Carnelian raised his eyes. Whin was wearing an expression somewhere between triumph and anger. Everyone else was motionless, staring at him.
Fern snatched the bowl from Carnelian’s hands and thrust it at the boy. ‘Do as your grandmother told you.’
Carnelian was startled by his friend’s anger. When the boy returned with the bowl refilled, Carnelian thanked him and began eating, even though he had lost his appetite. The eyes looking at him were loaded with reproach. He could see their pain at knowing they were going to lose Skai. Carnelian stared down, stirring the meat and dumplings in their gravy. How did the boy cope, knowing he would be taken from his kin for ever? He thought about the people of his household who had been taken from the Earthsky. In Osrakum, the marked boy might very well be chosen to serve House Suth.
‘Don’t show your feelings,’ said Fern in Vulgate.
Carnelian looked up.
Fern’s expression was severe. ‘Guilty looks will only stir up the Tribe’s lust for retribution.’
‘I regret –’
‘You might as well regret the rising of the sun.’
Carnelian followed his friend’s gaze to the baby cradled in Sil’s arms. Fern became aware Carnelian was looking at his child.
‘Leaf was born after the last visit of the Gatherer. Next year, when he comes again, she’ll have to be put forward with the other children. If we lose her, we lose her.’
Carnelian could hear the bitterness in Fern’s voice but could think of no way to soothe him. He watched Sil kiss-feeding her baby.
‘You want to hold her?’
Carnelian turned to find Fern glaring at him.
‘Well … if you …’ Carnelian blustered.
Fern jerked to his feet and, putting his hands out, asked for his child. Everyone fell silent. Uncertain, Sil glanced down the line of women to her mother, Whin. This enraged Fern.
‘Give me my daughter,’ he said in a dangerous tone.
Sil glared up at him, chewing vigorously. Bending, she put her lips to her child’s and transferred the food. She wiped the baby’s mouth and held her out to Fern, who took her, then offered her to Carnelian. He flared his palms in front of him.
‘I’ll not take her against her mother’s wishes.’
‘Hold her,’ Fern commanded.
There was no denying the determination in his eyes. As Carnelian took the baby and cradled her, around the hearth there was a catching of breath. Sil protested. Whin said something in anger.
Fern turned on her. ‘As much as she’s your grand-daughter, she’s my child.’ He pointed at Carnelian. ‘He’s not like the rest of his kind. Look at the way he holds her. Is that the way you would hold a slave?’
Carnelian felt the little girl warm against his heart and, looking down, became trapped in her brown eyes. He could not help smiling at her.
‘Does the way he holds a baby make him less of a danger to the Tribe?’ Whin demanded.
‘This hearth is in their debt,’ said Fern. ‘Isn’t it our tradition to honour our debts?’
‘That works for Plainsmen, not for the Standing Dead,’ said Whin.
‘He saved the souls of my husband and my son,’ said Akaisha.
It made Carnelian miserable to be the reason for such conflict.
‘By sacrilegious means,’ said Whin.
‘Do you doubt that I will make sure my son makes full recompense for his crime?’ asked Akaisha. When Whin did not answer: ‘As for the Standing Dead, here I am hearthmother and so I say that they are now as much a part of this hearth as are you.’
Whin looked outraged. ‘And how will they earn their keep, my mother? Or does my mother intend we should slave for them as do the children they steal from us?’
Fern glanced at Carnelian holding his baby. ‘They’ll do as other men.’
‘Work in the ditches with us; hunt?’ one of the men said, startled.
‘I can vouch for their strength and valour,’ said Fern.
‘So can I,’ said Ravan.
Carnelian had forgotten he was there. He rose, the child safe in the crook of his arm, and reached out to clasp Fern’s shoulder with his free hand. ‘What’s your punishment?’
Fern flushed. ‘I’m to work beneath the Bloodwood Tree.’
Carnelian was none the wiser and felt he had only served to embarrass his friend in front of his kin. He made his decision even though he had no idea what he was committing himself to. ‘Then I’ll work with you there.’
Ravan leapt to his feet. ‘The Master can’t do that.’
‘Sit down,’ said Fern. ‘Can’t you see Carnie was only speaking for himself.’ He turned to Carnelian. ‘I appreciate the offer, but you don’t understand. This is the Mother’s work; something which men don’t do, only women.’
‘Nevertheless, I’ll join you,’ said Carnelian. He went over and gave Sil her baby. She looked from him to her husband, then back again. He sensed she had become aware of the feelings there were between them. Trying to hide his confusion, Carnelian pushed past Ravan, stepped over the rootbench and walked away.
‘Carnie.’
Carnelian turned to see Akaisha following him. He watched her approach. Her voice when she spoke was low and conspiratorial.
‘If you’re determined to work with the women, then tomorrow you should come with me down to the earthworks.’
He smiled. ‘Where I can cause you trouble as I did just now?’
‘Don’t you worry about Whin, she’ll come round. The day after tomorrow it will be the turn of our hearth to work under the Bloodwood Tree. Tomorrow, the women there will be under the authority of Ginkga.’
‘She voted for my death?’
Akaisha nodded.
‘Nevertheless, my mother, I’m determined to share your son’s punishment.’
‘Why?’
There was anger in Akaisha’s voice. Carnelian stooped and took her hand. ‘I’m at least as responsible for Fern’s sacrilege as he is himself and owe him many debts of gratitude. How could I let him suffer the punishment alone?’
‘Is that all it is?’
Carnelian was glad the twilight hid his embarrassment.
‘Take care where your emotions will lead you.’ She gave his hand a squeeze and then returned to her hearth.
The twilight was thicker under the branches than it had been at the hearth, so that Carnelian had to take care picking his way across the root-ribbed hillside. He could just make out Osidian in their sleeping hollow, his face and hands like patches of moonlight.
‘The sky here is very deep,’ a voice said.
‘Are you not hungry?’
‘Only to wake from this nightmare.’
Carnelian slipped into the hollow and stretched himself out beside Osidian.
‘We can live here,’ he asserted.
‘I do not believe I can.’
Stars were coming alive in the darkening sky.
‘We will have to work with them.’
‘A Master shall not be seen to labour,’ growled Osidian.
‘What will you gain by quoting the Law at me? If we do not work, they will not give us food.’
‘Then I shall starve.’
Carnelian sat up but found he could not make out Osidian’s face.
Morning would be a better time for them to talk. He reached for a blanket and shook it open over them. He leaned across Osidian to make sure to cover him. His body seemed carved stone.
Carnelian lay back. Osidian would come round. He had to. Despair began catching at the edges of his mind. A burning vision of Osidian as he had been in Osrakum: a prince among books, music, palaces, slaves; all of such perfect beauty; the exquisite distillation of millennia. All wealth. All power. Osidian was to have been God. How could life among rude barbarians ever compare? There he lay beside him between the roots of a tree. What had he condemned him to?
Carnelian tried to find hope in the stars, but they seemed nothing but ice in a bleak sky. What had he thrown away for the sake of
a love that must surely die? Never again to see his Ebeny. Never to see Tain nor any other of his brothers; not one of the people he had known all his life. For him, all were now dead. His yearning for them was an ache, but there was a deeper grief choking him. His father. The father he had abandoned to Ykoriana’s web.
THE BLOODWOOD TREE
Wife you are the earth
the giver of gifts
the blessed mother of blood
come, sate my hunger.
(from a marriage ritual of the Plainsmen)
CARNELIAN WAS WOKEN BY FERN. ‘DO YOU STILL WANT TO COME WITH me?’
It was too dark for Carnelian to see his friend’s face.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, his heart still aching, wondering how long it was until dawn. As he made to rise, a hand reached up to pull him back.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Osidian.
Carnelian was glad of the gloom that hid his face. He explained the decision he had made to share Fern’s punishment. Osidian with-drew his hand and turned away. Carnelian stared at his back, trapped between his promise to Fern and his feeling that he was deserting Osidian.
‘I brought you some breakfast,’ said Fern, pushing something into Carnelian’s hand. He peered at the two crumbly discs.
‘Rootflour cakes,’ Fern said as he gave Carnelian two more. ‘Give those to your brother.’
Carnelian leaned over Osidian to put the cakes down on the ground in front of him. ‘One of us at least must work,’ he whispered.
When Osidian gave no response, Carnelian rose. At least he had been spared having to face Whin. ‘Lead the way,’ he said, to the shadow that was Fern.
As he followed him down the Blooding rootstair, Carnelian’s thoughts remained behind with Osidian. He only became aware he was chewing the cake when it began to flood his mouth with its peculiar, bitter taste.
A breeze was blowing from the indigo east when they reached the foot of the rootstair. A group of shadows were gathered in front of a wicker gate speaking in low tones with women’s voices. The gate creaking open let enough light in under the arching cedars to allow the women to notice Carnelian; as he could tell by the raised tempo of their talk. Fern pushed through their midst so that Carnelian was forced to follow. He sensed their wonder as he moved through them.
Crossing the earthbridge with Fern, he was glad the women remained behind. The easterly was ruffling a swell into the fern-garden. Soon they were walking alongside a drainage ditch beneath the dark, overhanging masses of the magnolias. Laughter carrying towards them over the sighing of the ferns seemed to be the cause of Fern redoubling their pace. Carnelian followed him across another, smaller earthbridge over a forking of the ditch, the prongs of which enclosed a meadow dominated by a huge tree with leaves the colour of old blood. As they crossed this meadow, Carnelian snatched glimpses of Fern’s face. Its grim expression did not invite conversation.
The meadow ended at a double wall of soaring magnolias between which ran one of the concentric ditches Carnelian had seen from the summit of the Crag. Taking them through the first line of trees, Fern found yet another bridge. As he stepped on to it, Carnelian could see that the roots of the magnolias buttressed the sides of the ditch so thickly they had forced it into a jagged course. Gazing off towards the Koppie’s outmost ditch, Carnelian was sure the trees defining its edges were not so ancient. It gave him something to ask Fern.
In response to his question, his friend came to a halt and turned.
‘This is the Outditch which long ago defined the limits of the Koppie, before the Newditch was dug out there.’
Fern set off again, through the second line of magnolias into the wider expanse of the outer ferngardens. They were heading directly towards the Newditch, so that Carnelian began to believe they were making for the open plain. Again he wondered what it was he had agreed to.
Before they reached the Outditch, the drainage ditch they had been walking alongside split in two once again. The arms curved off to meet the Outditch, embracing another triangular fernmeadow, though larger than the first, but which had in it another russet tree. Something gigantic lay beneath its branches, from which wafted the sweet beginnings of decay. A wisp of laughter made Carnelian turn to see figures filtering across the earthbridge they had just crossed. Carnelian turned back and caught up with Fern, who had almost reached the tree. The morning had become bright enough for Carnelian to see that what lay beneath it was a saurian, which with its horns and sweeping crest was much like those he had seen pulling wagons along the roads of the Guarded Land.
‘A huimur.’
‘An earther,’ corrected Fern, in Ochre.
One whole flank of the creature had been cut away, revealing the grimy architecture of its ribs. A stench was rising from the blood-soaked earth. Boulders as flat as tables were set about in an arc. Upon these, long flint knives lay in rows.
Fern was scowling. ‘Well, here we are beneath the Bloodwood Tree.’
Carnelian stared at the tree and spoke his thought aloud. ‘Bloodwood?’
For an answer, Fern lifted one of the flint knives, strode towards the trunk and swung a slash into it. The cut began to weep along its length. Drawing closer, Carnelian saw the tree appeared to be bleeding.
About three dozen women and a few girls gathered beneath the Bloodwood Tree. Under the pressure of their scrutiny, Carnelian did not know where to look. Fern hung his head. The girls chattered and pointed. The women laughed, nervously.
‘Don’t you all have work to do?’
Carnelian recognized the Elder, Ginkga. The crowd dispersed as she came through them. She clamped some bone pins in her lips. As she approached Carnelian and Fern, she twisted her hair into a tress, then wound it tightly around her head. She came to a halt in front of them and looked up into Carnelian’s face. One at a time, she took the pins from her mouth and inserted them into her coil of salt-beaded hair. Carnelian tried to hold her gaze, but eventually he had to look away.
‘You two will load the offal on to the drag-cradles,’ she said, when her mouth was free. She pointed to where five cradles were laid out in a line well beyond the shade of the tree. It was Carnelian who led Fern off towards them. Carnelian could smell them before he was close enough to see they were caked with gore. Infants screaming drew his attention to the open ground where he saw them chasing each other among rows of frames, many of which were hung with ribbons of flesh adjusting heavily in the breeze.
Carnelian grimaced at the filthy drag-cradles. ‘What’re we supposed to do?’ he asked Fern. His friend gave a shrug for an answer.
The women were painting each other’s faces red. Those that were done went to stand around the boulder tables testing the edges of the flints. Some had to be knapped sharp. Blood-faced, two women were appraising the saurian corpse as if it were a house they were about to demolish. Soon they were in among its bones, hacking away with their knives. The hunks of meat they released were caught by other women who lugged them over to the boulders, where they were sheared into slices and then ribbons. Carnelian watched as the girls began knotting these into ropes which they wound around their arms like yarn. Bloody to the armpits, the girls carried the meat away from the tree and draped it over the frames as if it were washing being hung out to dry.
Ginkga’s voice carried over to Carnelian and Fern. ‘You two.’
They exchanged a look of resignation and went towards her. She confronted them arms red to the elbows; face the colour of fresh blood.
‘You should take off as much as you can.’
Fern pulled off his robe and, reluctantly, Carnelian followed his lead. They both endured the ribald comments the women made about their bodies.
Ginkga offered them a bowl that appeared to be filled with blood. ‘You’re here to do penance for your insult to the Mother. You must wear her colour as we do.’
Fern scowled, but took the bowl. He kneeled and put it on the ground and motioned Carnelian to join him. Facing each other, they dipped their finge
rs in the bowl and smeared the redness over their faces under Ginkga’s grim supervision. When they were done, she led them to their work. Shouldering the slimy sag of a lung between them, they struggled to heave it back to the drag-cradles.
Sweltering, they laboured, their torsos and their heads itching with gore. Carnelian had tried to make a joke about their red faces but Fern was not much inclined to humour. The sun had brought with it a plague of flies that swarmed the growing mounds of offal. A constant procession of people came to stare. Worst of all for Carnelian was the mob of jeering children that had collected, who hung around him as he worked, coming as close as they dared. Already weary, past nausea from the stench, their baiting was almost more than he could bear.
Fern gave him a look of sympathy. ‘At least their antics are driving away the flies.’
Carnelian frowned. ‘I’d prefer the flies.’
Fern chuckled.
‘I’m glad at least it amuses you.’
Fern looked concerned. ‘I didn’t mean –’
Carnelian cut off the apology with his hand. ‘I know you didn’t.’
‘If I asked her, perhaps Mother Ginkga would send them away.’
Carnelian began to shake his head, then winced as it adhered to the bundle of tendons he was carrying over his shoulder. The children laughed, delighted, and he growled, scattering them.
‘The Standing Dead haunt their nightmares. To see one of them here, doing this work …’ Fern shook his head, frowning, himself overcome by the wonder of it.
‘It’s not that I’m blaming them,’ said Carnelian. ‘I just wish they’d leave me alone.’
‘They’ll tire of it.’
For some time after that Carnelian despaired they ever would, but gradually the gang began to thin until the last few children were wandering back across the earthbridge, making for the shade of their mother trees.
The blaze of the sun managed to enter through Carnelian’s slitted eyes to give him a beating headache. The air scorched his lungs. The sun was nearing its greatest height when Ginkga called for a break. Panting, brushing away flies, Carnelian and Fern scrambled for the shade of the Bloodwood Tree as if it were a river in which they might swim. As shadow slipped over them, Carnelian put his head back and groaned with pleasure. A delicious breeze cooled his skin. He saw two girls ladling water out from a jar that lay against the trunk of the tree. Fern called over to them and they came with slow, reluctant steps. They stood uncertain, staring at Carnelian.
The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 23
