Ricardo Pinto - The Standing Dead

The slavers were barking commands. The sartlar began to grumble. Even as the leash attached to Carnelian's wrists was drawing taut, he decided he would take his chance. Bracing himself, he pulled hard. Snarling, the slaver lost hold. Carnelian fell into a sartlar, rocked back onto his feet, lowered his head and rammed his way out through the herd. Bursting free, he lifted his eyes to get his bearings. Dimly, through the rain, he saw the road all crusted with more sartlar. Their milling confused him and he hesitated. This hesitation gave the slavers time to surround him. As one pulled him up by the leash, another tugged on one of his leg ropes. He tumbled, falling so heavily on his shoulder that his head swam. Hands raised him to his feet. The leash pulled and, reeling, he stumbled after it.

The smooth road made it possible for Carnelian to trot along without fear of falling. He let his head hang bobbing and soothed his dizziness by keeping time with the slapping rhythm of sartlar feet. His shoulder ached. He brought his mind back into focus. He could feel the cold touch of the road and the jostle of the sartlar. His next attempt to escape would be successful, but first he must husband his strength. He dreamed of freedom, saw the rescuers, frowned at their staring terror as he and Osidian were revealed. It was probable the Law would slay them for looking on the naked faces of Masters. Carnelian tried to convince himself the bitumen was its own mask and that, in seeking help from others, he would not bring down disaster on them.

It was a change in the pace that brought him fully awake. Sartlar bodies were knocking erratically against his. As they slowed, he was forced into a shamble. The rain grew louder than their footfalls as it hammered on his aching back and shoulder. He remembered his plan. Before he could marshal his courage, the stone under his feet was sloping down another ramp. He cranked his head round and glimpsed another watch-tower and then he was sliding in mud again as his leash pulled him away from the road and into the vastness of the Guarded Land.

Gulping breath, Carnelian collapsed to his knees and cooled his forehead in a puddle. Along his spine it felt as if he were coming apart like a clam. His thighs and calves were juddering. He anchored his fingers into the mud to convince himself he was not still running. It seemed he had been ploughing his feet through the Guarded Land's red earth for days.

Lifting his face into the rain, he saw a high wicker wall encircling him, its circuit broken only where a slit gave into a passage that passed under a tower and through a wooden gate into the hri fields outside. The tower was just a skeleton of wood skinned here and there with more woven wicker. Some of the slavers were up there, the fire they had lit a curl of brightness against the black sky.

Carnelian saw Osidian crouched alone at one end of the crescent the sartlar made as they sought shelter against the kraal wall. Groaning, Carnelian got to his feet and plodded towards him. It was not more than a dozen steps but his muscles were already stiffening. As he approached, the sartlar mass recoiled as if he were a leper. He found a space near Osidian, backed into it, knelt and, gingerly, leaned his back against the wicker wall as his buttocks squelched into the mud.

Looking round, he saw Osidian had his head sunk into the crook of his elbows. His trussed forearms rose above him in unconscious mimicry of the kraal tower. Rain poured over his bitumened head. Carnelian thought of touching him but remembered they were gagged. He was reluctant to face Osidian's eyes without the defence of words.

Stretching away from them, the sartlar mass could have been a colony of birds miserable in the rain. Carnelian only realized he had been counting their bowed heads when he came across some that were grey. It had never occurred to him that sartlar might grow old. He peered at the creatures nearest him. Clinging, filthy hair betrayed their grotesque, distorted skulls. Immense hands and feet, swollen-jointed, clawed. Crooked backs shaped their rags. Carnelian found his gaze met by a pair of tiny dark eyes. A child that quickly hid its face. Though he knew that all animals had young, he had never imagined that sartlar might have children.

Carnelian's reverie was disturbed by a shudder of excitement passing through the creatures. As they lifted their faces, his eyes flitted from one to another, appalled by their fearful ugliness. Some slavers were approaching.

They carried baskets into which they dug their hands and, coming out with hunks of something, they sowed these among the sartlar. One fell nearby and, straining, Carnelian managed to get his hands to it.

At first he thought it wood, but it was too soft, one edge sodden and muddy where it had touched the ground. He brought it to his face and smelled hri. 'Bread,' he murmured, his lips curling with distaste as he saw the weevils crawling through it.

'You will eat.'

Carnelian looked up and discovered that the Ichorian was standing over him. The man slapped the bread out of his hand.

'Here, I've kept the best for you.' He shoved a hunk of the black bread into Carnelian's lap. Carnelian worked it up his legs with his elbows and managed to get it into his hands. It looked much the same as the discarded piece.

The Ichorian leaned in close. 'Let's take this off.'

Carnelian held still as the man fumbled with the knots of his gag.

'From now on,' the man mumbled almost in his ear, 'you'll not be needing these. This far from the road, be certain no one will hear your cries.'

Carnelian endured the gag pulling tighter, his eyes following the black tattoo spirals on the Ichorian's face as he held onto the thought of escape. Scabs tore from the corners of his mouth as the gag came free. As the Ichorian moved over to Osidian, Carnelian practised gingerly opening and closing his mouth.

'Now look what you've done. Soiled or not, you'll eat it.'

The Ichorian was looking down at Osidian. He leaned to scoop a piece of bread from the mud and then rubbed it on his jerkin before forcing it on Osidian. The Ichorian removed his gag, then stood back.

'Eat. You'll both need your strength tomorrow.'

Carnelian peered at the bread. Rubbing away as many weevils as he could, he took a bite, gave it a chew, then swallowed as quickly as he could. 'Eat!'

Carnelian saw the Ichorian flinch as Osidian looked up at him. The untattoed half of his face darkened.

'You'll have that bread even if I have to force it down your throat.' It was costing the Ichorian dear to hold Osidian's glare.

‘I’ll see he eats it,' Carnelian said, quickly.

Relieved to have an excuse to disengage from the contest, the Ichorian turned to Carnelian. 'Make sure he does.'

As the man walked away, Carnelian leaned forward to look into Osidian's face. His eyes were windows giving into an empty house. Carnelian tried to formulate questions. He had so many, wanted to know so much, but Osidian seemed so far away that all Carnelian managed to say was: 'You must eat.'

Osidian made no sign he had heard. The bread lay in his lap ignored. Carnelian took his own piece and tried to manoeuvre it into Osidian's hands. Carnelian had to close the lifeless fingers round the bread. He stroked them. 'Please… please eat.'

The rain running down Osidian's face could have been tears. Carnelian frowned back his own.

'Eat.'

The word seemed spoken by another's tongue. Osidian became aware he had something in his hand. He seemed a puppet moving his mouth to it. Carnelian watched him take a bite and chew, his lips stroking the bread, the weevils running down his fingers. Carnelian watched him, waiting until Osidian had finished before he reached to take the other piece that was wedged between Osidian's stomach and his thigh.