to send our tribute to the Mountain -'

  'He's promised you Lagooning children to send instead of your own?'

  The youth smiled. 'Or those from the other tribes that will be conquered.'

  Carnelian could see how this policy might strengthen support among the 'ally' tribes but only at the expense of making the conquered tribes hate the Ochre.

  ‘Is there more?'

  ‘If the men from the conquered tribes fight well for us, then they'll be given salt and their children will be returned to them.'

  To be replaced by those from the newly conquered?' The youth grinned and nodded. Carnelian turned away to hide his disgust. 'Have I offended you?' the youth asked, in a fearful tone.

  Carnelian reassured him. 'Did the Master send any message for me?'

  The youth was clearly still frightened. 'None came from him.'

  'Came from ... ? Did you not come from him?' 'No, Master, our commander is Ochre Fern.' Carnelian regarded the youth with disbelief. 'He commands you?'

  The youth gave a slow, fearful nod.

  'Are there other commanders?'

  Twostone.'

  Twostone Krow?'

  Skaifether nodded.

  'And Ochre Ravan?'

  The youth frowned, shaking his head as if he had never heard the name before.

  'What did Ochre Fern bid you do?'

  To bring the supplies here and to return with all the salt you have collected for us.'

  'Nothing else?'

  'Nothing, Master.'

  Two days of brooding later, a cry brought Carnelian to the opening to his hollow. One of his Plainsmen, Cloudy, was shouting something up at him that was lost in the gusting rain. The man pointed east. There beneath the frowning wall of the Backbone, Carnelian saw shrouded Oracles riding down the escarpment, dragging behind their aquar a stumbling string of captives alongside which jogged Marula spearmen. Even through the rain, Carnelian could see the captives were Plainsmen and that the Marula were driving them towards the riverpath. When he saw many of his own men streaming down the knoll to intercept the party, he threw a blanket about his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll come with you,' said Poppy.

  'No. Stay here. Wait for me.'

  At first, startled by his tone, the girl was soon protesting, but he did not have the time to argue with her. He abandoned the dryness of their hollow and swung out to descend to the ground. Once there, Cloudy confronted him, soaked, looking sick.

  'What shall we do, Master?'

  'Whatever we can,' cried Carnelian and bounded down the slope, quickly leaving the man behind.

  As he reached the open ground beyond the wooden wall, he saw the Marula had levelled their spears at the approaching Plainsmen. He coursed towards them bellowing, desperate to avoid bloodshed. Hearing him, his men turned, backing away from the Marula as they waited for him. Out of breath, he saw in their eyes their confidence that he would do something to save the captives. Carnelian moved in among them, glancing up at the Oracles sitting haughty in their saddle-chairs. Bound naked one to the other, the captives were mostly men past their prime. He saw how their ribcages were pumping for breath, how they hung their heads. Strangely, what shocked him most was their bloody feet. They had been forced against their most deeply held belief to run barefoot across the Earthsky.

  His own Plainsmen began crying out to him. They made many pleas, demands. Though he could make none out clearly, he did not need to. He could see and feel their pity and their outrage that men should be treated thus. Many of the captives had lifted their heads and, as their eyes fell on Carnelian, they ignited with a hatred that struck him hard. He knew who it was they thought they saw or, as likely, they did not care. He was as much of the Standing Dead as the conqueror who had delivered them into misery.

  Carnelian looked to either side of him and saw how numerous were his men; how few Manila the Oracles commanded. He was desperate to free the captives.

  A voice carried through the hissing rain as one of the Oracles addressed him. Even had there been silence, Carnelian would have not understood a word. He considered approaching them, negotiating in Vulgate. The realization sank in that even if he could make himself understood to the Oracles there would be no pity in their hearts. One of them lifted an arm swathed in indigo cloth and pointed. Carnelian did not turn his head to look, always aware in which direction lay the malign presence of the Isle of Flies.

  He turned to his own people. With the acce
nt of the Ochre, he told them the captives had been condemned by the Master himself and that his commands none could gainsay without bringing his wrath down upon themselves and their kin. His speech was hardly finished before they erupted into rage. He caught their feeling and threw it back at them. He told them that if he could, he would set the captives free. He could see they did not believe him and had to resort to commanding them back to the knoll. They railed against him, they even dared to threaten him, but then their resolve cracked and, unable to look the captives in the face, they turned like punished children and began the slog back to the camp.

  Carnelian remained behind to watch the Oracles resume their march. He threw away the sodden weight of the blanket and turned his face up towards the glowering

  sky and prayed the rain would wash him clean. When absolution did not come, he forced himself to stand there long enough to watch the captives being ferried across the swollen river in narrow boats.

  * * *

  When night fell, the screaming began. Carnelian had prayed the storm would drown it out. His first thought was to reassure Poppy, to comfort her, but the look of accusation in her eyes was a wall of thorns between them. He cursed the weakness that had made him keep her in the Upper Reach. He tried to hide away in sleep. The rain lessened. Exposed by the silence, the sounds of agony formed an infernal harmony with the roaring Thunderfalls. Poppy joined her whimpering to the nightmare until Carnelian could bear it no longer and crushed her in his arms. Rocking together, they tried as best they could to survive sane until the dawn.

  For many nights, the horror was repeated. Then it stopped. The rainfall began to ease. Carnelian descended with Poppy and they found a salve for their nightmares in lighting fires upon the crown of the knoll. Huddling round them with Plainsmen, they exchanged stories of their peoples, yearning to return home.

  Often, Carnelian would find Poppy staring at the Isle of Flies. He would try to draw her away, but the girl always returned as if she had some need to keep a watch upon that awful place. She was the first to observe the shapes slipping from the Isle of Flies into the flood. As he watched them tumble amidst white fury down into the chasm, Carnelian tried to pretend they were logs, but Poppy turned to him and bleakly said, 'No, Carnie, they're the corpses of our tortured dead.'