The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  Chattering with relief, the Plainsmen squatted around the fire. Without trying to understand what they said, Carnelian enjoyed the murmur of their talk as he too drew comfort from the flames.

  ‘It’ll be ready soon,’ said Fern to Ravan. ‘Go and ask the Master if he wishes to eat with us.’

  A while later, Ravan appeared with Osidian. Seeing him standing deathly white at the edge of the fire, Carnelian realized he had been deliberately putting him out of his mind. Carnelian tried a smile but it felt dishonest. As Osidian sat down beside him, Carnelian noticed the Plainsmen fell silent.

  The night grew pitchy black. A bellow swelling from the far distance chilled Carnelian to the marrow. After that, only the fire spoke, its crackling enlivened by pops that shot sparks up into the air. Following these pinpricks of gold up in the smoke, Carnelian became lost in the Plainsman sky. It seemed to him a bleak god who lay behind such chill white stars. With a shudder, he pulled his gaze back down to earth and the comfort of their fire.

  ‘They must be done,’ said Ravan.

  It took some moments for his words to break their huddling circle. Carnelian felt he was coming slowly awake. With a broom they had improvised, the Plainsmen brushed the embers aside and then the smouldering earth. With much yelping and a jerking back of hands to lick burnt fingers, they plucked off the blackened fronds, releasing delicious steam. The youths produced a stack of little mats they had woven and with these to protect their hands, they fished out pieces of meat and passed them round. Ravan made certain it was he and not Krow who offered Osidian a portion.

  Carnelian began eating with the others. Silence fell, interspersed with grunts of pleasure. Carnelian closed his eyes to savour better every mouthful.

  ‘This must be the most delicious food I have ever tasted,’ he said, the juices running down his chin.

  When Fern translated what he said, Carnelian was rewarded with grins and looks of pride. He looked round and saw Osidian’s food lying untouched in his hand and that he was squinting into the heart of the fire. When he spoke, everyone jumped.

  ‘How do you plan to get to your homes?’

  ‘We must go east until eventually –’

  ‘On foot?’ said Loskai.

  Fern looked grim. ‘Have you a better idea?’

  Loskai glared at Fern, who Carnelian could see was unhappy about the effect the confrontation was having on the others. He decided he would try to break the impasse.

  ‘Fern, you were saying that if we go east we would eventually end up … where?’

  His friend gave him a look of gratitude. ‘At the Backbone, which we can follow to the Twostone.’

  Krow looked up eagerly and Fern smiled at him. ‘Once there, our kin tribe will lend us aquar to get us home.’

  Krow smiled as he nodded, but then his smile fell away and Carnelian guessed the youth was imagining the day when he would have to tell his tribe about Cloud’s death.

  ‘… and, besides, they’ll have news of our tributaries,’ Ravan was saying and glanced over at Osidian.

  ‘Describe this “Backbone”,’ he said.

  ‘It is the Mother’s own that rises out from her earth.’

  ‘Do you mean a basalt ridge running deep into the south?’

  ‘Basalt?’ Fern frowned at the strange word.

  ‘Black stone,’ said Osidian.

  Fern broke into a nod. ‘Yes, it runs straight and true further south even than our koppie.’

  Carnelian saw the calculation in Osidian’s eyes. ‘You knew of this already?’

  Barely glancing at him, Osidian momentarily dipped his chin, then turned his fiery eyes upon Fern. ‘Your destination lies near this Backbone?’ He waited just enough time for Fern to nod before continuing his interrogation. He wanted to know how long the Plainsmen took, once they had descended from Makar, to cross the Leper Valleys to the Earthsky and, from there, how long a ride it was to the koppie of the Twostone. The other questions Osidian asked, Carnelian deduced, must be designed to determine the pace at which these journeys were carried out.

  Osidian smiled. ‘Why then not go directly to the Twostone koppie?’

  ‘Because, Master, we have no idea how far south we are,’ said Loskai, triumphantly.

  ‘Can you not judge by looking at the cliff of the Guarded Land?’ asked Carnelian.

  Fern shook his head. ‘This part of the Earthsky is foreign to both the Ochre and the Twostone.’

  ‘I shall need two spears,’ said Osidian.

  They stared at him, recognizing the tone as that of their guide through the madness of the forest. They had grown used to obeying it.

  When Osidian had his spears he laid them across his knees and, taking a blade from Ravan, began to gouge regularly spaced notches along their lengths. Carnelian could only stare with the rest. No better than they could he imagine what Osidian had in mind.

  When Osidian walked off into the darkness carrying the two notched spears, Carnelian followed him. Hearing footfalls, he turned to see Ravan silhouetted against the fire.

  ‘I’ll go with him. There’s no need for you to come.’

  ‘You don’t understand the dangers, Master,’ said Ravan.

  The youth had a point. Glancing round, Carnelian saw Osidian was already far enough away to be almost invisible in the night.

  He turned back to Ravan. ‘We’ll be all right. You stay here.’

  Sensing that the youth was on the verge of rebellion, Carnelian considered explaining to him that Osidian was in a dangerous mood. A stubbornness in the set of Ravan’s shoulders suggested he would not be amenable to argument.

  ‘Do what you’re told,’ Carnelian said, more harshly than he intended, causing the youth to shrink back. Carnelian would have apologized except he feared he would end up trapped in a discussion. Instead, he turned his back on Ravan and set off after Osidian.

  When he caught up with him, Osidian was working one of the spears into the ground.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Carnelian asked.

  Osidian looked up. ‘Good. You can help me.’ He walked around the spear adjusting it slightly. He looked at Carnelian.

  ‘Is it vertical?’

  Carnelian moved round it. ‘Seems to be.’

  Osidian pointed to a point halfway up the spear. ‘Hold it here.’

  When Carnelian hesitated, Osidian, stooping, took hold of his right wrist. Carnelian allowed his hand to be positioned on the spear.

  ‘Make a fist about it.’

  Carnelian complied. Osidian took some steps away, lifted the other spear, rested its haft on Carnelian’s fist and asked him to hold it in place. Osidian held the other end and raised it until it was level.

  ‘There should be a gouge near your fist.’

  Carnelian searched for it and found it; one larger than the others. Osidian slid the spear towards Carnelian until the gouge lay above his fist.

  ‘Is it a perfect cross?’ Osidian asked.

  The spears intersected at Carnelian’s fist. After some adjustment, Carnelian declared they met at right angles. Being careful not to move the spear out of alignment, Osidian crouched and looked along it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Carnelian, increasingly exasperated.

  ‘Sighting the horizon.’

  Carnelian turned and looked to the north where the starry sky ended in blackness. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let your fist slide down a little.’

  Carnelian complied.

  Osidian nodded. ‘That’s good. Now with your other hand, hold the top of the spear.’

  As Carnelian did this, Osidian continued to speak. ‘I am trying to determine the height of the axis stars.’

  Carnelian stared up at the sky. ‘The axis stars?’

  Osidian loosed one hand to point. ‘That pair, just above the horizon.’

  Carnelian followed the pointing finger and, with some more help from Osidian, found the stars.

  ‘Of course, this instrument is laughably primitive … Let your right fist s
lide a little down the spear.’

  Carnelian did so.

  ‘Not so far.’

  Carnelian moved his fist up a little.

  ‘A little more.’

  Carnelian obliged.

  ‘The Wise use finely calibrated cross-staves.’ He whistled softly. ‘Their books do not lie: this far south the stars do sit very low.’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Their height will tell us how far south we are.’

  Carnelian frowned. ‘Sorcery?’

  Osidian chuckled. ‘Of a sort. The sky turns around the axis stars. The Wise say it is the suspension point of the carapace. The earth is formed on the dome of the lower half of the shell of the Turtle. The further south one is, the shallower the angle at which one views the axis stars.’

  Osidian had Carnelian check the cross was perfect and then Carnelian had to adjust his right fist a little.

  ‘Now, stay perfectly still.’

  Osidian carefully lifted the horizontal spear off Carnelian’s lower hand and came to peer at the vertical one. Carnelian flinched when Osidian produced a blade. He lifted it so that it touched Carnelian’s upper hand and there cut a mark into the spear shaft. He did the same just above Carnelian’s lower hand.

  ‘You can let go now.’

  Carnelian did so and stepped back as Osidian plucked the spear free. He lifted it up and peered at it. Carnelian could see his lips were moving.

  ‘You’re counting?’

  ‘The notches.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There were almost exactly five between your fists.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘The angle is five twentieths.’

  Carnelian made a noise of exasperation that caused Osidian to look up from the spear.

  ‘The Labyrinth in Osrakum is eight twentieths, nine four-hundredths and fifteen eight-thousandths.’

  ‘Blood fractions?’

  ‘Quyan fractions which are used for describing the blood taint but which here indicate the inclination of the axis stars.’

  ‘Did we not already know we were far to the south of Osrakum?’

  ‘We did, but now we also know exactly how far south we are. If my memory serves, Makar is close to the most southerly point of the Guarded Land, which I recall to be five twentieths and eighteen four-hundredths. Estimating distances from what the barbarian told me, the reading we have just taken suggests we are north of our destination.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Which means, my Lord, we shall proceed across this plain a little south of east.’

  ‘What if we miss the Twostone koppie?’

  ‘No matter. We cannot miss the basalt ridge. Once we reach that, the barbarians should be able to lead us the rest of the way.’

  Carnelian looked back where the fire was glowing in among the Plainsmen like a candle in a lamp. Osidian gathered up the spears.

  ‘Let us go and inform the barbarians of the good news.’

  ‘How can you possibly know where we are when we do not know ourselves?’ asked Loskai.

  Osidian smiled coldly. ‘I know many things you don’t.’

  Fern grimaced as he saw Krow and others nodding. ‘With respect, Master, you’ve never been here before.’

  ‘Nevertheless, barbarian, I know the direction in which the koppie of the Twostone lies.’

  Loskai scowled at the fire. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he grumbled in the Ochre tongue.

  Ravan turned his glare from Carnelian to Loskai. ‘The Master did find a way across the swamp.’

  Loskai scowled, his mouth opening to say something. He closed it, shook his head and turned back to the flames.

  Ravan allowed himself a tiny smile of triumph and then made it his business to interpret for the others. Carnelian could see how eagerly they listened. Fern sunk his head in thought. When he next looked up he could not be blind to the hope shining from the face of every youth. He fixed Osidian with doleful eyes.

  ‘It seems that again we are to follow you, Master.’

  Enough rain fell during the night to wash the world away. The struggle to keep the fire going was quickly lost and, with it, any pretence they had of being protected from raveners. Shivering, Carnelian huddled with the Plainsmen, his nostrils filled with the reek of wet charcoal; water running down his back. Through the downpour the cries of monsters kept making him lift his head to search the blackness, imagining their shapes coalescing, lumbering towards them with malicious gluttony in their eyes.

  When first light came they were cheated of far sight by a vapour rising from the earth. It was Osidian who made them set off. They grumbled, but were soon glad of the movement for it drove the chill from their bodies.

  Ravan and Krow at his side, Osidian led them into the south-east where the sun peered at them blindly through the drifting mist. They swam through ferns laden with dew. Each swishing frond lashed water over them until the angles of elbows and knees could be seen pushing through the sodden cling of their robes and cloaks. They came into a region where the spiral heads of the ferns swung menacingly above their heads. Roots tangled their feet. Their curses sounded as if they were being uttered in the confines of a room.

  When Carnelian saw shapes looming out of the mist, hovering above him as large as houses, his pace faltered and he leaned back to stare. The trees looked like the watch-towers of the Guarded Land.

  Someone collided with him. It was Fern. They both gazed up at one immense candelabrum of branches.

  ‘A cone tree,’ said Fern and took Carnelian by the shoulder. ‘Let’s not lag behind.’

  ‘Isn’t this blindness dangerous?’ Carnelian asked as they pushed through the wet thrash of more ferns.

  ‘The sun will soon burn this mist away,’ Fern said. His words were hurried, tense, and Carnelian could see the way the Plainsman’s eyes were peering over his shoulder searching for danger.

  A rumbling in the ground froze the Plainsmen in a staring panic. Shocked, Carnelian felt each tremor in his bones and saw the way everyone was searching the mist in all directions. It seemed to be ships that came hoving into view. He fell back gaping at these saurian leviathans. Cries. Confusion. He was grabbed and yanked around. He stumbled, regained his balance, then was fleeing with the others. A root snared his foot. He fell. The shaking of the ground entered him through his palms and knees. Leaping up, he was coursing after the human cries. A cone tree solidified suddenly before him. Around its trunk Fern was marshalling the Plainsmen. Unable to check his headlong speed, Carnelian careened into them. Hands pulled him closer to the tree.

  He turned, feeling their elbows against his back, and stared out in the direction he had come. Where the mist was dissolving, a jade plain was revealed, teeming with saurians wading languidly through the ferns. Some were horned, some flecked or crested with scarlet. Rich golden hides baroqued with dusky reds like old wounds. Many, no bigger than aquar, ran in spurts, but others lumbered thunderously, their necks pushing their heads deep into the sky’s blue.

  At first Carnelian thought the Plainsmen were shrieking with terror, but glancing to either side he saw their faces were lit with joy. Bright passion gushed from them in ragged song, their eyes brimming with love as they gaped up at the monsters. Among them, Osidian seemed more interested in their reactions than in the saurians.

  Carnelian reached over Krow to grab at Fern’s shoulder. ‘Aren’t we in danger?’ he cried.

  His friend turned, blinking tears from his eyes, struggling to focus on something as tiny as Carnelian. He nodded but quickly turned back, unwilling to forgo the sight of the leviathans.

  Carnelian dared to gaze out again. One of the monsters was approaching. Carnelian pushed back against the tree in terror. The reek the creature gave off became the only air there was to breathe. A leg as large as a crag lifted from the ground, hung impossibly in the air, then came down again, punching a tremor into the earth that rattled his teeth. The bows of the creature’s chest forged closer, its hide keel rising up to
a neck which was leaning a faraway head into the branch-nest of their tree. Carnelian felt the wood shudder as the monster fed.

  Fern was laughing with the rest, tears of joy running down his cheeks. Trusting the people round him, Carnelian allowed his fear to abate and began to share in their wonder. His eyes were unable to measure the immensity of the being before him. He became convinced he could feel its massive heart beating the air.

  There was a tugging on his shoulder. It was Fern looking sidelong at him.

  ‘A heavener,’ the Plainsman breathed. ‘Connecting earth and sky. Sacred. I’ve never seen one so close.’ He shook his head in disbelief as he looked back at it. ‘Isn’t she just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?’

  Mesmerized, Carnelian could only nod.

  The sun grew stifling hot, forcing Carnelian and Osidian to swathe their heads with their ubas for fear of their skin burning. A breeze stirred a swell in the fern meadows, spreading infinite ripples towards the horizon. Across their path there lay the dazzle of a lagoon. The vast blue dome of the sky was marred only by a teasing of cloud. The euphoria of their encounter with the heavener sustained them for a while. Carnelian shared in their laughter and delight but this mood withered as the sun rose ever higher. Flies plagued him. He grew too weary to consistently lift his feet over the snares of the root-ridged earth and he tripped often. His view of the fernland contracted down to his feet; to his burning throat until at last he caught Fern by the shoulder and demanded some water. Frowning, his friend passed him a skin.

  ‘One mouthful only,’ he growled huskily, and when Carnelian protested and pointed out, indignantly, the flashing water that lay in front of them, Fern narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘We dare not approach open water. The herds cluster along their margins and where they are, raveners will be too. If we are to reach the Twostone alive, we must avoid taking such risks.’

  Carnelian looked at him aghast as he lifted the skin, which was less than half full. ‘Do you really believe there’s enough here to see us through?’