The Standing Dead - Stone Dance of the Chameleon 02 (33 page)

'A
huimur.'

'An
earther,'
corrected
Fern,
in
Ochre.

One
whole
flank
of
the
creature
had
been
cut
away, revealing
the
grimy
architecture
of
its
ribs.
A
stench
was rising
from
the
blood-soaked
earth.
Boulders
as
flat
as tables
were
set
about
in
an
arc.
Upon
these,
long
flint knives
lay
in
rows.

Fern
was
scowling.
'Well,
here
we
are
beneath
the Bloodwood
Tree.'

Carnelian
stared
at
the
tree
and
spoke
his
thought aloud.
'Bloodwood?'

For
an
answer,
Fern
lifted
one
of
the
flint
knives,
strode towards
the
trunk
and
swung
a
slash
into
it.
The
cut
began to
weep
along
its
length.
Drawing
closer,
Carnelian
saw the
tree
appeared
to
be
bleeding.

About
three
dozen
women
and
a
few
girls
gathered beneath
the
Bloodwood
Tree.
Under
the
pressure
of
their scrutiny,
Carnelian
did
not
know
where
to
look.
Fern hung
his
head.
The
girls
chattered
and
pointed.
The women
laughed,
nervously.

'Don't
you
all
have
work
to
do?'

Carnelian
recognized
the
Elder,
Ginkga.
The
crowd dispersed
as
she
came
through
them.
She
clamped
some bone
pins
in
her
lips.
As
she
approached
Carnelian
and Fern,
she
twisted
her
hair
into
a
tress,
then
wound
it tightly
around
her
head.
She
came
to
a
halt
in
front
of them
and
looked
up
into
Carnelian's
face.
One
at
a
time, she
took
the
pins
from
her
mouth
and
inserted
them
into her
coil
of
salt-beaded
hair.
Carnelian
tried
to
hold
her gaze,
but
eventually
he
had
to
look
away.

'You
two
will
load
the
offal
onto
the
drag-cradles,'
she said,
when
her
mouth
was
free.
She
pointed
to
where
five cradles
were
laid
out
in
a
line
well
beyond
the
shade
of the
tree.
It
was
Carnelian
who
led
Fern
off
towards
them. Carnelian
could
smell
them
before
he
was
close
enough to
see
they
were
caked
with
gore.
Infants
screaming
drew his
attention
to
the
open
ground
where
he
saw
them
chasing
each
other
among
rows
of
frames,
many
of
which
were hung
with
ribbons
of
flesh
adjusting
heavily
in
the
breeze.

Carnelian
grimaced
at
the
filthy
drag-cradles.
'What're we
supposed
to
do?'
he
asked
Fern.
His
friend
gave
a shrug
for
an
answer.

The
women
were
painting
each
other's
faces
red.
Those that
were
done
went
to
stand
around
the
boulder
tables
testing
the
edges
of
the
flints.
Some
had
to
be
knapped
sharp. Blood-faced,
two
women
were
appraising
the
saurian
corpse as
if
it
were
a
house
they
were
about
to
demolish.
Soon
they were
in
among
its
bones,
hacking
away
with
their
knives. The
hunks
of
meat
they
released
were
caught
by
other women
who
lugged
them
over
to
the
boulders,
where
they were
sheared
into
slices
and
then
ribbons.
Carnelian watched
as
the
girls
began
knotting
these
into
ropes
which they
wound
around
their
arms
like
yarn.
Bloody
to
the armpits,
the
girls
carried
the
meat
away
from
the
tree
and draped
it
over
the
frames
as
if
it
were
washing
being
hung out
to
dry.

Ginkga's
voice
carried
over
to
Carnelian
and
Fern.
'You two.'

They
exchanged
a
look
of
resignation
and
went
to
her. She
confronted
them
arms
red
to
the
elbows,
face
the colour
of
fresh
blood.

'You
should
take
off
as
much
as
you
can.'

Fern
pulled
off
his
robe
and,
reluctantly,
Carnelian followed
his
lead.
They
both
endured
the
ribald comments
the
women
made
about
their
bodies.

Ginkga
offered
them
a
bowl
that
appeared
to
be
filled with
blood.
'You're
here
to
do
penance
for
your
insult
to the
Mother.
You
must
wear
her
colour
as
we
do.'

Fern
scowled,
but
took
the
bowl.
He
kneeled
and
put
it on
the
ground
and
motioned
Carnelian
to
join
him.
Facing each
other,
they
dipped
their
fingers
in
the
bowl
and smeared
the
redness
over
their
faces
under
Ginkga's
grim supervision.
When
they
were
done,
she
led
them
to
their work.
Shouldering
the
slimy
sag
of
a
lung
between
them, they
struggled
to
heave
it
back
to
the
drag-cradles.

Sweltering,
they
laboured,
their
torsos
and
their
heads itching
with
gore.
Carnelian
had
tried
to
make
a
joke about
their
red
faces
but
Fern
was
not
much
inclined
to humour.
The
sun
had
brought
with
it
a
plague
of
flies
that swarmed
the
growing
mounds
of
offal.
A
constant
procession
of
people
came
to
stare.
Worst
of
all
for
Carnelian was
the
mob
of
jeering
children
that
had
collected,
who hung
around
him
as
he
worked,
coming
as
close
as
they dared.
Already
weary,
past
nausea
from
the
stench,
their baiting
was
almost
more
than
he
could
bear.