The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  ‘No doubt you all wish to return to your tribes in the mountains.’

  When all the interpreters save Fern nodded, Carnelian feared for him.

  ‘You don’t want to go, Fern?’

  When his friend did not flinch, Carnelian was proud of him, but fearful.

  ‘No, Master,’ Fern answered.

  ‘Have you then become so enamoured of this place?’

  Another animal cry bruised the air.

  Fern flinched with the other Plainsmen, then shook his head, slowly.

  ‘Perhaps then, it’s an attachment to myself that keeps you here? Or perhaps to another?’ said Osidian and, as he spoke, he turned his head a little towards Carnelian, who pretended not to understand the implication, for Fern’s sake.

  ‘Well, savage?’

  Carnelian could feel that his friend was struggling not to look at him.

  ‘Since you will not speak, you shall leave with the others.’

  As Fern let his gaze fall, Carnelian breathed his relief that it was not worse.

  Krow took a step forward, anxious. ‘Master, may I stay with you?’

  As Osidian regarded him, the youth’s face grew shiny with sweat. He ducked his thanks when the Master gave a nod.

  Osidian surveyed the Plainsmen. ‘You may return to the mountains to escort your tribes across the plain. Once they are safely in their koppies, I expect you back here. You understand me?’

  The would-be interpreters all nodded.

  Osidian made a loose gesture taking in the Plainsmen crowd. ‘Make sure everyone understands. Any man who does not return here shall have me for an enemy.’ He flung out a gesture of dismissal and was turning his back on them when a voice spoke out.

  ‘Shall we return empty-handed to our people?’ It was Ravan who had taken a pace forward.

  Osidian turned back and regarded the youth, his head at an angle. They examined each other. Carnelian was shocked to see that, even now, Ravan was hungry for Osidian to show him some token of love.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ Osidian asked, as if Ravan were a stranger.

  Carnelian saw tears of cold anger in the youth’s eyes and could not believe Osidian did not notice them.

  ‘Salt,’ said Ravan, as if he were hurling an insult.

  Osidian rolled his hand in the air even as he turned away. ‘Take as much as you want.’

  That easy concession served only to deepen Ravan’s misery. As the Plainsmen began to creep away, the youth lingered, glaring at Osidian’s back as if the pressure of his gaze might make him turn back to see him. Fearing for the youth’s life, Carnelian was on the verge of himself going to force him to leave when Fern reached out and, gently, turned his brother. Carnelian’s eyes meshed with Fern’s for a moment before he began guiding Ravan away, leaving Carnelian alone with Osidian and the Marula.

  Accompanied by Marula warriors, Carnelian followed Osidian, Morunasa and the other Oracles along the riverpath. Soon a procession of them was winding its way across the rocks.

  Osidian turned. ‘Will you come to the Isle of Flies with me, Carnelian?’

  ‘Why?’ Carnelian asked in horror.

  ‘To witness certain rituals.’

  At that moment another shriek of agony came from the island. Carnelian controlled an instinct to retch. Osidian seemed amused, then began to turn away.

  ‘What’s to happen here?’ Carnelian blurted out.

  Osidian turned back, frowning slightly. Carnelian bore his examination until Morunasa came up.

  ‘Master?’ he said, indicating the way across the rocks.

  ‘I shall follow on in a while,’ Osidian said without taking his eyes off Carnelian.

  Irritation distorted Morunasa’s face. ‘How will the Master find his way across?’

  ‘Easily.’

  Morunasa waited for more, and then he gave instructions to some of the warriors in their strange language before striding off after his fellows.

  Osidian’s gaze intensified. ‘How did you hope to profit from my assassination?’

  ‘By trying to rebuild what you have destroyed.’

  ‘You would have set yourself up in my place?’

  ‘I do not have your lust for power.’

  Osidian inclined his head. ‘I know who it was who conspired with you against me.’

  Carnelian tried to turn his face to ice.

  Osidian lifted a hand. ‘Nothing will happen to them unless they move against me.’ His eyes bored into Carnelian. ‘Be sure you understand that should they do so, I will be merciless.’

  Relief at this reprieve made Carnelian reckless. ‘Put me to death, then, for I have betrayed you more than once already.’

  Osidian’s laughter drove Carnelian into angry confusion. ‘If I had killed all those who betrayed me, there would have been few of the House of the Masks still living. This is a princely game we play, Carnelian, which we shall laugh about once we return to Osrakum.’

  ‘The day when I laugh at the memory of so much suffering will never come,’ said Carnelian, but this only served to make Osidian laugh again, so that Carnelian was left feeling foolish.

  Osidian grew suddenly serious. ‘I wish these plots against me to end. It is for this reason, my Lord, I shall deign to explain myself to you now.’

  He crouched and drew something in the dust.

  Carnelian stared at him, desiring to kill him there and then. The threat to his Plainsmen restrained him. Perhaps when they were safely away.

  Osidian looked up. ‘Shall I continue?’

  Carnelian crouched, making an effort to be interested in the diagram in the dust. ‘A serpent?’

  ‘In a way; it is a serpent which I am holding by the tail.’

  Carnelian looked at the loops writhing through the dust. Osidian pointed at it. ‘This is their Lower Reach: a sluggish river meandering through a land of mud, hemmed in by jungle; choking, decaying …’ Osidian looked into Carnelian’s eyes. ‘They fear its glooms above all else.’ With his chin he indicated the Isle of Flies. ‘They believe they have trapped their god in there. He is the Darkness-under-the-Trees which they appease by feeding the blood and souls of men.’

  Carnelian knew enough to fear the malignant presence there.

  ‘They push the jungle back a little way from the river and, there, cultivate fields which are the source of abundant sustenance.’

  ‘They are farmers then?’ Carnelian asked.

  ‘Warriors.’ And in response to Carnelian’s look of incomprehension, ‘They lure the pygmies out of the jungle, they bribe them, or buy them as slaves from their own kind.’

  ‘With salt,’ Carnelian said, understanding.

  Osidian nodded. ‘With salt.’

  ‘Do they get this from the sea?’ Carnelian asked, already guessing the answer.

  ‘They know almost nothing of the sea.’

  ‘Then it all comes from here.’

  Osidian gave a nod.

  ‘But they cannot have had any salt for two years.’

  ‘More than three.’

  Carnelian had a sickening realization. ‘Then they must be in chaos.’

  Osidian looked into space and his eyes narrowed. ‘Plague, war and famine consume them. The pygmies have melted back into the jungle. The fields lie untilled.’

  Carnelian half-covered his face with a hand. ‘They couldn’t send another expedition?’

  Osidian nodded.

  ‘Which is why Morunasa took the risk of bringing us here.’

  ‘And slew his masters who opposed him.’

  ‘So if I had not repaired the Ladder –’

  Osidian smiled. ‘I would most likely have died down there.’

  The enormity of his mistake overwhelmed Carnelian.

  ‘My life hung on your curiosity. I judged that seeing the saltcaves, you would imagine they were the whole purpose of my coming here.’

  Carnelian looked round at the Marula. ‘These were what you sought.’

  ‘And many more like them.
I need them to enforce my rule.’ He opened a hand. ‘Of course, given time, I could have welded the Plainsmen into the weapon I need, but I fear the Wise will not be so obliging.’

  Carnelian saw in his mind the war Osidian was planning to bring down into the Earthsky. He shook his head free of it and looked around.

  ‘So, whoever holds this Upper Reach is master of all the Marula.’

  ‘Perhaps even their god.’

  Carnelian was chilled by Osidian’s smile. ‘But by letting them come up the Ladder … Once the Plainsmen are gone …?’

  Osidian frowned. ‘There is more you must learn before you can have full understanding. The Marula are not one people undivided.’ He rolled his hand in the air. ‘Morunasa says there are nine tribes, each ruled by a prince. These princes have for generations been vassals to the Oracles, who have ruled all the river from here with salt and the terror of their god. With Morunasa’s aid, I have made an alliance with one of these princes. The warriors we brought with us and more that he shall send me I have bought from him with salt.’

  ‘But surely, now that he allies himself with you he will be destroyed by the others?’

  ‘So he himself said,’ Osidian smiled. ‘But consider the tesserae a moment and see if you do not see another mosaic emerging.’

  Carnelian sunk his head and thought about it, but could see nothing but the fragments. ‘I do not comprehend what is to stop the others attacking him.’

  Osidian smiled indulgently. ‘They will not do so because I have commanded them to refrain.’

  Carnelian stared at him. ‘Why should they obey …’ The mosaic formed in his mind. ‘Of course.’ He looked at Osidian appalled, but with grudging admiration. ‘You threaten to destroy the Ladder.’

  Osidian rewarded him with a long slow nod.

  ‘But if his warriors are here, what is to stop this prince usurping the position of power you now occupy?’

  ‘There are many reasons. For one, if he did so, his peers would not believe he had the power to cut the Ladder.’

  ‘Because he would be destroying himself?’

  ‘That too, but to effect that, he would have to use his own people. Even if he had the desire to destroy his own world, do you think it likely his subjects would help him?’

  Carnelian looked off towards the dark island, then brought his gaze back to Osidian. ‘And what he gets from you is salt?’

  ‘My position here ensures he can safely defy the power of the other princes. With the salt I shall send down to him, he will become saviour and overlord of the Lower Reach.’

  ‘But surely then he would be free to turn on you.’

  Osidian smiled again. ‘I did say I had a serpent by the tail.’

  Carnelian saw how it might all work. ‘This is a desperate gamble.’ Osidian shrugged. ‘I believe I can maintain the delicate balance of the forces.’

  ‘And the Oracles?’

  Brooding claimed Osidian. ‘That is a darker matter. In some ways, they are very much like the Wise. For the moment, I have appeased them by giving them back their sacred grove, but they could yet become a foe more dangerous than the princes of the Lower Reach. It is always those who are accustomed to rule that one must fear the most.’

  ‘And what of Morunasa?’

  ‘That one has ambitions to return power to the Oracles and that only I can give him, which is why, you see, you must take care I should not die.’

  Carnelian saw now why Osidian had bothered to explain it all to him.

  Osidian raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you imagine the Oracles could allow the knowledge of this place to become widespread across the Earthsky? If the Plainsmen did not take it from them, the Commonwealth would. They would destroy the whole Earthsky rather than let that happen.’

  Carnelian lost hope, seeing how tightly woven was Osidian’s net.

  ‘And the Ochre?’

  ‘As long as they remain obedient, they shall be safe.’

  ‘Let me return to the Koppie to make sure.’

  Osidian laughed. ‘Oh no, Carnelian. You will stay here and rule in my place.’

  ‘While you conquer the tribes?’

  Osidian smiled. ‘You see how we are in perfect understanding.’

  ‘Will you sleep among the Plainsmen tonight?’ Osidian shook his head. ‘Among my Marula.’

  He rose and Carnelian followed him. Carnelian watched him walk away, the Marula warriors in his wake. As he began crossing the river, they remained behind. Carnelian watched him for a while and then, weary and demoralized, he turned his face towards the knoll and the Plainsmen.

  *

  Carnelian found Fern in the camp and drew him aside to talk to him.

  ‘The Master knows we intended to kill him.’ Fern paled.

  ‘You’re safe unless you move against him.’

  ‘Ravan too?’ asked Fern.

  ‘The Master seemed unaware of him, but we should keep them apart.’

  Carnelian saw Fern was looking down to where the Marula had made a camp around the anchor baobabs. He turned to look at Carnelian. ‘Are more of them coming up?’

  Carnelian gave a nod.

  ‘The Master intends to use them against the tribes, doesn’t he?’

  ‘They are more dependent on him than are the Plainsmen.’

  Fern’s gaze fell once more upon the Marula camp. ‘We must attack them while we still can.’

  Carnelian took hold of Fern’s shoulder and pulled him round.

  ‘Shall we do it now when they will see us coming or shall we wait until darkness when the Master will be with them and hope he does us the favour of not setting a watch?’

  Fern backed away from Carnelian, upset. ‘Why can’t we surprise them at night as you did at the koppie of the Darkcloud?’ And when Carnelian gave no response, ‘Would you have us help him lead us all into ruin?’

  Carnelian frowned. ‘The best we can do now is pray that a chink opens in his armour that will allow us to strike.’

  ‘And what if that never happens?’ Carnelian had no answer to that.

  ‘My brother was right,’ said Fern, bitterly. ‘We should have destroyed the Ladder and taken our chances in the Earthsky when the Master came at us with Marula.’

  Carnelian did not want to reveal how right Ravan had been. If Fern knew what chaos the Lower Reach was in, it might encourage him to go through with the ruinous attack on the Marula. The failure would be bad enough; far worse would be Osidian’s reprisals.

  Fern looked at Carnelian with pleading eyes. ‘We must do something, Carnie.’

  ‘We can stay alive. As long as we live, there is hope.’

  Fern became suddenly weary. ‘At least tomorrow we’ll be leaving this accursed place.’

  Something about Carnelian’s silence made Fern regard him with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re staying behind.’

  Carnelian had to nod. ‘He wants me here.’

  Fern’s eyes grew fierce. ‘Then I’ll stay with you.’

  ‘No. You must go. Together we are a danger to each other: apart we will still have a chance.’

  The screaming from the Isle of Flies made it impossible to sleep. Intermittently, it would come trembling through the blackness. Each stuttering, tortured sound forced Carnelian to imagine what was being done on the island. The silence following was almost worse; a long suspense of waiting for the next scream. Pressing his hands to his ears made no difference. He rose and paced about. Others were suffering too, with moans, turning, sitting up. Someone stirred a fire to blazing life. Carnelian huddled round it with others seeking blind oblivion in the flames. Attempts were made to tell stories, but it was impossible to listen to anything other than the cries.

  ‘Accursed,’ groaned Fern.

  Ravan turned on Krow. ‘Do you still adore your precious Master?’

  Krow drew his knees more tightly to his chest.

  Ravan turned his rage on Carnelian and Fern. ‘If you’d listened to me, none of this would have happened.’

  Carnelian f
elt ashamed. There was a wild look in Fern’s eyes he could not bear. He sank his head between his knees as he had done in the funeral urn, pressing them hard against his ears, trying not to hear his inner voice telling him that all this was his doing.

  Eyes kept turning from the fire to peer past the utter blackness of the island, yearning for dawn. Ravan was the first to see the trail of light snaking across the river to the shore. Soon everyone was staring, possessed by the fear that the Oracles were coming for them.

  ‘They’re … they’re on the riverpath,’ said Ravan.

  Men were rising all around him and Carnelian joined them.

  ‘Let’s go now,’ someone pleaded. ‘Let’s not wait for morning.’

  ‘We’d lose our way in the darkness,’ said Fern.

  ‘Our spears …’ said a voice edging on hysteria.

  Sparks began appearing at the corner of the baobab forest. As more and more torches came from the riverpath, their glow became bright enough to cast monstrous shadows from the trees towards the knoll.

  ‘The impaled man,’ groaned Ravan.

  They watched tall shapes weave in among the torches and then the screaming began again, but this time it was nearby, coming from the heart of the torchlight. That close, the Plainsmen could hear every ragged note. Some began to whimper. Horror gripped Carnelian’s mind. The shrieking took on a panting, shrill, animal sound and they saw, lit from below, something twitching being hoisted up. Then one by one the torches snuffed out, leaving the animal noises to carry from the thing they had lifted aloft.

  Men around Carnelian were crying. ‘Make it stop,’ someone prayed. ‘Dear Father, make it stop.’

  Carnelian snatched a spear and ran down the knoll towards the sounds. As he drew nearer, his legs weakened so that he had to slow to a walk. He felt each shriek like a cut. Coming nearer he fought for the courage to raise his eyes. Against the stars he saw a man impaled, his transfixed body shaking, his head beating against the tip of the idol’s tongue erupting from his shoulder.

  Quickly, Carnelian blinked his eyes clear, trembled the spear blade over the thin and quivering chest and, praying it should find the man’s heart, he thrust. The blade caught and, snarling, he twisted it hard through the ribs. The impaled man let out a hacking sigh and then, silence.