The Chosen (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon)

by Ricardo Pinto

  ‘Read it,’ said Osidian.

  Carnelian used his toe to feel around the shape. ‘A face . . . a horned-ring above . . . a circle below . . . bisected thus a sky glyph, thus Sky God.’ He returned to feel the face. Its eyes were closed, its mouth open. ‘Blowing,’ he said. ‘It reads as, wind?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Osidian, his voice fading into the blackness.

  Carnelian followed the wind glyph trail blindly through the library. For a while he had been hearing a whistling up ahead. He bumped into Osidian who gave a groan.

  ‘Hide your face deep in your cowl.’

  Carnelian was doing so when a smudging brightness opened in front of them. As he stumbled after Osidian, a gale took hold of his cloak. Carnelian squinted both ways. They were standing near the edge of a ravine. On its further side a smooth heart-stone wall rose up into blackness. Sky light flowed in from the right, where the ravine turned a corner. Left, it narrowed off to a ragged eye-aching blue hole. Here and there narrow bridges arched the drop.

  With his hand, Carnelian clamped his cowl onto his head. ‘What is this?’

  ‘The Windmoat,’ cried Osidian and turned into the blast.

  They strode leaning into the wind. On their left the stone was as pierced as a sieve. Lights blinked through the holes as they walked past. A murmur came through as if from a crowd at prayer. Carnelian paused to glue an eye to one of the holes and saw a tunnel running off into the distance. All the way down one side it was peopled from floor to ceiling with squatting, tallow-faced ammonites. He found the angle to see the tunnel’s other side. Stone sloped up to a ledge on which something was sitting in a chair. He could make out a voice, a homunculus, droning, ‘Compare cords twenty-five to thirty, Ba-Ta process result spindle for five computations . . .’ He pushed his cheek into the stone, trying to see more. The mummified face of its Sapient master hung above the homunculus, his fingers operating its throat.

  Osidian pulled him away.

  ‘What . . .?’ Carnelian said, pointing at the fretted wall.

  Ammonite arrays, signed Osidian’s hand. Calculating the approach of the Rains.

  They passed one of the bridges, a simple arch without a parapet only wide enough for a single man. It crossed over to a postern gate sunk deep into the heart-stone wall. Carnelian glanced up and saw, high above the gate, a few isolated holes that might have been windows. It was like a fortress or a prison.

  He pulled Osidian’s sleeve. He pointed at the gate. Where does that go? he signed.

  The forbidden house.

  Carnelian stared up at the windows and then pulled his cowl down and held it tight over his face by pressing his chin into his chest. He had a silly fear that Ykoriana might be up there looking down.

  They went along the ravine edge as it widened to sky. Carnelian glimpsed the blue spread of the crater and then he saw Osidian had found some cracked ledges that led down into the ravine and begun to descend. Carnelian peered down to where its sheer edges were snagging morning light. For the first time he considered the reality of where they were going. He remembered the long climb of the Rainbow Stair, and that Osidian had described this Ladder as being harrowing. He shrugged. There was no turning back now. Chewing his lip, Carnelian started down the precarious steps.

  *

  The ravine squeezed down to a narrow cleft. The steps continued out through its end seemingly into the sky. Osidian had wedged himself between the walls. His cloak flapped desperately in the wind as he scrunched it into a ball and trapped it between the small of his back and the rock. He swung his pack round into his embrace and inserted his hand into it. He looked away with narrowed eyes as he rummaged. With a triumphant grin, he brought forth a jar that he gave to Carnelian, who could only look at it. Osidian fished out another. Carnelian watched his friend open the jar then pull up the corner of his robe and run it round inside. It came out white and oily. Osidian bent his knee to bring his foot towards him, leaned over and began to rub it with the paint. After a few strokes he looked up, holding his foot with one hand, the robe’s whitened corner with the other.

  ‘Are you just going to stand there watching?’ he cried over the wind.

  ‘Are we going barefoot?’ Carnelian accented his words with gesture.

  ‘Naked feet provide suction as well as a sensitivity to the movements in the rock.’ Osidian resumed the daubing of his feet.

  Carnelian wriggled himself into a stable position. Tentatively, he lifted one foot and kneaded his toes, rubbing dust from between them. ‘And the paint?’ he shouted.

  ‘It will not come off. It will protect the paleness of your feet.’

  Carnelian dipped a corner of his robe into his jar and rubbed some on. The paint reeked of turpentine. It was sticky and gleaned coldness from the wind. He began to apply it over his foot up to the ankle.

  ‘Take it higher, at least up to your knees.’ Osidian hoisted the skirt of his robe. His long strong legs were so white they made the paint seem yellow.

  When his feet were done, Carnelian began to spread the stuff up his legs.

  ‘It is only paint,’ cried Osidian, grinning. ‘By your face one would think it was dung.’ He made a lunge with the corner of his robe. Carnelian grazed his arm trying to dodge it, but it landed anyway. ‘You had missed a bit,’ said Osidian. ‘Now do the soles.’ He folded his feet up one at a time as he painted them. When each was done he waved it in the wind to dry.

  ‘You look ridiculous.’

  Osidian’s eyebrows rose, making Carnelian look at himself. They both laughed. Osidian touched his foot gingerly to the floor as if he feared the paint might glue him to the rock. When he was standing firmly on both feet, he began to wriggle out of his robes.

  Carnelian stared in amazement as Osidian pulled layer after layer over his head and pushed them under his feet. The last two robes were merely a mist concealing his body. Soon, he was dazzling, naked against the rock. Carnelian looked away.

  ‘You too,’ cried Osidian, through chattering teeth.

  Carnelian tried to turn his back on him but the effort threatened to tumble him into the crack of the ravine. He cursed as he began to struggle out of his robes. He winced when his elbow struck rock. ‘Is this really necessary?’ he cried.

  Osidian jabbed a finger out towards the sky. ‘Out there, these robes would make us kites.’

  ‘Could you not have found a better place to change?’

  ‘Would my Lord prefer to expose himself above to the eyes of the forbidden house?’

  Carnelian grumbled. He turned when he was wearing only a single robe. It was almost transparent. He could see his pimpled legs and the dull, discolouring paint. ‘It is cold. Perhaps I should keep this on.’

  Osidian made a face at him. ‘I promise you that feeling the cold will be the least of your problems. Take it off.’

  Carnelian pulled the last robe over his head. Osidian was looking at him. Carnelian blushed. Osidian pulled neatly folded bundles out of his pack and threw them at Carnelian. They turned out to be a padded tunic and close-fitting trousers. He put them on as quickly as he could. ‘This is hardly the attire of the Chosen.’

  Osidian flashed a smile and then shouldered the pack.

  They stepped out of the ravine into a blinding churn of wind and sun. Carnelian clung to its cracked lip until he could see again. He clung harder when he realized how narrow was the shelf they stood on. Beyond was a world of air remotely floored by the turquoises of the crater. The ground was impossibly far away. His fingers tried to force their way into the rock to anchor him.

  ‘How long will it take us to go down?’ he shouted, stunned. He looked up when there was no answer. Osidian was standing away from the rock leaning into the wind with his back to him, his head up and very still. Carnelian released his hold and carefully moved to his side. The wind roared in his ears. Osidian looked so solid that he had to fight a desire to grab hold of him. Osidian’s eyes were piercing the south-west. Carnelian shaded his eyes and squinted. Dazzling blu
e sparked off to a dip in the Sacred Wall. Above, the pearl sky tainted darker.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Carnelian, swallowing wind.

  ‘Rain,’ cried Osidian, not looking round.

  Carnelian looked again. It made him remember his father organizing the Rebirth. What if his father had need of him? He put the thought out of his head. He had made his decision.

  Osidian was saying something. Carnelian turned and saw him mouthing sounds. He shook his head and pointed to his ears. Osidian took him by the shoulders and leaned in towards him. ‘Do not worry. We have time.’ Carnelian felt Osidian’s lips brush his face and was aware of the hands gripping his shoulders. ‘It is still more than ten days away,’ said Osidian in his ear.

  As he was released, Carnelian put his hand up to stop the warmth of Osidian’s breath from escaping. Slowly he relaxed the tension in his other hand and, daring to trust to the wind, braced himself against it to look down. He mastered his terror of that airy gulf. He was more determined than ever to follow Osidian down, whatever the consequences.

  The steps were cracked, treacherous with scree, an uneven, narrow flight ablaze in the sun. On one side rose a chaotically jointed wall of slabs. On the other, a vision of falling. It was a height vast enough to daunt a hawk.

  Carnelian felt Osidian looking at him and saw that he was frowning. We had better go back, he signed. The wind is too violent.

  I do not fear, signed Carnelian, with shaky hands.

  You are still weak from the sky sickness.

  That was days ago.

  The wind, the sun—

  I am fine, chopped Carnelian. He pointed at the steps. I will go first. I do not want to take you with me if I fall.

  Try not to be a fool, flashed Osidian’s hand. Do you know the way? He stormed off down the steps.

  Carnelian watched nervously, terrified that he had stung Osidian into a perilous anger. But then he observed how carefully his heels were finding the angles in the steps and he decided that he would do better to worry about himself.

  Carnelian was already struggling with the steps when they came to the first ladder. Osidian crouched on the edge. Carnelian snatched at him as he slipped over and out of sight. He leaned out with cold fear expecting to see him falling and saw instead Osidian’s face grinning up at him. Carnelian’s eyes lost their focus on that face. It became a speck in limitless blue. Carnelian wobbled, cracked to his knees. Clutching the edge made him feel that he was pivoting on his wrists, into flight. The vertigo would not even allow him to close his eyes.

  ‘Carnelian.’ His name cried by the wind. He took a deep breath and managed to wrench his eyes back into focus. Osidian was already some way down wedged into a crack like a lizard. His mouth was moving. Carnelian caught only the merest scratches of words. He shook his head then gaped as Osidian released a hand to sign. Carnelian slapped the rock repeatedly until Osidian resumed his hold. Osidian grinned then grew concerned.

  Carnelian scowled at him. I see the handholds, he jerked with his fingers. Osidian shook a puzzled face. Carnelian repeated the signs more slowly, sketching them larger, then added, You go down first, I will follow.

  He ducked back and crammed his body into a cleft that was furthest from the edge. Eyes closed, he pressed his head back against the rock until it hurt. He rasped breaths in and out, his heart rattling his chest. At last he forced his eyes open. The cold wind on them made him blink. He looked up the steps, yearning to go back. In front of him was the terrifying edge. Sky brink.

  ‘Gods’ blood,’ he grumbled. ‘Gods’ flaming, fiery blood.’

  Osidian was down there. What would he think of him? He was behaving slavishly. Jerking his head, spitting curses, Carnelian scraped his way on hands and knees to the edge. For a moment he saw nothing but a whirling drop. Then his eyes focused on a tiny shape floating on the air below. A bird, not Osidian falling. Carnelian felt he was tying his friend to safety by making his eyes follow the line of the ladder down. Osidian was waving.

  Before the terror could overpower him, Carnelian turned and let himself over the edge, feeling the sheer face with a desperate foot. It found a crack. He wriggled his toes into it as if it were a shoe. He released some of his weight on to it to allow his other foot to feel down. He touched another fissure like the corner of a mouth. He slipped it in. Slowly he trusted his weight to the cracks. He felt for the next one and saw another near his face. Slowly, one hold at a time, he descended, always pressing his cheek against the cracked stone, never looking down. He stiffened when he felt Osidian’s hands on him.

  ‘It is very hard, the first time.’

  Carnelian could only growl at him.

  It was as if his life had become trapped in a falling dream. Ledges led to flights of steps, then handhold ladders, then to more steps, in an unending, gruelling succession. They had been cursed like serpents to squeeze along on their bellies with the sun always burning its stare into their backs. Carnelian’s longing for the next rest stop was like a thirsty man’s for water. But, every time they stopped, he found the waiting for the next leg a torture and would hurry Osidian on. Here and there a cave had been cut back into the jointing between two slabs. He feared their coolness more than anything else. Each time they crammed in, he was not sure he would find the courage to come back out.

  ‘Halfway . . . down . . .’ said Osidian, panting.

  Carnelian fanned himself. He tried to loosen the tension in his throat enough to speak. ‘Have you . . . done this . . . many times before?’

  Osidian lifted his hand up to perhaps the height of a man’s waist. ‘Since I was that tall.’

  Carnelian gaped. ‘You dared . . . as a child? Who . . . showed you the way?’

  ‘I found it for myself,’ Osidian’s eyes were sun through leaves, ‘and always, before, alone.’ He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the rock.

  Carnelian smiled at the compliment. His eye traced the curve of Osidian’s throat up to his chin, over his lips up to the beautiful jutting of his nose. In the gloom his birthmark was like an open eye.

  The sun was rifling down its rays, wilting Carnelian with the onslaught. He craved release from his tunic, lusting after the wind’s cold caress. But he did not even loosen it, fearing for his skin.

  His head and shoulders cooled. He looked up, through his fingers, expecting to see some cloud momentarily blinding the sun. Instead, the burning eye was impaling itself on the Pillar’s black spear. As Carnelian watched, the sun melted away till there was only a smouldering rind, then that too went out and the Pillar was holding up a smooth blue sky.

  ‘Look,’ cried Osidian below him.

  Clinging hard, Carnelian dared to look down the Pillar’s craggy narrowing plunge into the ground. Its shadow was beginning to creep out over the Yden. He closed his eyes, hugged the rock, rejoicing at their deliverance from the burning tyranny of the sun.

  His rejoicing was short-lived. The wind blowing up from the Yden abated until it became a gentle breeze. It grew steadily colder until he was pressing himself against the rock to suck up what he could of its fading heat.

  Down they climbed and ever down, the passage of time measured by the Pillar’s shadow-creep over the Yden.

  Carnelian felt it coming like a tidal wave. He looked south and saw the black horn of its crescent. He stopped for a moment watching as shadow engulfed the Sacred Wall, a coomb at a time.

  Osidian came scrabbling up towards him. ‘I have miscalculated.’ His eyes squeezed almost closed with each pant. He shook his head, swallowed. ‘We will not make the Yden.’

  Carnelian looked down. The Yden had become an immense garment of trees. Its air clung to him like sweat. Its further edge tattered into glimmering emerald water that was eventually hemmed by Skymere blue. Strange buildings were sewn here and there like buttons. It did not seem that far away.

  ‘It is,’ said Osidian, as if he had heard his thoughts. He looked up, judging whether they could make the climb back to the last cave.

&n
bsp; ‘There must be some place further down,’ said Carnelian.

  Osidian made a face. ‘There is, but it will not be to your taste.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Osidian shook his head. ‘There is no time for discussion. You will see.’ In the east, the Pillar shadow was already fumbling at the Sacred Wall. ‘If we do not get to where we are going before nightfall, we shall either have to spend the night here,’ he indicated the windswept wall of stone, ‘or risk stumbling down, blind.’

  They hurried on, Osidian leading them down into the thickening humid air. The shadow of the Sacred Wall washed over them and began rippling off towards the east. It seemed no time at all before it had covered the Yden and was pouring its ink into the lake. Carnelian reached the bottom of one long ladder to see the shadow lapping against the faraway wall, then fill the crater up to the very brim with darkness. All the light they had then came from the sky. As flames engulfed it, Carnelian began to notice movements out of the corner of his eye. Monstrous shapes lurked here and there in the crevicing Pillar rock. He saw a pickaxe head lifting and, hearing a flapping, turned to see enormous bat-wings opening and folding back.

  He caught up with Osidian and grabbed his arm.

  ‘Gods’ blood,’ cried Osidian.

  The air rustled and squealed. The monsters shifted round them. Carnelian came to a halt as Osidian hugged him back against the stone.

  ‘If we raise them they might knock us off the Ladder,’ Osidian hissed in his ear.

  ‘What . . .?’

  ‘A sky-saurian roost.’

  Carnelian scrunched up his nose. ‘It stinks of fish.’

  ‘Just be glad there are no saurians nesting in here,’ snapped Osidian.

  ‘Ugh!’ grimaced Carnelian. The floor was oozing, sticky.

  Osidian’s hand grabbed his arm and dragged Carnelian after him, deeper into the cave.

  ‘Do you have a light?’ asked Carnelian, wincing at each moist footfall. There was no answer. ‘I said, do you—’

  ‘I have not grown suddenly deaf. The answer is no.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I did not think we would need it. We could have brought a bed as well, if I had thought of it, but perhaps my Lord might have also complained at having to carry that down the Ladder.’