Everyone dreaded the coming of night. In the darkness the roar of the falls seemed to become a deep and rumbling voice. Poppy became obsessed with the notion it was speaking to her, though she could not tell what it said. Carnelian could no more than her discern words, but the sound poured its malice into his dreams.
Sometimes a morning would bring with it a pause in the rain. The ceiling of clouds might even thin enough for the sun to peer in. In that light, the scoured and bony escarpment would not appear so bleak.
On one such morning, the lookout Carnelian had posted let out a cry that had them all scrambling down from their trees and searching in the direction he was pointing.
Poppy saw them first and cried out with excitement. A line of aquar and drag-cradles winding down towards them from the Earthsky.
She tugged on his arm. 'Let's go and meet them, Carnie.'
Carnelian shook his head, needing time to prepare himself. Desperate for, but dreading, the news the visitors might bring.
'You go,' he said, 'I'll wait here.'
For a few moments Poppy hesitated, wanting to be in both places at once, but then, whooping, she ran after the other Plainsmen. Carnelian watched her, smiling and then began to work out his questions.
They were all young; some in the first flowering of their manhood, many still boys. Everyone had his face painted white in imitation of the Master. One uncovered his drag-cradle with a flourish, pleased at the cries of delight greeting the sight of the bales of djada, the neatly stowed fernroot and some luxuries besides.
Carnelian had been watching from a distance. As he approached them, the visitors all at once fell onto one knee. Carnelian registered Poppy's surprise at this deference, unease even, before, angrily, he told them to get up.
'I'm not the Master.'
Their reverence just served to make him fear even more the news they brought.
'Which of you is the leader here?'
A youth stepped forward and Carnelian beckoned him to approach. The youth bowed his head and came to stand before Carnelian with his eyes downcast. He has made slaves of you, Carnelian thought.
'What's your name?'
'Woading Skaifether,' said the youth, his Vulgate thick with the accent of another koppie.
'Come, Skaifether, walk with me.'
Carnelian began climbing the knoll, shortening his stride so that the youth could keep up.
The supplies you brought; where did they come from?'
'We took them, Master,' Skaifether said, in a rush of pride.
'From which tribe?'
The Lagooning.'
'Didn't they resist you?'
'Oh yes, but the Master broke them in a great battle.' 'Was there much slaughter?'
The youth shrugged. 'Not much. The Master is the father of battles.'
Carnelian nodded grimly. 'And what did he do to the Lagooning once he conquered them?' 'He took their men into his army…' Carnelian waited, knowing there would be more. 'And their children that were marked for the tithe.' Took them where?'
'Back to the koppie of the Ochre. They'll be kept there until it's time for my tribe… the allied tribes' – the youth looked proud – 'until it's time for us to send our tribute to the Mountain -'
'He's promised you Lagooning children to send instead of your own?'
The youth smiled. 'Or those from the other tribes that will be conquered.'
Carnelian could see how this policy might strengthen support among the 'ally' tribes but only at the expense of making the conquered tribes hate the Ochre.
‘Is there more?'
‘If the men from the conquered tribes fight well for us, then they'll be given salt and their children will be returned to them.'
To be replaced by those from the newly conquered?' The youth grinned and nodded. Carnelian turned away to hide his disgust. 'Have I offended you?' the youth asked, in a fearful tone.
Carnelian reassured him. 'Did the Master send any message for me?'
The youth was clearly still frightened. 'None came from him.'
'Came from…? Did you not come from him?' 'No, Master, our commander is Ochre Fern.' Carnelian regarded the youth with disbelief. 'He commands you?'
The youth gave a slow, fearful nod.
'Are there other commanders?'
Twostone.'
Twostone Krow?'
Skaifether nodded.
'And Ochre Ravan?'
The youth frowned, shaking his head as if he had never heard the name before.
'What did Ochre Fern bid you do?'
To bring the supplies here and to return with all the salt you have collected for us.'
'Nothing else?'
'Nothing, Master.'
Two days of brooding later, a cry brought Carnelian to the opening to his hollow. One of his Plainsmen, Cloudy, was shouting something up at him that was lost in the gusting rain. The man pointed east. There beneath the frowning wall of the Backbone, Carnelian saw shrouded Oracles riding down the escarpment, dragging behind their aquar a stumbling string of captives alongside which jogged Marula spearmen. Even through the rain, Carnelian could see the captives were Plainsmen and that the Marula were driving them towards the riverpath. When he saw many of his own men streaming down the knoll to intercept the party, he threw a blanket about his shoulders.
‘I’ll come with you,' said Poppy.
'No. Stay here. Wait for me.'
At first, startled by his tone, the girl was soon protesting, but he did not have the time to argue with her. He abandoned the dryness of their hollow and swung out to descend to the ground. Once there, Cloudy confronted him, soaked, looking sick.
'What shall we do, Master?'
'Whatever we can,' cried Carnelian and bounded down the slope, quickly leaving the man behind.
As he reached the open ground beyond the wooden wall, he saw the Marula had levelled their spears at the approaching Plainsmen. He coursed towards them bellowing, desperate to avoid bloodshed. Hearing him, his men turned, backing away from the Marula as they waited for him. Out of breath, he saw in their eyes their confidence that he would do something to save the captives. Carnelian moved in among them, glancing up at the Oracles sitting haughty in their saddle-chairs. Bound naked one to the other, the captives were mostly men past their prime. He saw how their ribcages were pumping for breath, how they hung their heads. Strangely, what shocked him most was their bloody feet. They had been forced against their most deeply held belief to run barefoot across the Earthsky.
His own Plainsmen began crying out to him. They made many pleas, demands. Though he could make none out clearly, he did not need to. He could see and feel their pity and their outrage that men should be treated thus. Many of the captives had lifted their heads and, as their eyes fell on Carnelian, they ignited with a hatred that struck him hard. He knew who it was they thought they saw or, as likely, they did not care. He was as much of the Standing Dead as the conqueror who had delivered them into misery.
Carnelian looked to either side of him and saw how numerous were his men; how few Manila the Oracles commanded. He was desperate to free the captives.
A voice carried through the hissing rain as one of the Oracles addressed him. Even had there been silence, Carnelian would have not understood a word. He considered approaching them, negotiating in Vulgate. The realization sank in that even if he could make himself understood to the Oracles there would be no pity in their hearts. One of them lifted an arm swathed in indigo cloth and pointed. Carnelian did not turn his head to look, always aware in which direction lay the malign presence of the Isle of Flies.
He turned to his own people. With the accent of the Ochre, he told them the captives had been condemned by the Master himself and that his commands none could gainsay without bringing his wrath down upon themselves and their kin. His speech was hardly finished before they erupted into rage. He caught their feeling and threw it back at them. He told them that if he could, he would set the captives free. He could see they did not believe him and had to resort to commanding them back to the knoll. They railed against him, they even dared to threaten him, but then their resolve cracked and, unable to look the captives in the face, they turned like punished children and began the slog back to the camp.