Fern indicated a place beside him. Carnelian hesitated, but then sat beside the Plainsman, hunching to alleviate the ache in his back. A nudge made him lift his head to find Fern offering him what appeared to be a bale of rope and a flint knife. Carnelian took one in each hand. The rope was heavier than he had expected. He brought it closer and curled his nose up at its odour.
‘Djada,’ Fern whispered into his ear.
Carnelian saw the youth beside him waiting expectantly. He pulled a length of the slimy rope through his fingers and cut off a piece then offered the rope and knife. The youth showed him he had his own blade, but took the rope. Carnelian turned to return the flint to Fern, but the Plainsman was staring at the ground, chewing. Carnelian put the knife down in front of him and, overcoming his disgust, he bit off a chunk from his djada. As he began to chew, he found it was, as he expected, the same dried meat he had been eating for days. It did not taste as bad as it smelled.
Continuing to soften the meat in his mouth, he watched the coil being handed round. Ranegale, his eye fixed balefully on Fern, lifted his finger in accusation but Cloud, looking at Carnelian, spoke first.
‘This one here read the name of my tribe from my hand.’
Ranegale turned his anger on Cloud. ‘The hands of the corpses could’ve been cut off.’
Fern glowered. ‘They’re my kin.’
Ranegale flung his head back in exasperation.
‘There was no time to cut anything,’ said Cloud.
‘But the sacrilege –’
‘Whatever harm might come to us from that, perhaps we’ve suffered it already.’ The Elder glanced sadly in the direction where he knew the three corpses lay.
‘And the Standing Dead?’ asked Ranegale, forming ears with his hands.
‘Remember it was this one,’ Fern indicated Carnelian with his chin, ‘who warned me of the tattoos.’
Ranegale began a protest, but Fern waved him down, speaking quickly. ‘Do none of you see any significance in the way they came to us?’
Carnelian shared the general incomprehension.
Fern looked each of the men in the eyes. ‘We’ve never asked how it came about that we should find two of the Standing Dead as slaves among sartlar and painted black.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ said Cloud.
‘When are men’s bodies made wholly black, my father?’
Cloud shrugged. ‘When they are dead.’
Fern’s eyes caught a reflection of faraway lightning. ‘Exactly.’
‘But they weren’t dead,’ said Ravan.
‘What are you trying to tell us, Fern?’ Cloud asked softly.
Fern ran his hand down over his curls plastered flat by the rain. His eyebrows rose. ‘I’m not really sure.’
Ranegale let his hands fall and gave a snort. ‘I think he’s trying to tell us he believes it was the Skyfather who sent the Standing Dead to us.’
A shiver ran up Carnelian’s spine. Though the Masters used red for mourning and green for resurrection, their Black God in his many aspects was lord of the sky, but also, death.
‘Is that what you mean?’ Cloud asked Fern.
Fern seemed an uncertain child as he looked at Cloud. ‘I suppose so, my father.’
‘Because of the bitumen on their bodies?’
‘And one of them bears a mark.’ Fern stood up and walked through the youths to where Osidian was lying. As Cloud and then Ranegale and Loskai followed him, Carnelian resisted the temptation to join them. Instead, he craned round to watch them leaning over Osidian. Ravan had taken a few steps towards them.
‘Look at his forehead,’ Fern was saying.
Cloud straightened and looked at Fern. ‘The mark is in his skin?’
‘However hard I rubbed, it wouldn’t come off.’
‘It looks like an eye,’ said Loskai.
‘More like the mark that might have been left by lips,’ said Fern.
‘So you’re claiming he was kissed by a black man?’ sneered Ranegale. ‘Did you kiss him yourself, Fern?’ His voice seemed very thin in Carnelian’s ears as they recovered from a thunderclap. He was remembering that Osidian had once told him the Wise believed his birthmark a sign put there by the Black God.
Fern’s stiff posture betrayed his anger. ‘If I had kissed him, do you think it likely my lips would’ve left a permanent mark?’
Cloud spoke gazing down at Osidian. ‘You think he’s been chosen by the Skyfather?’
‘Chosen for what?’ exploded Ranegale. ‘Has the rain soaked into everyone’s head? Can’t you tell this is his grief talking? He’s desperate to find a reason why his kin’s all dead and so he fixes on this business; this possessed notion that the Skyfather descended from on high to plant a kiss on the forehead of this one.’
‘What about the bitumen?’ offered Loskai.
Ranegale turned on him. ‘High Father, not you too!’
Loskai retreated behind a blank expression.
Carnelian noticed how the youths huddled together; how they trembled with each thunderclap. Ravan returned, deep in thought. Carnelian gave him a smile and was pleased when it was returned. He looked down at the knife. Was the Black God behind the disaster that had befallen them both? It seemed inconceivable the God should have delivered Osidian into the hands of barbarians and yet, there were the signs. It gave Carnelian hope he had made the right decision in seeking refuge among the Ochre but he could not rid himself of foreboding. The Black God was also the Lord of Strife and War.
As the men filed back, lightning flashed the valley into jagged relief. Ranegale as he sat down looked round him gauging the general mood.
‘A great blessing this gift from the Skyfather’s been so far.’
‘I believe the decision whether or not to kill them should be left to the Elders,’ said Fern.
Ranegale looked at Cloud. ‘Even though you’re no longer Ochre, you are an Elder, my father. If you chose to make the decision now we could rid ourselves of the burden of these Standing Dead.’
Ravan, Krow and many of the others were clearly anxious to see what Cloud would decide.
The Elder shook his head apologetically. ‘I won’t make this decision on behalf of your tribe. Besides, should we be considering anything that might turn the Skyfather even more against us?’
The sky rumbled as if in agreement and Carnelian saw everyone but Ranegale nodding. He gave a snort. ‘Well, everyone here will stand witness to my counsel. Let’s hope, Father Cloud, we don’t have cause to regret your inability to make a decision.’
Lightning flared revealing stark shadows in the raiders’ faces. The thunder that followed shook the very rocks upon which they sat and the rain redoubled its downpour.
‘How are we going to get home?’ Ravan asked over the hiss.
Only the storm answered him, but in the next flash, all could clearly see Ranegale was peering in the direction where the ravine cut down out of sight.
‘Down there?’ cried Ravan.
‘The swamps?’ said Loskai, aghast.
Carnelian listened to the stream gurgling into the throat of the ravine.
‘If we go down there,’ said Ravan, ‘we might as well give up any hope of seeing our hearths again.’
The fear in his voice spread to Carnelian, who sensed a general unease.
‘How do we know there’s even a way down?’ asked Loskai.
‘The gate in the Ringwall proves there must be,’ said Ranegale. ‘Besides, the gradient of the ravine and the distance we seem to be from the land edge makes me certain it’ll take us all the way down.’
‘If you’re right we’ve got to wonder what kind of people use it,’ said Cloud.
‘Marula?’ Ravan asked, his shadow head turning as he tried to make out faces.
Carnelian felt Fern readjusting his position. Peering at his face, Carnelian saw the resemblance he had not placed before. Though paler than they; though not as tall, Carnelian saw Fern bore a decided resemblance to the black men who had escorted hi
m and his father on the road to Osrakum. He should have seen it at once in his tightly curling hair.
‘Their lands lie somewhere south of the Earthsky,’ said Cloud.
‘The swamp’s a haunt of nightmares,’ moaned Ravan.
‘Demons,’ muttered Krow.
‘Hush,’ said Fern. ‘Those are just stories used to scare children.’
‘There must be another way, Ranegale,’ said Loskai.
‘Makar will be hard to enter unseen. I’ve been worrying about that all day. Even if that weren’t so …’ He made a sound of disgust. ‘We’re burdened with the corpses and, thanks to Father Cloud, the Standing Dead. Besides there’s no way we’re going to make the meeting and that’s the only reason we’re heading for the city.’
‘Except to spend our bronze,’ said Loskai.
‘However thick the swamp is below, we’ll make better progress through it than we will up here. We can skirt its edge on higher ground until we reach the Leper Valleys. Who knows, we might even get there in time to meet up with our people.’
Night was robbing them of sight. They scattered to find what shelter they could but there was no escaping fear. Bent almost double, Carnelian fumbled his way to Osidian’s side. He waited until lightning lit his face. When it did, Carnelian’s heart faltered, certain he had glimpsed Osidian awake. He reached out. His fingers almost recoiled when they found Osidian’s face smoother than marble but just as cold. His touch found the corner of a lidded eye. Turning, he settled back against Osidian’s shivering body to give him what warmth he could.
The movements of the Plainsmen woke him. Blearily, through the rain, Carnelian watched them getting ready. No one spoke nor looked each other in the eye. He noticed Ravan steal a look down into the ravine. The gleam of Osidian’s body caught in the corner of Carnelian’s vision. His head, his back, his neck ached as he turned round. It was as if he had grown aged overnight. He burrowed under Osidian’s blankets to reach the damp, cold flesh and pressed his lips against it until he could feel the tremor of a heartbeat.
‘So slow,’ he muttered. He covered him up. Looking at him, Carnelian reviewed again the decision he had made for them both. In the daylight, it was harder to believe the Black God was guiding him.
Sensing someone approaching, he looked up and saw it was Fern.
‘Today we leave the Land of the Standing Dead,’ Fern said, using Ochre in a low voice and trying a smile.
‘Why do you call us that?’
Fern crouched down beside him. ‘My mother told me it was because of the giants who stand around the place in the Mountain where we give our children to you.’
Carnelian knew he spoke of the colossi of the Plain of Thrones who stood astride the entrances to the tombs in which the Masters were laid to await their resurrection. He recalled how he had felt when he had walked beneath their gaze. It was not an unfitting name.
‘We must move my kin,’ said Fern, rising.
Carnelian looked to where the corpses lay grey in the morning light. After they had taken only a few steps towards them, the stench of their decay caught at his throat; beside them, it was over-powering. Fern crouched and dug his arms under one. Carnelian could see the creases in the Plainsman’s forehead; the horror blanking his face. He waited for him to hoist the saggy mess that had been his father and then watched him stagger away with it to the aquar Ravan was holding ready. Averting his face, Carnelian squatted and worked his hand under the back of another corpse. He took the strain and lifted. The corpse’s weight forced him to carry it clasped to his chest.
Carnelian was taking care with each step. They had tried riding, but the foaming water and scree made the ground treacherous. He paced beside Blur in whose chair Osidian lay. The creature’s huge taloned feet gouged a grip on the slope, but sometimes he would watch with horror as one slipped. All startled plumes, the aquar would flail and scrabble to maintain her footing while Carnelian danced around her trying to be in a position to catch Osidian should he be flung out. Several times he jumped back sure Blur was about to topple over on to him like a hammer. He would tense up, anticipating her body punching the ground, smashing the saddle-chair, breaking Osidian across the boulders. Each time Blur righted herself and, panting, he would rush in to stroke her neck, or her clutching hands, clucking to reassure her and when her plume fans had closed, urge her a little further down the slope.
As the sky darkened, Osidian began babbling. Carnelian greeted this sign of life with joy. Wary of the movement of her knee and thigh, he clung to the crossbeam of Blur’s chair and watched Osidian’s rain-glazed face contorting, but it was impossible to pick out words from the rush and chew of sound.
A cry from up ahead made Carnelian release the crossbeam and stand away from Blur to look down the slope. The Plainsmen were dotted here and there below him, but a group had gathered on a promontory that pushed out into a gulf of air. Carnelian made sure there was no peril in Blur’s path then scrambled down to join them.
He did not have to reach them before he saw that the floor of the ravine fell away from wall to towering wall. He pushed in among the youths and came to stand beside Ranegale and Fern, who were gazing into the depths of an abyss. Carnelian let his eyes follow the cliff down through the veiling rainfall, down and further down to where, remotely, a black river ran.
They retreated from that precipitous fall and found a cave mouth in the side of the ravine between two cascades. While the others coaxed the aquar into the darkness, Carnelian helped Fern and Ravan lean the corpses against the rock.
Ravan looked morose. ‘Do we have to leave them out here?’
Fern put his arm around his brother then led him away. Carnelian followed them, his hand on Blur’s neck, the dead men’s aquar plodding heavily behind.
The walls of the cave were varnished with running water. As Carnelian crept deeper in, Osidian’s ravings seemed to grow louder. Carnelian’s eyes adjusted to the gloom allowing him to see a floor strewn with the boulders of crouching aquar, their glassy eyes catching the light.
‘Here will do,’ Fern said, at last.
They asked Blur to kneel and then carefully lifted Osidian from her chair and laid him out. Carnelian turned Osidian’s head so his face might catch what little light there was. His eyes were closed and twitching; sounds were dribbling from his lips.
‘What’s he saying?’ Fern asked.
Carnelian shrugged. ‘It’s his fever speaking.’
‘Or the Skyfather through him,’ said Ravan.
Carnelian became uneasy when he saw with what awe the youth was gazing upon Osidian. Frowning, Fern saw it too. He turned away and saw some of the other youths filing back to the entrance looking slight and vulnerable.
‘They’re the ones I pity,’ said Fern.
Carnelian looked at him. ‘Why did you bring them then?’
Fern grimaced. ‘To let them see the world. They’d come of age and the Tribe’s tributaries had need of an escort on their way to the Mountain.’
Carnelian turned back to look at the youths. ‘I would’ve thought you could come up with a better escort than a posse of children.’
Ravan glared at Carnelian. ‘We are men.’
Fern smiled and looked at his brother approvingly. ‘It is a venerable tradition of our people.’
Carnelian sensed in them both a nobility that did not sit well with what he knew of their mission. ‘Is it also a venerable tradition of your people to prey upon travellers?’
Fern’s face became wooden. ‘As much as it is a tradition of your people to take our children from us.’
Carnelian despised himself for having assumed so easily the haughty judging stance of his kind. Still he was enough the Master to be stung by the disapproval on the brothers’ faces.
‘The people on the road are innocent of the policies of the Masters.’
‘How else can we strike at you?’ said Fern.
Carnelian saw with his mind’s eye Osrakum’s soaring mountain wall, her gates, her turret
ed dragons. The vision melted. Fern’s intense dark eyes were piercing through his defences and he regretted his insensitivity.
‘We’re here now and in your power.’
‘But now we have you, you seem to me only men and not the angels we hate.’
Carnelian thought of Jaspar, Ykoriana and the other Masters he knew and felt he was misleading Fern. ‘I’m untypical of my kind.’
Fern frowned and then glanced towards the mouth of the cave. Carnelian had more questions but could see Fern’s impatience to join his people. ‘You needn’t wait for me.’
Fern gave him a curt nod and walked off, but to Carnelian’s surprise, Ravan insisted on helping him make Osidian comfortable. This done, they threw damp blankets round their shoulders and walked to the entrance together. A couple of the youths shuffled aside to let Carnelian through. He found a place to sit between Fern and Cloud. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them with the blanket as he saw they had done and then he joined them gazing out at the cascades and the slanting rain.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Fern.
‘Let’s decide in the morning,’ said Ranegale.
So near the cave mouth, Carnelian could feel the rain’s spitting dance as cold pinpricks on his feet.
‘What I wouldn’t give for a fire,’ said Loskai.
There were grunts of agreement as everyone huddled closer. The youths whispered to each other but the men were silent as they watched the world outside grow dark. Looking sidelong at their faces, Carnelian could not avoid seeing how much they resembled his brothers now far away in Osrakum. He was barely aware of the knot in his stomach beginning to work loose as he settled back into the warmth of their bodies.
THE ANOINTING
Ichor is the burning blood.
From blood comes life;
from ichor, Creation.
Blood sacrifice is the agent of this transformation.
The Standing Dead (The Stone Dance Of The Chameleon) Page 9