Carnelian pulled one of the purple cloaks from a pack and draped it over his head. Creeping from shadow to shadow, he searched the glowing dappled world for fresh fruit. His skin prickled. He felt the need to scratch himself everywhere. He made sure to look back every so often so as to know where he had left Osidian.
It was the red that drew him to the grove. A low wall ringed it. In many places its stones had tumbled into the weeds and were almost lost from view. Some of the trees had red flowers. He recognized the pomegranates nestling among the waxy green. He jumped the wall and, reaching up, felt the pregnant tautness of the fruit. He plucked one and then another and two more. Their skin was hard but it gave a little when he squeezed.
He returned with his treasures and woke Osidian. He cut one open and offered half of it to him.
Osidian frowned. ‘Where did you get these?’
Carnelian gestured vaguely.
‘The fruit here are bitter, poisonous.’
Carnelian looked at the pomegranate’s womb, melting with juicy rubies. He sniffed it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It is forbidden to eat from the trees outside the garden wall.’
‘As it was forbidden to eat the golden fruit?’
Osidian had to smile.
Carnelian looked into the moist jewelled fruit. He could not resist it. He scooped up some seeds, licked them off his fingers, sucked them free of pulp and spat them out. ‘Sweet nectar,’ he sighed.
Again, he offered Osidian the pomegranate half. ‘I sinned for you.’
Osidian’s eyes smouldered like emeralds hidden from the light. He took the pomegranate and slowly bit into its juicy heart.
Osidian awoke him when the shadow of the Sacred Wall had washed over them. He grinned. ‘Come on.’
The sky was a cooler blue. Carnelian walked into a clearing and looked back. The Pillar of Heaven was spouting its fiery wall into the sky. He turned to follow Osidian off through the trees.
The ground began to grow soft. He could feel the delicious moisture squeezing out under his feet. He saw a circle of plate-leafed water lily. At its centre a column thrust up from the water flaring into a pink trumpet. More lilies spread their carpet off into the lagoon. Between the shore and the first pad lay a narrow strip of dark water. He saw Osidian hesitating, then in one swift movement leap across. The ridged leaf buckled a little but held. Osidian turned to grin at him. ‘They still bear my weight. I was not sure, but they do.’ He leant over to grasp the flowering column and, holding on to this, walked round from pad to pad. He stepped onto another plant further into the lagoon. It was larger and held him more steadily.
Carnelian jumped across. His feet bent a leaf rib like a bow. He followed Osidian, stepping from one pad to the next, the flower stalks waving above his head with each step. Slowly they moved away from the shore. The air cooled delightfully. Up ahead he saw that Osidian had stopped. As he drew closer he saw that the boy was at the edge of the lily pad floor. Beyond, clear unrippled water mirrored the sky. Carnelian reached a pad next to Osidian, who was looking off to the distant Sacred Wall. Its upper edge was still glowing with the sun but its rays were too weak to taint even unpainted skin. Osidian turned to Carnelian.
‘You know, I have never even seen the world beyond that wall?’
Carnelian nodded.
Osidian’s eyes searched the Sacred Wall as if he were counting its coombs. ‘Even those I can see but never visit.’ His jade eyes fell again on Carnelian. ‘Is it not paradoxical that the Skymere should be more difficult to cross than your sea?’
Carnelian could think of no answer.
Osidian’s melancholy left him and he grinned. ‘I will teach you to swim.’
‘I already know how.’
Osidian looked puzzled, then smiled. ‘In the sea?’
‘Since I was a child.’
‘Last one in is a mud worm,’ cried Osidian.
Carnelian watched him as he began to tear off his clothes. For a moment, the flashes of Osidian’s cool white skin froze him, but then he yanked off his tunic. When he looked up, Osidian was standing on the pad edge, as naked as a bone spear. Laughing, he cast himself into the water and disappeared. Carnelian was left rocking on his leaf. He watched the ripples fade away and the smashed reflection re-form.
‘Osidian,’ he cried in alarm, then grinned as the edge of his leaf began folding into the water under the grip of ten white fingers. He tried to keep his balance, but he toppled, crying out, and the water slapped him cool in the face and he felt it envelop his body. He kicked around, found the surface, pushed up through it to gulp at air.
‘Mud worm,’ he heard, and then a hand on his head pushed him under. He struggled, feeling the vice around his chest, wriggled free, undulated away, opening his eyes and seeing the shadowy shapes, rose to the surface. He gasped air. His trousers clung to his legs. He searched and found the white head floating on the water, looking for him. He emptied his lungs, filled them, then went under. He swam strongly, peering until he found Osidian bright among the reeds. He rammed into his body, clasped it, yanked it downwards, caught the shoulders and, shoving, threw himself backwards onto the surface. He was rewarded by Osidian’s startled face erupting out of the water. Seeing Carnelian, Osidian laughed, then sank for another underwater attack. Soon they were wrestling in and out of the water, drinking it, spluttering, until Osidian lifted his hand and cried for a truce.
Carnelian dragged himself up onto a pad and helped Osidian onto the neighbouring one. They lay back over the ribs, still laughing, coughing.
‘Who is . . . a mud . . . worm,’ Carnelian managed to say and the pads trembled with their laughter.
Back on shore they hung Carnelian’s trousers up to dry. Carnelian was aware that he was noticing Osidian’s smooth body too much and hid his blushes in the twilight.
Osidian pointed. ‘You still carry vestiges of your paint.’
Carnelian looked down at his chest and could see a patch dulling the gleam of his skin. He looked up and saw that Osidian too looked like the moon passing behind tatters of cloud. He watched him walk away. His eyes slipped down his tensing and untensing back. Osidian had taint scars only on the father’s side. He watched him crouch over one of their packs. Could he be marumaga? No, he had a blood-ring. He watched Osidian rummaging. Perhaps his sybling brother carried their mother’s taint on his back. Carnelian decided it was time to ask Osidian who he was. He was coming back, a jar in one hand, a red lacquered box in the other.
‘What are those?’ Carnelian asked, his question ready, his heart quickening.
Osidian did not answer or look up until he was standing near enough for Carnelian to smell his body. This time he could not hide his blush even though he looked away. Osidian’s hand took his face and turned it back. Carnelian watched him kneel down, open the jar, open the box and bring out a pad. He dipped it in the jar and stood up with it. Carnelian looked at the pad held at the ends of his fingers. He looked into Osidian’s eyes. They swallowed him. He felt the pad moving towards his face. The sight of it freed him. He snatched Osidian’s wrist and held it firmly.
‘What’re you doing?’ he asked in Vulgate, his heart beating hard enough to make him shake.
‘Your skin – it’s still streaked with paint,’ Osidian replied in the same language, smiling tentatively through a frown.
Carnelian shook his head. ‘But . . . you can’t. Not you.’
‘I want to.’ Osidian brought up his other hand to release his wrist softly from Carnelian’s grip.
Carnelian let his arm drop. He closed his eyes and flinched as the cool pad touched his forehead. It slid first to one side and then to the other, each time moving further down. Carnelian opened his eyes. He watched Osidian’s careful concentration. He closed his eyes as the pad moved into the hollows of his eyes. He opened them again when it moved out over his swelling cheeks and the ridge of his nose. Sometimes, at the end of a stroke, their eyes would meet. Osidian’s would gently disengage and he would continue
with the cleaning. The pad slipped up and over Carnelian’s lip. It came back up and along the hollow between his chin and lower lip. It slid back finding the valley between his lips. Its pressure made them open so that he felt it brushing his teeth and could taste its bitterness. The pad moved away. Osidian came closer till his eyes were all that Carnelian could see: his warm breath all he could feel. He closed his eyes as their lips met and then Osidian’s tongue opened them further.
*
Afterwards they swam again in the night-black water, slipping like ripples until they found a little stream by its bright gushing. They clambered up over rocks and found a pool. The moon rose to show them the fish darting their silver. At first their attempts to catch them were all splashing, curses and laughter, but eventually they settled down to hunt them slowly, with guile, slipping their hands round them like spoons and scooping them out onto the shore where they beat their shapes into the mud. They took them back, gutted them and ate their flesh raw with more pomegranates and some of the sweet little hri cakes that Osidian had thought to bring.
That night was a wonder of stars. They had made a bed from rushes. Carnelian lay with Osidian in his arms. Osidian’s skin touched his all along his side. He moved his head so that he could feel Osidian’s breath on his cheek. He gloried in his smell and would have kissed him except that he did not want to disturb his sleep. He propped himself up on an elbow to feast his eyes on moonlight made flesh. Then he lay back, not wishing to drink too much joy. The next day it would be there for him, and the next, and a few days more, and then what? He tried not to think of it. The worry about his father was a dull ache. He clutched Osidian, who moaned and rolled away.
The morning woke them with glorious birdsong. The sun gleamed on the faraway curve of the Sacred Wall. Osidian’s kiss on Carnelian’s shoulder turned into a bite. Carnelian growled, Osidian ran away laughing to plunge into the lagoon. Carnelian gave chase, dived, came up shrieking from the water’s chill, but soon he was pursuing Osidian’s flash through the weedy shallows. They played like eels until they saw the fire of the day had reached the edge of the Yden.
They returned, rubbing the water from their skins. Carnelian stood quietly while Osidian painted him, kissing his hands whenever they came close enough. Afterwards he painted Osidian, caressing him with the brush, their eyes igniting passion.
When the sun grew tyrannous in the arch of the sky, they hid from it, leaning their smooth skin against the rugose bark of trees. Panting, eyes closed, half dreaming under canopying branches, limbs intertwining, they waited for the cooler afternoon.
As the shadows began to spear eastwards they stirred, trusting to their shielding paint. They took their bundles and ran, exploring the wilder thickets of the Yden. Pale creatures dressed only in the dappling shadows of leaves, they slipped through the steaming afternoon. Their eyes flashed like dragonflies as they searched out each new wonder. They cast covetous glances on pools and fingers of the flamingo lagoons in which they did not dare to swim lest it should strip away their paint. As the crater darkened they dared to swoop across the water meadows, using lily pads as stepping stones. Then, when the shadow of the Sacred Wall had washed its shadow over them, they slipped sighing into a pool, burying their flesh in its heavy folds, scrubbing each other free of paint, undulating through the waters that were so filled with fish they could feel their silver against their skin.
At night they ate the food that they had found as they had found it. Fire seemed a sacrilege. They cleaned each other as if it was something they had always done. They made love. They slept together with only the moonlight for a blanket.
The next day they made a raft, and hidden beneath an awning they improvised from their purple cloaks, they paddled among the stilted flamingos to explore the islands lying in the lagoons. On one of these they sheltered from the greatest heat of the day. All day long they heard the waft of birdcalls and the delicate sculling of water as the flocks fed. Stick legs crossed and recrossed like a passing of spears before the scintillating textures of the water.
In the early evening they ran across the mud waving their arms and sending a pink drift up to hide the sky so that they stopped, gaping at the colour and the rushing surge of it.
‘This must be what it’s like to receive Apotheosis,’ muttered Osidian.
Seeing the serious, fixed wonder of his face, Carnelian crept away and kicked water over him so that Osidian grew angry and chased him. They wrestled their patterns across the mud and, thrashing, rolled into the shallows. They rose panting, their laughter gashing white their muddy faces. The deepest pool they could find only came up to their waists. They washed each other. Osidian stopped Carnelian when he would have had more play. He seemed remote.
‘What’re you thinking?’ Carnelian said, as lightly as he could.
Osidian turned to him, as beautiful as a marble god. ‘This morning we used up the last of the paint. I didn’t expect that we’d stay down here so long.’
Carnelian gazed at him, aching with a longing to engulf him so intense it almost made him cry. Instead, he grinned outrageously and slapped the ridging of Osidian’s belly. ‘What of it? We’ll have to hide out the day in the shade. The night’ll still be ours.’
‘But how shall we return?’ Osidian turned to look back at the Pillar of Heaven, a thunderous mass against the mauve sky.
Carnelian looked at it, tried to see where the Halls of Thunder were, remembered his father with a pang. He had forgotten him and that his people would be expecting him back.
Osidian’s sombre looks stopped him passing it all off with a jest. It would have been hollow, anyway. They went back together, gouging the mud with their toes, so close that often their shoulders and elbows touched.
‘One more day?’ Carnelian asked at last.
Osidian looked sidelong at him, and gave the slightest of nods.
Carnelian sat up. Something had woken him. He stood up, cursed under his breath as he tottered waiting to see if he had woken Osidian. When there was no stirring at his feet, he ducked out from under the sheltering branches. A miraculous ceiling of stars dizzied him. The moon had set. The Pillar of Heaven was a hole cut out from half the sky. He was sure he could see some tiny flecks of light floating there near its top. He shook his head. It must be illusion. The Halls of Thunder were too far away. A sound. A faint, creaking sound. He turned to look across the Yden. Stars snared in its mirrors. Beyond, the pale, mountain wall stirred its reflection into the thick black Skymere. There it was again. A creaking and, perhaps, floating above it the tickle of faraway bells. He saw the lights. A necklace of tiny diamonds stretching across the crater’s black throat. He watched its creep make tiny sounds. People were moving along the Ydenrim.
Something brushed his arm. He cried out.
‘Hush,’ hissed the shadow, grabbing hold of him.
‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ said Carnelian, fitting his head into the space between Osidian’s neck and shoulder. He could feel Osidian’s heart beating through his stiff body. By the shape of his profile, Carnelian knew he was watching the lights. Another set had appeared, off to the south. ‘What are they?’ Carnelian whispered.
He waited and was going to repeat the question when Osidian said, ‘Processions of the Chosen.’ He had returned to Quya for the first time in days.
‘What does it mean?’
‘That we must return to the sky.’
Carnelian tried to get more out of him, unsuccessfully. He let him move away.
‘Let us grab what sleep we can before daybreak,’ said Osidian.
Carnelian felt a twinge of irritation. With his resumption of the Quya, Osidian was turning himself back into a stranger. Carnelian’s stomach knotted. Was he regretting their lovemaking? Carnelian followed him back. Crouching under the branches, he lay down, denying himself the desire to touch him. He lay for an age, miserable, bound on the rack of the worries he had put aside, until sleep released him into a fitful dream.
The SILENT HEART
Better a sword thrust
Than a wounding silence
(proverb – origin unknown)
REACHING OUT FOR OSIDIAN AND NOT FINDING HIM, CARNELIAN AWOKE. He sat up and saw through twigs and leaves the morning bright on the faraway Sacred Wall. The Skymere smiled its alluring blue. The waders stirred the glimmering lagoons.
He crept out from under the branches, stretching, delighting in the air’s warm caress. He looked for Osidian. The Pillar of Heaven was a slab of night auraed by the sun. From it came shadow that washed over him and out to narrow a dark road across the lagoons and the lake and up the Sacred Wall.
Osidian was nowhere to be seen. Carnelian followed a trail of footprints to the water’s edge. A few ripples creased the water’s silk. He waited for a head to surface. He dipped his foot. He walked in, delighting as the coolness came up his legs. He allowed his knees to fold and sank. He swam as languidly as the fish, enjoying the weight of water on his limbs. He came out when he saw Osidian coming down to the shore. He seemed unnatural clothed.
‘Have you bathed?’ Carnelian said, rubbing the water off his skin.
Osidian gave him a nod.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Carnelian used Vulgate in an attempt to coax Osidian back into intimacy.
‘The day ahead will be best met with you fully rested,’ Osidian replied, in Quya.
‘Kiss me,’ said Carnelian with a grin.
Osidian looked at him without emotion. He came closer, leaned towards him as if over a wall, touched a kiss to Carnelian’s cheek. Carnelian watched him stand back, feeling how closed Osidian was to him, how dry his kiss. ‘Is anything the matter?’
Osidian looked over his shoulder at the Pillar. ‘Without paint we must return always in its shadow. Though it will ebb slowly we must still allow time to gather fruit.’
Keeping in the Pillar’s shadow, they paddled across the lagoons, sometimes having to heave the raft over spits of mud. Eventually, the water began to crowd with water lilies. When they became dense enough to snare the raft, they abandoned it and wound off across the pads. The pools narrowed and clogged with reeds till they were mostly walking on land.
The Chosen (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 51