The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  The Backbone ran straight and true into the south. The Earthsky spread eastwards, spangled with lagoons, creeping with herds, to a vague purple fading. In the west, scarred with gullies, the land lay thralled by thorny scrub. In places the rocky road they walked lifted them high into the shimmering air, its stone sweeping up to jagged ridges on either side often too high to look over. In the morning and the afternoon, these often provided blessed shade. When the sun rose high, they would seek to clamber down to the plain or else suffer walking the black rock that would melt the air and scorch their feet even through their shoes. Sometimes the Backbone sank into the red earth, as if it were some immense, burrowing worm. Carnelian took his turn in leading expeditions from the safety of the rocks whenever a nearby source of water was spotted. Even the most brackish tasted like nectar. In the cool of the later afternoon either Fern or Loskai would brave the open plain to hunt with a party of youths. Under Carnelian’s command, those who were left behind would build a fire up in the heights and wait anxiously for the hunters. Mostly they would return before nightfall. When they came empty-handed, it would be necessary to consume some of the meagre supplies.

  Osidian sank into a morose silence from which Carnelian was unable to raise him. Often he chose to sit alone. Most of the youths seemed to have forgotten him, but Ravan and Krow brought him food or walked at his side during the day. Sometimes, Carnelian would find Fern regarding Osidian as if he were a puzzle to be solved. When Loskai looked in his direction at all, it was with barely concealed hatred.

  The vastness of the Earthsky crushed whatever was left of Carnelian’s belief that he was an angel. Osrakum and its splendours seemed faint and far away. These small, dark people toiling at his side were real. Krow’s grief like an ache in Carnelian’s own heart helped him at last accept he had lost his father and his other kin for ever.

  Whenever he spied a koppie hill, Carnelian would long to go there, seeing it as a beguiling island adrift in the ferny ocean. Those of their party that were Ochre would force the rest to redouble their pace. Carnelian would see in their faces the desire to reach their own koppie mix with fear; the fear they talked of was that their kin must believe them dead; the fear they would not admit to was that their tribe might have suffered the same fate as the Twostone.

  The Koppie had been wavering in the heat towards the south-east for a while. Carnelian was oppressed by the general anticipation of disaster. Suddenly everyone was shouting, waving, crying. Alarmed, he looked around and saw Fern frowning amidst the tumult, with Ravan dejected at his side.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Fern answered by pointing. Carnelian looked and saw a thread of smoke rising from the Koppie’s summit. At first it appeared to be a dark omen, for it seemed much like the smoke he had seen rising on the road to Osrakum that had been a harbinger of plague. Then he remembered what it must be.

  ‘They’ve seen us.’

  Fern gave a heavy nod. ‘Thank the Mother, the Tribe is safe.’

  Carnelian was unsettled that his friend was not greeting this discovery with joy but then remembered what news it was Fern was bringing home, not to mention that he had with him two of the loathed and fearful Standing Dead.

  Ravan looked through his tears towards his home and was slowing his pace.

  ‘She’ll not blame you,’ Fern said, looking round, ‘neither will the Elders.’

  Ravan came to a halt and glared at his brother. ‘Who will take the blame then, you?’

  Fern grew morose. Ravan resumed his stride, but this time kicking through the ferns. Their exchange had dulled the general celebration. Most of the youths now walked in silence, stealing anxious glances towards the brothers and the Standing Dead, which only served to increase Carnelian’s dread of what was to come. He glanced over at Osidian pacing imperiously, but could tell nothing of what he felt as his face was hidden beneath the windings of his uba. Krow walked in his shadow, his gaze fixed unblinking on the Koppie.

  ‘They’re coming to check us out,’ one youth cried in delight.

  Riders were appearing from the line of tiny trees beneath the Koppie hill.

  ‘Shall we go and meet them?’ another youth asked everyone, his face lit by a childish grin.

  Fern frowned. ‘They’ll be here soon enough.’

  ‘You seem unhappy to be home, barbarian,’ said Osidian, speaking from his shroud.

  Fern looked sombre. ‘We’ll have to answer for our dead.’

  ‘You mean you will,’ cried Loskai and he sprinted away.

  His action broke the discipline of the youths and, whooping, they coursed after him, leaving only Fern, Ravan and Krow with the Standing Dead.

  Fern hung his head.

  ‘We’re a burden to you,’ said Carnelian.

  ‘Not as great as having to explain to my mother the death of her husband and eldest son.’

  A peculiar ululating wafted on the breeze from the bullroarers some of the riders were whirling round their head. Their movement made Carnelian recall the weapons the Ichorians had used to decapitate the Marula escort on his entry into Osrakum. The riders were not coming any further and were returning to the Koppie, escorting Loskai and the youths. No doubt, at that distance, they had assumed it was Stormrane and his brother who were walking with Fern.

  The trees had grown close enough for Carnelian to discern they were lining a wide ditch. Between their trunks, he could see some of the youths and the mounted Ochre already streaming through the ferns that stretched beyond to another wall of trees. People were still taking their turn to cross the ditch on a narrow earthbridge.

  By the time Carnelian and the others reached the bridge it was empty. Carnelian followed Fern across, through a gate in the low earth rampart into a ferngarden where people were converging from all directions on their long-lost sons. As Carnelian watched them coalescing into a crowd, he yearned to slip away somewhere. He did not want to darken their joy, nor wish to intrude upon their grief.

  They reached the mass of backs. All attention was focused on the youths already at its centre. So many people, hundreds of them, swarthy, reeking of sweat, many rusted with earth as if they had recently emerged from the ground. Several were turning puzzled faces on Carnelian, who sensed the beginnings of unease, annoyance even, as they registered Fern’s miserable face and the height of his companions.

  A keening broke out from the heart of the crowd that made the excited hubbub falter. More and more faces were turning to watch Fern and his companions. People were drawing back, unable to understand who they were walking with Fern that were so much taller than he. Looking down the corridor opening in the crowd, Carnelian saw the youths he knew so well being passed round and kissed.

  Then, suddenly, the crowd hushed. A group of people were coming through, garbed in russet blankets worked with indigo designs, wrists and ankles loaded with rings and bangles of salt. Some of the group had grey hair matted with feathers and salt beads: the rest had their heads covered, as did every woman Carnelian could see. Loskai was guiding them, half turned towards them so that he was forced to shuffle sideways, nodding with deference and making sure to keep his distance.

  As Fern came to a halt, Carnelian found a place at his side. A young woman pushed forward, her eyes accusing Fern. ‘Where’s my husband?’

  ‘My son?’ an older woman demanded of Loskai. She turned on Fern. ‘You were supposed to protect them,’ she cried, close to hysteria.

  One of the covered figures lifted a bony arm and said something that caused Fern’s accusers to move aside. The old woman came to stand before Fern, staring up into his face. She gave a harsh, commanding nod and, with head bowed, Fern fell on one knee before her.

  ‘Where is your father, Akaisha’s son?’

  Carnelian saw that when the woman talked, everyone listened.

  ‘Among the clouds, Mother Harth.’

  Harth looked up at Carnelian and Osidian and as she did so, Carnelian felt the eyes of the whole crowd upon him.

  Sh
e turned back to Fern. ‘Your uncle and your brothers too?’

  Confused, Fern looked round, searching, then returned his gaze to the old woman. ‘Ravan is here somewhere, my mother. My other brother …’ He locked eyes with one of the other old women. A shake of his head spilled tears down her cheeks.

  ‘Who else?’ demanded Harth, drawing Fern’s attention back to her.

  A moaning moved through the crowd as he called out the names of those who had not returned.

  Harth hesitated, her hands trembling.

  ‘And it grieves me, my mother, to tell you that Ranegale your son was also lost,’ Fern said.

  Harth backed into the other Elders. The woman Fern had looked at earlier came forward wiping at her eyes, setting her face.

  ‘Who are these two strangers you’ve brought among the Tribe, Fern?’

  Misery aged his face as he looked up at her. ‘Mother, my father, my –’

  ‘The time for mourning will come; first answer my question.’

  The way Fern’s head sank even further made Carnelian feel wretched for him. Through her grief, the woman’s face showed the beginnings of fear as she witnessed Fern’s dejection.

  ‘What danger have you brought among us, my son?’ she said almost in a whisper.

  ‘Mother, they are … Standing Dead.’

  Fern’s mother’s eyes grew round, her mouth gaped and it was with effort she turned her gaze up to the two shrouded shapes.

  A murmur of hysteria was rippling outwards from where they stood.

  Carnelian watched Harth as she shook her head slowly looking at them. ‘I don’t … I can’t believe.’

  Loskai stepped forward. ‘Show them,’ he cried in Vulgate. ‘Show them what you are.’

  Carnelian watched the mixture of pleasure and fear play over the Plainsman’s face. Then he became aware Osidian was advancing. Fern plucked Krow from the Master’s side and pushed him away into the crowd. The old women cowered when the apparition came to stand in front of them, so tall they hardly reached his waist. Carnelian saw the contempt in Osidian’s hands as they unwound the uba that concealed him.

  Gasps gusted from mouths as the Ochre stared with gaping disbelief at the immense white man.

  THE ELDERS

  As youth has vigour

  age has wisdom

  so, is it not natural

  the aged should rule the young?

  (a precept of the Plainsmen)

  LOSKAI STRODE BACK AND FORTH BEFORE THE CROWD SHOUTING repeatedly: ‘Why do you fear these Standing Dead? They are two: we are many.’

  Carnelian could feel their mood already turning to anger, when Loskai stabbed a finger at Osidian.

  ‘That one murdered Ranegale. Because of them we lost Stormrane, Thunderskai, Talan, Thunderwing, Windcrow, Fether, Crowskai.’

  The Plainsman kept jabbing his finger all the time as he spat out every accusation he could imagine to transform fear into murderous anger. Carnelian glanced at Osidian standing amidst the tumult as unconcerned as if he were alone on a seashore. Carnelian looked around desperately for some escape. Noting where the aquar were, he saw how he and Osidian might pull two riders down and take their place. He glanced back to the outer ditch, imagining riding out on to the plain. But then where? Could they eke out an existence in the wilderness?

  A woman cried out, another. Men were roaring. The mob’s voice was swelling to a pounding clamour. The veins beating at Carnelian’s temples seemed to be making his head shudder with each pulse. He let his gaze range over them. Hatred reddened their faces. Mouths were slavering for blood. Their rabid stares fell on him like blows. He could feel how close their fury was to bursting free.

  ‘You lie,’ a familiar voice cried out, thin in the uproar. Fern was advancing on Loskai.

  ‘You lie. You know they’re blameless.’

  Loskai retreated a few steps. ‘Is the blame then yours?’

  Fern turned on the baying crowd, his face distorted by rage as he bellowed. ‘They’re as much victims of the Standing Dead as are we.’

  Loskai pulled on Fern’s shoulder. ‘You were never truly of the Tribe.’

  Fern threw himself at Loskai and they crashed together to the ground. Soon they were rolling among the ferns, crushing them as they pounded each other.

  Fern’s mother strode forward barking commands. As if to listen, the crowd quietened until Carnelian could hear her voice carrying clearly over their storm.

  ‘Stop this now!’

  She thrust her hands between the brawlers. They separated, glaring at each other. Carnelian saw that her hands and arms were filthy as if she had just come from digging in the earth.

  ‘Get up,’ she cried.

  Fern and Loskai staggered to their feet, heads bowed, sneaking glares at each other, growling challenges. Other women came forward to draw them apart. Fern’s mother took her son from them, scolding him in a low voice. Trying to listen, the crowd fell silent. Fern was nodding, agreeing with what he was being told. Glancing across the distance, he locked eyes with Carnelian, who could see that his friend was still listening to his mother. He gave one more nod and limped towards Carnelian, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said addressing the Standing Dead, then moved into the crowd. As Carnelian made to follow him, he became aware Osidian was stone still.

  Fern turned back. ‘Didn’t you hear?’

  Osidian looked at him as if the barbarian were far away.

  ‘My Lord,’ Carnelian said in Quya, ‘we should do as he asks.’

  Fern glanced anxiously at the people surrounding him. ‘Come on,’ he cried hooking his arm violently to beckon them. ‘If you want to live, follow me.’

  For some moments, Osidian regarded him before, impassive, he strode through the crowd towards the Plainsman. Sighing his relief, Carnelian followed him.

  He kept his eyes fixed on Osidian’s back. The glowering faces of the Ochre formed an avenue on either side. Carnelian could feel the heat of their hatred. He hardly breathed until he walked free and, even then, his neck was too stiff to allow him to turn his head to see their escort.

  Fern maintained a furious pace that forced the other, smaller Ochre to jog to keep up. Carnelian saw how careful they were to keep their distance from him. Saddled aquar were ambling after them. Fern was leading them alongside another tree-lined ditch, inside whose curve there lay another swathe of ferns which washed its green to the edge of the darker massing of cedars upon their hill.

  He leaned towards Fern. ‘What’s going on?’

  Fern came to a sudden halt and turned on him. ‘Couldn’t you tell?’

  Carnelian saw the blood in Fern’s nostrils, the blue bruising round his eye. His friend was looking past him, back towards the crowd. Carnelian turned. Even at that distance he could hear the commotion.

  Feeling Fern move off, Carnelian said nothing more, but followed him until they came to where the ditch forked. They walked along the edge of the left fork until they came to a crumbling earthbridge. As Fern took them across, Carnelian saw that here and there the walls of the ditch had collapsed, exposing cages of tree roots. Below, pools glinted among lush scrolling ferns. He saw their escort had remained on the other side of the bridge and were regarding him with unconcealed hatred. Fern opened another gate and Carnelian and Osidian filed through to find themselves at the corner of another expanse of fernland, all edged about with magnolias.

  ‘Stay here until I return,’ said Fern.

  Carnelian felt an initial stab of panic at being abandoned, but fear for Fern quickly replaced this.

  ‘What are they going to do to you?’

  Fern was clearly taken aback by the question. ‘Do to me?’ He read Carnelian’s eyes and then smiled grimly. ‘Soon the Elders will sit in judgement over me, but now I’m returning at my mother’s command to talk to her.’

  His voice was still tight but he seemed more like the Fern Carnelian knew.

  Fern indicated the gate th
ey had come through. ‘The men back there have been told to stop you crossing that bridge.’

  ‘Weakened as I am, do you think they have the power to do that, barbarian?’ said Osidian with a feral smile.

  Fern sagged. ‘Look, I’ve brought you here for your own protection. Didn’t you see what almost happened to you back there? If my mother hadn’t calmed the Tribe …’

  ‘Your mother?’ said Osidian growing pensive.

  Fern glared at him. ‘We’ve all lost loved ones to your child-gatherer. Don’t expect anything but hate.’

  Carnelian wanted to thank his friend for having saved them from the mob, but to his annoyance, Osidian was speaking again.

  ‘Then why did you bring us?’

  ‘I’m not sure any more.’ He glared at Osidian. ‘If you escape from here, where do you think there is to go? The nearest koppie is at least two days’ walk from here. Even if you knew the direction you’d be sure to miss it.’

  ‘I’d find it.’

  Fern scowled. ‘Perhaps you would, but do you really expect another koppie would give you a warmer welcome?’

  Osidian turned his back on Fern and gazed out over the ferngarden.

  ‘It’s your choice,’ said Fern, using his chin to indicate the curve of magnolias marching along the outmost ditch.

  ‘There’s another bridge over there at the opposite corner of this ferngarden. It leads out on to the plain. If the raveners don’t get you, I’m sure another tribe will. Meanwhile, I’m off to do what I can for all of us. I hope for your sake and mine you’ll still be here when I return.’