The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  Galewing pointed a four-fingered hand. ‘The lepers extracted from us more than twice the usual tolls. You’re responsible for that loss.’

  Fern flushed while Loskai began protesting his innocence.

  ‘Not one, but both of you will bear the responsibility for this,’ snapped Galewing. ‘Unless you wish to blame the dead?’

  Loskai seemed to consider it, but he saw, as quickly as Carnelian did, that the Elders would not stand for this.

  A woman spoke out. ‘Are you more concerned about salt than the safe return of our children?’

  ‘This isn’t a case of one or the other, it is –’

  ‘I think you’ll find, Galewing,’ said Akaisha, ‘the Tribe has lost no salt.’

  ‘The leper tolls –’

  ‘Perhaps the only advantage of not returning through the Valleys was that my son and his companions paid nothing to the lepers.’

  ‘But … but their long detour caused more salt to be consumed,’ blustered the Elder.

  ‘We’ve seen with our own eyes the unbroken loaf they’ve brought back and there’s a little more salt besides as well as twenty and eighteen bronze, double-headed coins.’

  She looked at Loskai. ‘Isn’t that so, child?’

  Loskai was forced to give a nod.

  Akaisha turned back to Galewing. ‘I recall you brought back two loaves and fifteen coins. If I’m not in error, this means that, of the twenty loaves this Assembly gave into your keeping, more have been returned than would’ve been expected from an uneventful journey to the Mountain.’

  The veteran frowned, then ducked her an apology but still looked unhappy as he fingered one of the salt beads in his hair.

  People were looking at Galewing, their raised eyebrows registering surprise. Akaisha twitched a smile at her son.

  ‘What I still can’t understand is how the Marula could come so early to the Twostone koppie,’ said Kyte, looking haunted.

  The Elders looked uneasy.

  ‘We debated that enough when you returned,’ said Harth. ‘It’s a mystery without solution. Now we must concentrate on the issue for which this Assembly was called.’

  She moved out and turned to face the Elders. ‘You’ve seen them and know why they came here. Think hard, my mothers and fathers, for the Tribe has never been in greater danger. What are we to do with these Standing Dead?’

  ‘Could we not send them back to the Mountain?’ said one man.

  Harth turned to her son, her white eyebrows raised. ‘Well?’

  Loskai looked at Osidian with a cold smile broadening on his lips. Still smiling, he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, my mother. If this one could find his way across the Earthsky to the Twostone, I’m sure he could as easily bring the dragons here.’

  ‘They told me they wouldn’t,’ Fern blurted out.

  Harth turned on him gaping. ‘They knew where the Koppie lies?’

  Fern grimaced. He glanced at Carnelian apologetically. ‘They know who we are.’

  Harth’s eyes ignited. ‘You actually told them?’

  ‘They saw it in the pictures on my father’s hand.’

  Carnelian saw the veterans regard their palms as if they had suddenly snagged them on thorns.

  ‘He looked at the pictures and spoke the name of the Tribe,’ said Fern.

  Akaisha rose and surveyed the Assembly. ‘You see? If the bodies of our dead had been left behind they would’ve led the vengeance of the Mountain here.’

  Ignoring her, Harth drew closer to Fern. ‘Is that why you brought them, child?’

  Fern looked at the ground, shook his head. ‘No, my mother. I brought them because they asked me to.’

  Voices rang out in anger.

  Harth waited until the hubbub had subsided. ‘They asked you to?’ she said, quietly.

  ‘They helped me save the souls of my nearest kin.’

  ‘They led you into sacrilege,’ said Harth, severely.

  ‘They asked for sanctuary.’ He opened his arms to the Assembly. ‘My mothers, my fathers, you can all see how badly they’ve suffered at the hands of their own kind.’

  ‘They are of the Standing Dead,’ she shouted into his face.

  Harth turned her fury on Carnelian, who flinched seeing the hatred in her eyes.

  ‘They take our children. Fern …’

  ‘Yes, my mother?’

  ‘Give this one my words.’

  ‘But, my mother, one of them –’

  ‘Just do as you’re told,’ a man growled from off to one side.

  Fern lowered his eyes, then looked round at Carnelian. ‘Mother Harth wants me to translate for her,’ he said, in Vulgate.

  Carnelian gave a nod.

  Harth was already speaking.

  Fern translated. ‘Do you know how much we hate you?’

  With a glance to Osidian, Carnelian answered. ‘I know you’ve every reason.’

  When Fern translated the Master’s words for her, Harth laughed without humour. She said something in a sarcastic tone.

  ‘Every reason?’ As Fern was translating, Harth was already saying more.

  ‘You take our children,’ said Fern keeping her in the corner of his eye.

  A man spoke.

  ‘The best of us.’

  A woman.

  ‘I lost a daughter and a son,’ translated Fern, his face gleaming with sweat. Others, mostly women, were calling things out and Fern was trying to relay as much as he could.

  ‘Since I was born, my hearth’s lost ten children.’

  ‘Mine, twelve.’

  ‘My grand-daughter just last year.’

  Ginkga pushed past Harth and came to glare up into Carnelian’s face. He could see the tears catching in her wrinkles. He could feel the drizzle of her spittle as she accused him. Fern’s voice came from behind her.

  ‘I’ve just returned from the Mountain where I had to give up my grand-daughter.’

  Her face crunched tighter with her sorrow and Carnelian found he could no longer bear it and dropped his gaze in shame. He cringed as the woman went on, her words so violent Carnelian expected to feel her clawing at him. The tirade shifted to Fern.

  Carnelian looked up and saw the Plainsman flinching.

  ‘She was saying … her daughter’s sorrow … the pain.’ Fern was crying.

  ‘We can hardly let them go if they know who we are,’ she shouted at him.

  ‘And where to find us,’ someone else cried out.

  ‘Do any of the other tribes know they’re here?’ Harth demanded.

  ‘I can’t see how … I can’t see how they could,’ said Fern.

  Carnelian felt her eyes on him again, measuring him up.

  ‘Their bodies must never be found. We must bury them so deep in the Mother that even a thousand Rains will not dig them out.’

  Carnelian stared at the woman and saw Fern was sharing his horror.

  ‘They came to us painted in the colours of the Skyfather,’ he cried. He pointed at Osidian. ‘That one bears a mark as if the Skyfather himself kissed his brow.’

  The Assembly ignited into uproar. Several men pushed through the women to see for themselves. Withstanding Osidian’s stare, they squinted up into his face and then fell to arguing.

  Harth’s voice carried above the din. ‘How can we possibly let them live?’

  She had the attention of the room.

  ‘Just because the Gatherer’s not due until the year after next doesn’t mean the Mountain will not find out about these two.’

  ‘Carnelian, do you understand all this hysteria?’ Osidian’s clear and ringing Quya chilled the room to silence.

  The Elders stared at Osidian, who continued to focus on Carnelian as if they were alone.

  ‘Well, do you, my Lord?’

  Carnelian turned to Osidian. Just the sound of his voice seemed to have turned the Elders into the servants that were always present at the edges of a Master’s vision.

  ‘They were discussing by what means they shall dispos
e of our bodies.’

  Osidian smiled and flipped a hand to point lazily at the Assembly. ‘These filthy savages are actually discussing killing us?’

  He inclined his head and masked his face with a pale long-fingered hand and while he stood thus, the Plainsmen gaped at him as if his gaze had turned them to stone.

  Osidian revealed his exquisite face, his emerald eyes. ‘Barbarians,’ he said in Vulgate. ‘Those of you who can understand this coarse tongue convey my words to the others.’ Without pausing for their assent, he continued, regarding them from on high as if they were errant children.

  ‘You presume to sit in judgement on us who are the Masters of Earth and Sky? You who live only because we allow it; whose children we have taken to be our slaves since the Creation?’

  Carnelian saw his words being passed by those who understood to those who did not.

  Osidian took a step forward and the Elders rose in alarm. He seemed to grow larger, brighter. ‘Barbarians, you should take care.’ His voice rang clear around the room of bones and a terrible fire seemed to spring from his eyes and teeth.

  ‘The Masters have cast us out of Paradise and for that they have earned my hatred. They will forget us. But you – you can never forget them. And it seems you have already forgotten we too are Masters. If you kill us, our blood will be upon your hands. Do you think the servants of the God in the Mountain will not see its stain?’

  As he scanned the Elders, Carnelian saw their staring terror of him.

  ‘Do you think when the childgatherer comes he will fail to see the red reflection of our blood in your children’s eyes? And what then?’

  He paused looking for an answer. Where his gaze swept the Elders looked away.

  ‘What do you think will happen then? Do you imagine for one moment, whatever enmity may lie between us, do you really imagine they would let such as you slay even the least of the Masters with impunity?

  ‘There are those here who have taken the Gods’ salt,’ he said, stabbing his finger here and there at the Assembly. ‘Others have knelt to kiss the dust in the Mountain. Of these I ask: are the Masters merciful? How many of you hide that mercy’s stripes across your backs? I can see the mutilations of lost fingers and shorn ears. How many of you have wept in the night for your lost children? Do not delude yourselves. The Masters know less of mercy than you do of power. They will bring the dragons here.’ He stamped his foot on the floor of their mothers’ bones. ‘They will exterminate you man and woman, young and old, until your tribe shall be nothing more than a whisper lost in the wind.’

  Kyte stood bravely forth. ‘What’s to stop us … giving … giving you up to the Gatherer?’

  Osidian smiled chillingly. ‘Do you not recall, auxiliary, the penalty for having looked upon our faces?’

  The Plainsman went pale, caught in the green ice of the Master’s eyes.

  With relief, Carnelian watched Osidian relapse back into a languid state. Long after the echoes of his voice had vibrated away the Elders continued to gape, transfixed. Though Osidian was no longer as white as he had been, still in that dark place, in contrast to Loskai dwarfed beside him, with his green eyes and the bright beauty of his face, Osidian seemed undeniably an angel.

  ‘What did he say?’ Harth asked Fern urgently in a half-whisper.

  Desperate to undo whatever harm Osidian had done, Carnelian spoke before Fern had a chance to answer her. ‘He threatens …’ said Carnelian, crudely in their language, ‘your destruction … if you touch us … or give us up to the Gatherer … but … Fern spoke truthfully. I promised … we wish no hurt on you.’

  Harth joined her peers in turning her gape on him.

  Galewing shambled towards Carnelian, stopping at a distance. ‘You … you understand our speech?’

  ‘Much of it,’ Carnelian said, in Vulgate.

  As Galewing relayed the answer to the Assembly, their unease turned to near hysteria.

  Harth turned on Fern. ‘You knew this?’

  Fern made a grimace then nodded.

  His mother rose. ‘What of it? We’ve always known the Standing Dead have sorcery. Is a broken knowledge of our tongue so great a mystery?’

  Galewing glanced at Carnelian. ‘But that they should understand our tongue when even many unkith Plainsmen cannot …’ He shook his head. ‘Are we being fools? Perhaps Fern is right, perhaps they are a gift to us from the Skyfather.’ He regarded the Assembly. ‘Imagine what secrets they could teach us.’

  As protests rose against Galewing, Akaisha approached Carnelian. When she was close she looked up and he saw a yearning in her eyes.

  ‘How is it you come to speak Ochre?’ she asked, quietly.

  Harth grabbed her arm. ‘What are you doing?’

  Akaisha tore herself free. Many voices among the Elders cried out that she should be allowed to ask whatever she wanted. Akaisha gave them a nod of thanks and turned her eyes up again to look into Carnelian’s.

  He was moved by her need.

  ‘Mother.’ He stopped, seeing Ebeny there in her face. ‘My servants … were taken … from the Earthsky tithe.’

  Akaisha shook her head. ‘The tongues of the Plainsmen are many, yet, when you speak, your words are Ochre.’

  ‘A woman …’ Carnelian knuckled his head trying to find the words. ‘A servant woman … she was … not my mother … but she was my mother.’

  Akaisha’s eyes were very bright. ‘Her name?’

  ‘Ebeny.’

  The Plainswoman shook her head, deeply disappointed. ‘No. Not that.’

  Carnelian looked around trying to find something. He reached out to catch Akaisha’s blanket between finger and thumb. He tugged it. ‘She made blankets like this.’

  Hope relit Akaisha’s eyes. ‘The same pattern?’

  Carnelian looked at it carefully. ‘It seems very much like I remember.’

  Akaisha grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Did she tell you anything about us?’

  Carnelian saw the tears in the woman’s eyes and desperately wanted to give her what she desired, but was too emotional to think clearly. Other women had crept up and were whispering to her. She let go of him.

  ‘You have to leave now,’ she said gently. ‘Leave with this other one of your kind. Please wait outside.’

  He nodded, then moved to Osidian’s side and gingerly put a hand on his arm. Carnelian expected anger but Osidian seemed content to be led out. They had reached the curtain before Carnelian realized Fern was not following him. He turned and saw his friend looking very alone encircled by the Elders.

  With his eyes, Carnelian asked Fern why he was not leaving with him, but the only answer Fern could give him was an angry shake of the head.

  Pushing out past the curtain, Osidian let in a flood of light in which Carnelian could see nothing but Fern’s back. He was reluctant to leave him with the Assembly and his accuser, Loskai, but knew he could do nothing to help him.

  As Carnelian stepped out from the house of bones, the glaring brilliance of the plain forced his eyes shut. His heart was racing, his mind dazzled by the certainty the Ochre really were Ebeny’s people.

  THE HEARTH

  Fire is the heart of living.

  (Plainsman proverb )

  ‘WHERE ARE YOU GOING?’ ASKED CARNELIAN AS HE SAW OSIDIAN BEGIN to move towards the steps that led down from the Ancestor House.

  Osidian half turned. ‘Away from this filthy hovel.’

  ‘Fern’s mother asked us to wait here.’

  Osidian’s face distorted with rage. ‘Since when do the Chosen obey savages?’

  Carnelian saw a guard coming up the steps, looking at them uncertainly, a spear ready in his hands. When Osidian swung round, the man flinched. The spear lowered to point at Osidian’s chest in reaction to him moving towards the guard. Carnelian could see the man’s narrow-eyed fear and the way he was adjusting and readjusting his grip on the spear.

  ‘Let me pass,’ Osidian growled in Vulgate.

  ‘I must stop you descending,
’ the man said, in Ochre, and threw a nervous glance down to where one of his companions was mounting the steps to his aid.

  Osidian looked back at Carnelian. ‘What did the creature say?’

  ‘He has been commanded to bar our descent.’

  ‘Has he indeed,’ Osidian said, turning the menace of his face on the guards, both of whose spears were now questing for his throat.

  ‘Osidian!’ cried Carnelian.

  Behind him the muttering of the Assembly faltered. Osidian seemed intent on throwing himself upon the guards. Carnelian saw their flint blades and how narrow were the steps, how high the fall. He lunged forward and took hold of Osidian’s upper arms and pulled him back.

  ‘Release me,’ Osidian hissed as he struggled.

  Carnelian held on, cursing.

  ‘Let me go,’ bellowed Osidian.

  Voices were speaking behind him but Carnelian ignored them. Osidian pulled and almost broke free. For a moment Carnelian believed Osidian was going to be dashed upon the ground below.

  ‘Do you want to die?’

  Osidian sagged back into Carnelian, who embraced him. Osidian turned within the circle of his arms and looked at him with infinite sadness.

  ‘What is there left to live for?’

  Carnelian looked deep into his eyes. ‘You still have me.’

  He became aware of the dark faces staring and felt naked under their gaze. He did not know what tongue he and Osidian had been speaking but was certain the two guards could see the way it was between them. Osidian looked as vulnerable as a child. Carnelian became aware Galewing was regarding them from the doorway of the Ancestor House.

  ‘He’s still weak … illness … I’ll look after him,’ he said, in the Ochre tongue.

  The Elder ducked back behind the leather curtain. His hand still clasping Osidian’s arm, Carnelian’s attention returned to the guards. The smile he gave them caused them even more confusion. His gaze scaled to the heights. He looked for and found steps climbing from the porch to the summit of the Crag.

  ‘Can we go up there?’ Carnelian asked the guards in Ochre.

  They looked startled, uncertain, so Carnelian made the decision for them. He coaxed Osidian towards the steps and gently urged him to climb. Careless of his own safety, he shadowed Osidian with his hands all the way up, terrified he might miss a step.