Wearied by the heartache, nevertheless, Carnelian kept searching the snivelling line of children being fed up the steps for examination. At last he saw what he had feared to see. Poppy, her tiny face looking for him. He willed her to see him though he knew that if she did, so might others and that would bring disaster down upon the Tribe. As she drew closer and closer to the silver chair, he wrung his hands until they hurt. The moment came that Carnelian had been dreading: Poppy was pushed into the Gatherer's hands. He forgot to breathe as her little shaved head was turned this way and that. The Gatherer pressed it with his fingers as if he were determining the ripeness of a melon. Carnelian gulped air again when the Gatherer seemed to have detected some fault. He clamped the girl as his face of silver leant close to one of the scribes. The mask flashed as he nodded and then Carnelian fought nausea as he watched Poppy being shoved off to be tattooed. She was crying as she looked back, hopeless, distraught at not seeing him among the crowd. As he imagined his little girl gritting her teeth against the needle's pain, Carnelian cursed himself bitterly he had not thought to disfigure her.
DEADLOCK
The deadlock common to all two player games is rarely found in Three.
Under Akaisha's cedar, Carnelian was pacing back and forth, every so often looking towards the rootstair for any sign of the Tribe returning. Unable to be among the crowd as a comfort to Poppy, fearing he might witness Fern's punishment, Carnelian had fled in misery. All his life, he had known about the childgatherer. Once, when he had pushed Ebeny until her reticence broke, she had described the miserable day she had been selected for the Mountain. He had had nightmares for a long time afterwards. Now he had seen it for himself, he was soaked through with such heartache and shame that he wanted to creep away and hide. He glanced back up the slope, desperate to see Poppy. An irrational fear possessed him that the childgatherer might have already taken her away. Then he became filled with dread at the thought of seeing her and, for a moment, seriously considered fleeing the Koppie. He allowed his gaze to be burned by the incandescence of the plain. Out there was an unwelcoming world and Osidian; a Master who would have nothing but shrivelling contempt for such feelings.
The sound of footfalls was coming from the direction of the Crag. He resisted the temptation to hide, though he backed towards the comfort of the mother tree. As the first people appeared upon the stair, Carnelian held on to her bark as if it were a hand. It was not long before they noticed him. Their descent faltered as they stared with red eyes that seemed to have sunk into their faces. Their scrutiny soon forced him to lower his gaze. A woman's voice urged them on. More and more of the Tribe were coming into sight. Carnelian stood where he was, enduring their terrible, silent hatred. He would gladly have set aside his height, his white skin, his burning blood to become one of them. As it was he would not allow himself to deny it was his kind who had just raped them.
When he sensed someone approaching, he lifted his gaze, holding his arms stiffly by his sides ready to take whatever was said, whatever pain inflicted, even death, but when he saw it was Fern, his knees threatened to buckle. His friend simply stared and Carnelian fought panic. Fern's face was unreadable, though his red eyes showed he had been crying.
Carnelian searched his friend's body for any sign of mutilation. 'You are unhurt?'
Fern looked as if he did not know the answer to that. After a while, he said: They did not call for me.'
Then you are saved,' Carnelian said, clutching at the hope there was in that; some joy on such a joyless day. Instinct urged Carnelian to keep his pain to himself, but he was weak enough to want to share it.
'I should have disfigured her. That's what I've been thinking.'
Fern looked at Carnelian as if he were seeing him for the first time. 'What?'
'I should have disfigured Poppy. The Gatherer wouldn't have chosen an imperfect child for the Standing Dead.'
Carnelian recoiled from the rage that sprang into Fern's face.
'You were there? You knew the danger to the Tribe and, still, you were there?'
Carnelian wanted to back away but the mother tree was a wall against his back.
'I promised Poppy…'
Fern gaped at him. Even to Carnelian's ears, his words sounded absurd.
Fern grew suddenly tired and his curly head fell against the cedar.
'Disfigure her. Don't you think we might have thought of that? She'd grow up carrying on her face the proof that another child had been sent to the Mountain in her place.' His voice was unsteady. 'All the hearths who had lost a child would hate her.'
Fern lifted his head and Carnelian saw he was crying.
'Perhaps it's the best thing for her. What kind of life would she have had here.' Fern became distraught. 'He's taken my baby.'
Carnelian stared dumbfounded. At the examination he had been so focused on Poppy he had not even remembered to look for Leaf. He saw his friend's anguish and could think of nothing to say.
As they approached, hearthmates gazed at Carnelian as if he were a ghost of the children the Tribe had lost. Sil's eyes accused him, her mother's were trying not to. Whin was pulling Poppy by the hand. The little girl was looking at her feet, the fist of her left hand wedged into her armpit. Carnelian forgot everyone else, praying that when she would look up at him it would not be with hatred. Whin brought her up close.
'Look at Carnie, child. You mustn't blame him.'
Carnelian gave Whin a smile of gratitude, muttered something of his regret about her own loss, then squatted down and reached out for Poppy's face. He almost pulled away when he felt the skin wet with tears. Gently he lifted the little face, waiting for her eyes to see him. He stopped breathing when he felt her stare, then gave out a sigh of relief when he did not see hatred in her eyes but only pain and fear. He folded her into his arms, put his lips to her neck, lifted her from the ground. He rocked her, humming, feeling her sobbing, her fist a stone against his heart.
'Carnie.' It was Fern's voice.
Carnelian turned with Poppy still wrapped in his embrace and looked round. Fern was tearful, looking at him, leaning close to Sil, their baby nesded between them. Carnelian saw the tears in Sil's eyes, everyone's eyes and almost let out a wail. He wanted to make it better, to take away their pain.
Fern released his daughter's tiny hand from her swaddling, peeled the pad from her palm and let it fall red to the ground.
'I can't wait until the Gatherer gives the Elders a picture of the tithe. Tell us how long we'll have her.'
Carnelian feared Sil's eyes, but felt that beyond Fern's need to know, he was trying to make things right between the three of them. Carnelian drew close enough to see. He adjusted Poppy and, gingerly, took the baby's bloody hand and peered at it.
The green patterns of the date tattoo were smeared red and swollen in the tiny palm but he could still read the number eight and the hated name of Osidian's brother, Molochite.
He looked up at Fern and Sil, waiting in dreadful suspense. 'Not counting this year, seven more.' They would have her for the longest possible time allowed a marked child.
When Fern thanked him, Sil held Carnelian's eyes, searching them. She must have found there what she sought, for she reached out and took his hand. 'We have all lost today.'