The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  Ravan’s eyes burned with excitement as he looked out over the men. ‘With so much wealth we could recruit a vast host.’ He raised his arms. ‘We would become invincible.’

  He turned on Carnelian. ‘Even against the Master and his Marula.’

  ‘Do you imagine the Standing Dead would not notice the drying up of their recruits? How long do you think it would be before they came to punish your impudence?’

  Ravan’s lip curled up from his teeth. ‘More threats, Master?’ He stabbed a finger at Carnelian and looked round at the men. ‘Does this one seem so terrifying that we must quake at the very mention of their retribution?’ He circled Carnelian. ‘Are these Standing Dead really so much mightier than us that we should obey them as if they were gods? What is the basis of their power except terror? I say that should we choose to be men and defy them, we will find their power is nothing more substantial than a mirage.’

  Fern closed on his brother. ‘The Master has possessed you as he has us all.’ He surveyed the crowd. ‘We have become murderers and thieves. He has made us forget our ancient ways, our humility, our honour and piety. He has made us give insult to the Mother.’

  He looked at Ravan, shaking his head sadly. ‘As for you, my brother, I do not hear wisdom but rather the bitterness of a lover spurned.’

  Ravan clenched his fists and bared his teeth. ‘You accuse me of that, you who are to him’ – he pointed at Carnelian – ‘in everything his wife.’

  Fern swung and struck his brother a blow which made him reel but then return screaming. ‘Do you want to hit me again? Come on, do you?’

  Fern looked horrified. He seemed to become suddenly aware they had an audience. He threw himself bodily at the crowd, who made way for him.

  Carnelian almost ran after him, but Ravan was staring, his face already bruising.

  ‘Master, where shall we store the salt?’ Kor asked.

  Carnelian swung round and she cowered. ‘Where do you normally put it?’

  The sartlar angled her head towards the Isle of Flies.

  ‘Store it in the caves.’

  She fell into a prostration. As he looked at the white-flecked ground around her, he wondered if the creature could really have so little idea of how precious salt was that she innocently brought such a slab into the Plainsman camp.

  He became aware of the men around him staring. ‘Haven’t you seen enough?’ he bellowed. They ducked their heads and began dispersing. Carnelian asked Krow to look after Ravan and then he went to find Fern.

  Carnelian found his friend standing at the chasm edge gazing across at the Isle of Flies. They stood side by side in silence.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to hear the Master’s voice coming out of him,’ said Fern at last.

  ‘I know,’ said Carnelian.

  ‘It really is as if he is possessed.’

  ‘In many ways he is.’

  Water fell around the dark face of the Isle of Flies like hair. Carnelian felt the question forming on his lips as his heart pounded.

  ‘Is that why you hit him?’

  Sensing Fern turning towards him, Carnelian looked round and their eyes met with an intensity that snatched away his breath. Fern’s irises were all black.

  ‘He insulted us both.’

  Carnelian controlled anger. ‘Do men among the tribes never love each other?’

  Fern looked pained. ‘Boys do.’

  ‘And when boys become men?’

  Fern grimaced. ‘Once we are married, such feelings are discouraged. A man should love his wife and his children above all others.’

  Carnelian saw the desire burning in Fern, but knew now he must not let it ignite his own. ‘Perhaps Ravan was acting from fear. We must assure him we will not tell the Master of the … arguments we’ve had with him.’

  Fern was looking at him very seriously. Carnelian made light of his feelings and laughed. He slapped Fern on the back.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and see if any of the water survived our return.’

  Days later, shouting brought everyone in the camp running down armed towards the Ladder. As he ran towards it with the others, Carnelian saw smoke wavering up from the chasm. His heart raced as he recognized Osidian’s signal. He pushed his way through the Plainsmen to peer over the edge. Far below, from where the smoke was rising, a dark mass of men could be seen gathered at the base of the Ladder and others were already climbing it.

  ‘Marula,’ said Fern who was beside Carnelian.

  They glanced at each other. Even at that distance, it was hard to believe these were all Oracles.

  ‘The Master’s not there,’ said Ravan.

  ‘He must be,’ said Carnelian. ‘He told me he would send up smoke to signal his return.’

  ‘I can’t see him.’

  ‘He’s there somewhere,’ said Krow. ‘I’m certain of it.’ The anxious way he was searching suggested otherwise.

  Ravan pulled back from the edge. ‘We must cut the Ladder.’

  Fern rounded on him.

  Ravan ignored his brother’s glare. ‘Am I the only one who can see it is Marula warriors who are climbing towards us?’

  Fern turned frowning to Carnelian. ‘He’s right.’

  They both eyed the Plainsmen and saw how uneasy they were. Carnelian knew it was true. If Osidian was there then it seemed he did not trust them and was sending up these warriors in advance of him. Warriors? There had been no talk of warriors.

  Ravan had moved towards the anchor trees. ‘Are we all just going to wait here to be slaughtered?’

  As most of the Darkcloud moved to Ravan’s side, Carnelian could see they meant to support the youth.

  ‘We can’t ignore the threat,’ said Fern.

  Carnelian nodded. ‘Ravan is right, we must take precautions. You all have your spears. Let’s form a hornwall.’

  Ravan gaped, confused, as Carnelian formed the Plainsmen into a crescent surrounding the head of the Ladder. He interspersed their line with Ochre who had experience of the formation from the battle against the Bluedancing. Then they waited, hearing the approach of the Marula in the vibrations of the Ladder cables.

  SCREAMING

  Pleasure can stir a voice to song. At the extremes, pain will always exceed pleasure in intensity. How much more powerful, then, is the impetus pain can give a voice? Do the Wise not teach that the sounds of agony are the vocal mode the Dark God most prefers? If this is so, then it follows that the most sublime form such a performance might attain is that in which the vocalist is skilfully excruciated and held shimmering at the very brink

  of death.

  (from ‘Of This and That’ by the Ruling Lord Kirinya Prase)

  AT THE CENTRE OF THE HORNWALL, CARNELIAN WATCHED THE MARULA spill out from the chasm. Gleaming black, massive limbs banded with wood, bodies hidden beneath beaded corselets that rose up behind their heads like the backs of chairs. They bared their teeth and hissed as they saw the hedge of spears awaiting them.

  Carnelian felt the hornwall losing cohesion and steadied it with a bellow. More and more of the Marula were coming up, until he began to fear that should he not act now, his men would be overwhelmed.

  Then he saw a taller figure at their rear.

  A murmur rose from the hornwall. ‘The Master.’

  Carnelian glanced round at Fern. They shared the same deadly intent. Carnelian faced the Marula and Osidian, ready to give the order to push them all back into the chasm.

  Osidian’s Quya carried clear across the tumult. ‘There is something strange in the way you look at me, Carnelian.’

  A hush settled as everyone listened to the beautiful voice.

  ‘The reading of faces is an art practised in the House of the Masks. You, my dear, unlike many of the Great, have not acquired the skill to conceal your thoughts.’

  Carnelian tried to blank his face, almost unmanned by its betrayal. More and more Marula were swelling the wall before Osidian. Ashen Oracles were gathering round him.

  ‘You have perhaps be
come more Chosen than I expected, Carnelian.’

  ‘Carnie?’ cried Fern, shocking Carnelian free of Osidian’s mesmerizing voice.

  Glancing at him, Carnelian saw Fern’s urgency to settle the matter. Before he could think, Osidian spoke again.

  ‘These Marula have been told that should any harm befall me … or the Ladder, then their kin shall all be given to the Oracles for sacrifice. This, not to mention that they have their backs to the chasm, should ensure they put up a vigorous fight.’

  Carnelian went cold. Not only had Osidian become aware of his intention to kill him, but worse, he now saw the enormity of his mistake: Osidian had returned with an army of his own.

  ‘Excellent, you have understood the new balance of power.’ Carnelian sensed the men round him wavering. ‘The Plainsmen are still more numerous than your Marula.’

  Osidian inclined his head. ‘Mounted, they might prevail. With me to lead them, however, I believe my Marula would have a decisive advantage.’

  Carnelian felt sick. The time for rebellion had passed. Perhaps if he had charged when Osidian had first appeared …

  ‘Come now, Carnelian, shall we two really do battle and cause such unnecessary bloodshed?’

  Carnelian was crushed.

  ‘Have your men put up their spears and retire.’

  A desperate hope made Carnelian look towards their fortified camp. His glance took Osidian’s gaze to the knoll.

  ‘I would starve you out and then would take the most terrible reprisals.’

  Carnelian hoped at least to save his men. ‘This was all my doing.’

  ‘Really?’ The humour in Osidian’s voice was chilling. ‘You need have no fear for them.’ He glanced at Fern. ‘Not one of them will suffer as long as they serve me.’

  Carnelian knew it was finished. He ordered the Plainsmen to stand down. As here and there along the wall spears fell, Fern spoke out, anguished.

  ‘What’s going on, Carnie?’

  Fearing for him, Carnelian snarled: ‘Retire with the rest.’

  Scowling, Fern obeyed him and, as he did so, the hornwall dissolved.

  With a gesture, Osidian sent the Marula swarming forward to take control of the anchor trees and the Ladder ropes. As they unblocked the top of the Ladder, a tide of tiny, honey-brown men was released, struggling under baskets densely packed with fernroot. Distracted by these pygmies, Carnelian started retreating but stopped when he saw Osidian beckoning. Carnelian hesitated, seeing Morunasa and other Oracles around Osidian like pale crows.

  ‘What, my love, do you fear I will harm you?’

  Carnelian marched towards him his spear still in his hand, a desire beating in his chest to plunge it into Osidian.

  ‘Carnelian, cast aside your weapon.’ Osidian sounded alarmed. ‘The Marula are not fully under my control. They might kill you.’

  Carnelian came to a halt, confused that after all that had happened, Osidian might still care for him.

  Osidian spoke again. ‘Even were you to slay me, the Marula would destroy your Plainsmen.’

  Carnelian saw how merciless were the yellow eyes of the Marula. As he threw away the spear, their ranks responded by opening before him. He advanced into their midst. As he closed on Osidian, it felt strange to look into green eyes again.

  ‘Since we are being open with each other,’ Osidian said, ‘did you enter the caves that lie beneath our feet?’

  Carnelian nodded.

  ‘I thought you might. Does anyone else know what they contain?’ Carnelian considered lying but knew it would soon be found out. ‘Everyone.’

  Osidian’s eyes widened. ‘It amazes me you could be so stupid.’ Carnelian almost blamed Kor, but he felt this unworthy and decided he could bear Osidian’s contempt.

  Osidian moved forward. ‘Well, it seems then there is no reason why the Plainsmen should not help load the pygmies with salt.’

  ‘What for?’

  Osidian took in the Marula with an elegant sweep of his hand. ‘I had to buy them with something.’

  Carnelian feared the Plainsmen would resist such work. ‘Can you not use the Marula?’

  ‘They are warriors.’

  ‘So are the Plainsmen,’ said Carnelian.

  ‘Nevertheless, it is my will that they should do it.’

  Carnelian saw a harshness in Osidian’s eyes and knew that not only was he wanting to make clear to the Plainsmen that he was now their master, but he also wanted to make Carnelian understand this was a punishment they would suffer on his behalf.

  Carnelian looked for the Plainsmen and saw they had retreated towards the knoll. As he pushed into the flow of pygmies, they moved from his path as if his touch were poison. He broke into open ground. Approaching the Plainsmen, he saw how bewildered they looked and lost the courage to reveal his errand.

  ‘Carnie?’ said Fern.

  Carnelian could see how desperate his friend was to talk to him. He tried to communicate that this was impossible with a shake of his head. Aware they were all looking at him, Carnelian had to tell them.

  ‘You are to go down to the saltcaves.’

  Their looks of unease exasperated him. ‘We have to give the quarried salt to the Marula.’

  They stared at him. Fern opened his mouth to protest but then he looked to where, looming above the pygmy tide, the Master was in conversation with Morunasa, and his mouth closed. Carnelian met Fern’s despondent gaze. Both knew they had failed. Many of the Plainsmen cast looks of desire up at their fortress on the hill, then lowered their heads to hide the anger and betrayal in their eyes. Led by Ravan, they leaned their spears against a baobab and made their way towards the sartlar ladder. Carnelian was tortured by the thought that the youth had been right all along. It was better not to accompany them. To share such menial work would only serve to anger Osidian and it would be the Plainsmen who would suffer retribution.

  Pygmies were moving past him, returning empty-handed from where they were piling their baskets of fernroot at the foot of the knoll. An odour was rising from their bodies. It was the same aura of fear which slaves gave off in the presence of a Master, and which had to be masked with perfume. At first Carnelian thought it was Osidian the pygmies feared, but their glances were for the Oracles.

  When Morunasa and the rest approached the crowd of little men, they crumpled into a juddering, urinating mass from which the ashsmeared arms of the Oracles plucked and pulled them out one here, one there. Those selected tottered off to where they stood together in trembling misery. When the Oracles had finished, those that were left fled towards the Ladder, stumbling over each other in their desperation to escape.

  The Oracles closed in on those they had chosen and herded them whimpering off towards the idol and the impaled man. Carnelian was still watching as the first Plainsmen began coming up from the caves. The tiny men were being driven across the stepping stones and meandering currents, to be swallowed up by the Isle of Flies.

  Sick at heart, Carnelian went to watch the loading of the salt. The Plainsmen were helping the sartlar hoist slabs up and over the lip of the chasm. They were carefully wrapped in oily cloth then bound to the backs of the pygmies. Once burdened, each began his descent back into the chasm. Marula stood by, observing everything with an arrogant gaze. When the last slab had been strapped to a pygmy, they casually prodded him down the Ladder with their spears and followed.

  The Plainsmen looked miserable, even Krow. Seeing Kor among the sartlar, Carnelian wished he could decide what to do with her. A Maruli appeared beside them. The black giant waited until he had their eyes and then stabbed his spear towards the grotesque idol and made some sounds that might have been speech. He strode away then stopped, turning to beckon them, until, sullenly, Carnelian and the Plainsmen began to follow him.

  Osidian was waiting for them beneath the impaled man. On his left stood Morunasa with those Oracles who had not crossed to the island. Marula warriors formed a barbaric backdrop with their bead corselets and their ebony limbs. Shuffling
, uncertain, the Plainsmen stood before the Master. Carnelian saw with what cruel eyes he was surveying them. His gaze fell on Carnelian.

  ‘Come, my Lord,’ he said, indicating a place at his right hand.

  Carnelian felt he was betraying the Plainsmen, but dared not refuse. Under their eyes, he walked to where Osidian had pointed. It made him uncomfortable to be joining Osidian in standing judgement on them.

  Osidian turned to him. ‘Is there any matter that you might wish to convey to me?’ he asked in Quya, as if the two of them were alone.

  Carnelian brought his mind into focus. ‘Matter …?’ He saw Fern’s anxious face among the Plainsmen and found it hard not to glance at Ravan. He probed Osidian’s eyes, wondering what he could possibly know or guess, and was terrified his face might betray him again.

  At that moment a shriek tore the intolerably humid afternoon. An unhuman sound that set Carnelian’s teeth to chattering. He turned just enough to catch a view of the Isle of Flies, whose brooding darkness seemed to be pulsing. He registered the terror of the Marula.

  ‘My Lord?’

  The elegant Quya wrenched Carnelian’s eyes back.

  ‘Did you not hear my –?’

  Osidian was cut dead by another cry shrilling across the river. Carnelian felt something die in him.

  ‘They’re murdering …’ he said, lapsing into Vulgate.

  ‘An offering of blood to the Darkness-under-the-Trees,’ said Morunasa.

  Carnelian was caught in the Maruli’s amber eyes.

  ‘Our Lord’s hunger must be sated.’

  ‘I grow impatient, Carnelian, for your answer.’

  Carnelian regarded Osidian and Morunasa as if he were seeing them for the first time. The indifference in their eyes made them brothers. Under no circumstances would he hand over any Plainsman or sartlar to their mercy.

  ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

  Carnelian had to withstand Osidian’s emerald gaze for several moments before he turned it on the Plainsmen.

  ‘Stand forward those among you who understand Vulgate.’

  Fern, Ravan, Krow and others made it to the front. Many behind them were glancing towards the island in horror. Carnelian shared the agony of waiting for the next scream.