The flesh tithe is a core instrument of the Policy of Domination.
Ammonites of the appropriate lores and levels (feel the appendices attached to this reel) are despatched annually to perform a demographic audit and evaluation of the tributary populations.
It is the core of the Policy of Domination that the tributary populations shall enforce the strictures of the auditing procedure upon themselves. In seeking to protect their own offspring from the tithe, kin can be expected to betray any infringement by others in the group. The greatest benefit accruing from this technique is not that it compels obedience without expense to the Commonwealth, but rather that it foments internecine conflict in the tributary populations precisely at the points where its individuals are most closely bonded.
Morbid silence reigned beneath the mother trees as Carnelian crept up rootstairs and along paths fearing that, at any moment, he might be spotted. It seemed that the brooding menace of the faraway swamp had come to lair in the Grove. Peering through the branches of a cedar he spied people engaged in furtive rituals around its trunk.
When he reached Akaisha's tree he did not approach it by its open, downhill side, but instead ducked under the uphill branches. Hearing voices, he remained crouched, peering across the sleeping hollows to where he could see many of his hearthmates. Sil's lilt carrying through the silence was answered by her mother's heavier tones. Imagining Whin's reaction to seeing him there, Carnelian's courage slipped away. The danger he was putting them in froze his feet to the ground. This is my home, he told himself, but did not believe it. Not today. Today you are a Master; one of the Standing Dead. One of the monsters who have sent their servants to rape the Tribe of its children. He despised the arrogance that had made him imagine that he could save Poppy. In the gloom beneath the cedar, a boy was being prepared by his mother. Who was there to take care of Poppy, to give her comfort? It was her need that melted Carnelian into motion. The cedar bristled against his shoulders, then he was able to straighten up and, shaken by his heart, he began to wind his way through the hollows.
'Great Mother!' cried Sil.
Grief drained the blood from his head as Carnelian saw Fern standing beside her.
'You're not welcome here,' shrieked Sil. 'You brought the Gatherer.'
Carnelian could do nothing but stare at the accursed legionary collar gleaming darkly at Fern's throat.
'Why are you here?' his friend asked.
Akaisha appeared with Whin. 'Are you trying to get us all killed?'
'Where's the other one of your kind?' asked Whin.
'Out on the plain,' Carnelian answered.
Akaisha grasped Carnelian's arm. 'Didn't they catch you at the Newditch? Did no one warn you? We sent messengers to every gate in case you should return.'
'Yes, but… Poppy,' he said.
Akaisha's face sagged and she let go of him as Whin flamed to anger.
'You risk the Tribe for the sake of one child?' Carnelian saw the pain in Fern's eyes and wanted to tell him he had come for him too. 'One child?' barked Sil.
Her anger ignited Carnelian's own. 'Do you find that so hard to believe?' He scanned their faces. Whin's eyes glazed as she looked into herself. The same expression came over the other faces. Only Akaisha's eyes were seeing him and, in her face, there was something of shame.
She turned to her hearthsisters. 'I'll deal with this.'
Wild-eyed, Sil was led away by her mother.
'Where's Ravan?' asked Fern.
'Out on the plain… he remained with the Master out on the plain,' Carnelian replied.
Fern hung his head. Akaisha looked at her son, already grieving for him. She put on a smile.
'If your brother hasn't come it's because he can't bear to see you torn from us.'
Her certainty was only a veneer. She peered out through the leaves and branches towards the plain as if she might hope to see Ravan in the far distance. 'Otherwise, he would most certainly be here.'
Carnelian wished he could confirm her hope. Her eyes lensed with tears, she took his hand and led him away from Fern. Carnelian saw as if for the first time the children of the hearth, shivering naked, the hair being scraped from their heads. Fathers and mothers, faces coloured by anger and pale fear, stiffened to masks by the tears they refused to shed that would break their children's courage.
Carnelian searched for Poppy and saw her, alone, kneeling over a leather bowl, water dripping from her face and hair. She began rising, ready to come running, but he shook his head and she understood and fell once more to her knees.
Akaisha squeezed his hand. 'She's not as abandoned as she looks, Carnie. Before you appeared, I was helping her get ready.'
‘I’ve never believed you to be uncaring.'
Akaisha flushed. 'I pray the Gatherer will take her in place of my granddaughter.'
'I know,' he said, letting her see in his eyes he was not judging her.
Carnelian glanced round looking for Fern. Holding his daughter in one arm, he was stooped over a bowl with Sil. As he concentrated on shaving the tiny head, his wife was examining his face as if she were engraving every curve and line in her memory. Carnelian envied her closeness to him.
'Don't mind his manner, Carnie, he's beside himself with fear,' said Akaisha in a low voice.
He looked round at her. 'His daughter?'
'My granddaughter will not be chosen,' she said fiercely. 'Of course he fears for her but today he has more reason to fear for himself.' She looked over at her son, sorrow ageing her. 'He's lived bravely with what must happen but he didn't expect it to come so soon. He's not had time to prepare himself for what will be done to him today.'
Today?' Carnelian said, his stomach knotting.
Misery was welling in her eyes. They're sure to want to make an example of him before the Tribe…'
Tears began to spill down her cheeks. Instinctively, Carnelian embraced her, but she pushed him away, running the back of her arm across her eyes, holding on to him tighdy so he would not think she was angry with him.
'It was as much for him as for Poppy that I risked -' 'You think I don't know that?' she said, finding a smile. At that moment one of the children began to whimper.
Carnelian looked furtively round, feeling his gaze was an intrusion.
'Don't expect kindness today,' said Akaisha.
'Fern made it clear I'm not welcome here.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'Men see so little,' she said, and when Carnelian frowned, not understanding, she shook her head. 'He told you he's worried what disaster you being here might bring down on the Tribe, but perhaps even more strongly, he fears for you.'
That warming jolt was not enough to free Carnelian from the burden of what he was. 'I don't blame the Tribe for hating me.'
'It's not you they hate, but all the Standing Dead,' she said severely. The arrival of the Gatherer, unexpected as it is, has come as a bitter shock to everyone.'
She looked at Carnelian, waiting for him to answer the implied question.
The Master believes they seek us. If they find us here…'
Akaisha nodded. 'I know well enough what will happen.'
He saw in her eyes that once the childgatherer had gone, there would be a reckoning.
'I'll hide, my mother, but first, please, will you allow me to tend to Poppy?'
She looked uncertain.
'Surely today every child is entitled to love.' Screwing her face up to hold back more tears, Akaisha gave in with a nod.
Poppy looked up at him with enormous eyes. 'I just knew you'd come, Carnie.'
He smiled. 'How could I not?' He knelt beside her and got her to bend forward and then, lifting water in his hands, he let it flow down over her head. She spluttered and, rising, made to part her bedraggled hair. Carnelian caught her hands. How smooth and unmarked they were. He let them go and wrapped her in a blanket to keep her warm. He plucked the flint razor from where Akaisha had left it and then gave his attention to hacking Poppy's hair off as close as he could to the roots. Tresses fell like black ribbons to the earth. Her tufted scalp seemed a desecration. Sensing she was reading his thoughts, he ran his hand over the soft brisdes and gently teased her about them until she twitched a smile. In that watery counterfeit he saw the depths of her terror. Blinking away his own tears, he concentrated on finding the sharpest edge of the flint. He sniffed, then glanced up.
'We wouldn't want… At least I know from experience…' His voice tailed off. It was hardly the time for reminiscences about the head-shaving habits of the Masters.
He set himself to scraping the stubble from her scalp. In spite of his care, he drew blood. He snatched his hand back expecting Poppy to cry out and was made even more miserable when she did not.
When they were done, he washed her head clean and patted it dry with an edge of the blanket. Her head seemed as fragile as eggshell. He saw she was watching one of the older boys who was clearly afraid, his father kneeling face to face with him, loving him, telling him to be strong. The boy stood stiffly, lower lip quivering.
Carnelian snatched her up into a hug. She clung to him. 'You won't let him take me, will you?' she whispered urgently.
He did not know what to say and ran his hand over her tiny naked head, rocking her, making sure she could not see the bleakness in his face.
From somewhere on the other side of the hill, the alien voices of trumpets blared setting Poppy violently trembling. She turned her face up.
'You'll be there, won't you, Carnie?'
He gave no answer, not only because he had none he wanted to give, but also because he saw their hearthmates were beginning to gather around the mother tree. Over their heads he could see Fern standing with his mother. Turning to the cedar, he embraced her bark, kissed her. A warm murmuring rose from his family.
Carnelian felt a familiar hand slip into his and glanced down.
'What's happening, Carnie?' Poppy asked.
For answer Carnelian lifted her up and swung her onto his shoulders. Together they watched as one by one the hearth filed in to kiss and embrace Fern. Their grief at losing him was a pressure in the air. Soon Carnelian was joining his tears to theirs. This parting was an ache in him and yet he felt shut out. Though Fern looked in his direction several times, he did not beckon Carnelian and, without a sign, Carnelian was unwilling to breach the ring of his family.
When Fern had said goodbye even to the smallest child, he rose and, for a moment, they stood silent with him and Akaisha in the heart of their gathering. Sil joined them, handing her baby to her husband. Then Akaisha broke the circle as she made towards Carnelian. Behind her came Fern holding his baby, Sil at his side.
Carnelian lifted Poppy down and crouched to say goodbye to her. He had forgotten the power her eyes had over him.
'You'll have to be going now, Poppy,' he said, his voice breaking.
Crying, she shook her head. 'You must come. You must.'
For a moment he contemplated running down to the aquar, carrying her off into safety.
He glanced up to find Akaisha standing over them. Reading his eyes, she edged closer.
'If the girl doesn't take her chance with the rest, those who will find out today they're to lose their children will kill her.'
Akaisha's face seemed carved from her mother tree.
Carnelian fought panic as she reached out for Poppy. He could feel her trembling against his chest. Her eyes looking up into his were those of an animal in a trap.
He kissed her, wanting to, needing to give her some comfort. Til be watching you,' he whispered in her ear. It was an impulse he instantly regretted. He cursed himself silendy. Turned to stone, he let Akaisha pull Poppy off him. He watched the little girl glancing round, catching the fear stiffening every face. When her gaze returned to him, he saw her hunger for confirmation of his promise and he could not deny her the nod she wanted. His stomach clenched as he saw the courage it gave her. She nodded back as he watched Akaisha walk away with her. Carnelian became aware Fern was looking at him with a strange burning in his eyes. Carnelian felt suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what was about to happen. He felt queasy imagining the pain, the humiliations Fern would suffer before his execution in faraway Makar.
Fern handed his child to his wife. 'I'll join you in a moment.'
Sil burst into tears and he embraced her, muttering into her neck. When he released her she glanced round at her mother, as if Whin might forbid Fern. Instead, her mother gathered her and Leaf into her arm and, leaning against each other, they made off after Akaisha who had turned to wait, Poppy hanging miserably from her arm. Whin's sisters followed, with their husbands, their daughters, their grandchildren coming after them.
Carnelian forgot them, seeing Fern's face. It had a pallor which appalled him. Such bloodless lips, but his eyes were burning.
'Please forgive my wife.'
'She has reason to hate me.'
'She doesn't hate you.' Fern examined Carnelian's face. 'Will you take care of her for me?'
'Gladly,' Carnelian replied. 'And Ravan?'
Carnelian felt sick. He wanted so much to confess the choice he had made to return to see Fern and Poppy and which had freed Osidian from his oath.
Fern misunderstood his hesitation. 'I know that recently he's been unbearable, but he has a good heart.'
‘I’ll do what I can.'
Fern nodded slowly, pondering. The Tribe might well turn against you and your brother.'
Carnelian could not bear hearing that lie. 'He's not my brother.'
Unaccountably, Fern smiled.
'You knew?'
'I'm not a fool.'
'You must know that I did it to -' Fern stopped him by putting his fingers to Carnelian's lips. 'I know.'
Carnelian bit his tongue against the further questions he wanted to ask.
'My mother will stand by you, but even she might not be able to save you.'
'I'll not allow her to stand alone against the Elders. She's done enough for us already.'
Fern's eyes flashed. 'You will accept every scrap of help offered you.'
Carnelian's heart was stilled by Fern's intensity.
Fern glanced round and Carnelian saw Akaisha and the others were already ascending the rootstair towards the Crag. Fern turned back.
'In the last hope, you must cling to our mother tree and beg for sanctuary. None then may touch you unless my mother allows it.'
Carnelian grew exasperated. 'Forget me, what about you?'
Fern took hold of Carnelian's arm and held it hard enough that it hurt. 'Did you hear what I told you?'
Angrily, Carnelian twisted his arm free. T heard, but today, I'm more concerned about you.'
Fern grew paler. 'Don't be, I'm already dead.'
'Run. What's to stop you taking an aquar, riding far away from here?'
Fern managed to find some laughter which, for a moment, made him seem carefree.
'I'd go with you,' Carnelian said, surprising himself.
Fern frowned and shook his head, looking at Carnelian hungrily. 'You're a strange man, Carnie. You know I can't go. If I did, they'd punish the Tribe instead of me.'
'We could ride out after you, after the Gatherer has taken you away from here. We could take you from him.'
Fern scowled. 'You're being stupid now. You must know that only when the Gatherer reaches his next koppie in safety will he give the Tribe the warrant which we'd need to protect us from the Standing Dead should anything happen to him.'
His brow smoothed. 'Stop fighting this, Carnie. I'm a dead man. I've been one since I deserted the legions. I've lived with this doom for more than a year until it's like a stench in my nostrils.'
His eyebrows raised. 'You know, it's almost a relief.' He grew sombre again. 'I'm only glad you at least won't have to witness what they'll do to me today. Let's say goodbye now.'
The terror Fern was repressing was squeezing tears out of the corners of his eyes however much he clenched his teeth to stop them. Carnelian took a step forward and enveloped Fern in his arms. He felt Fern's arms slipping round him. Carnelian squeezed the solid body, digging his chin into the shoulder. He felt Fern's lips against his neck; felt his warm tears and turned into them; found Fern's neck and kissed it. They clung together thus and
Carnelian felt an intensity of desire which made him cling all the harder, not knowing how to express it.
It was the metal screeching of trumpets that broke their embrace. It gave a voice to their pain. They could not look at each other. *Stay here…' growled Fern. 'For my sake.' He turned away and Carnelian watched him move to the rootstair, then climb it until he had disappeared behind the traceries of the branches of the mother tree.
As Carnelian sat morose with his back against the mother tree, the trumpets sounded again. Their sinister screams forced on him thoughts and feelings about the Masters, about Osrakum. Even after the fanfare had fallen silent, the memory of the sound lingered like a smell, making the shadows under the mother tree strange and menacing.
He could not help thinking about the way he and Osidian had parted. A conviction was rising within him that their destinies had separated. He had chosen the Tribe over Osidian. A time would come when he would have to pay for making that choice. He feared that others might also have to pay.
He clamped his head between his fists and made himself remember why he had defied Osidian. 'Fern and Poppy,' he said through clenched teeth and saw again that last look she had given him. Why had he made her that promise?
He rose, and stumbled among the many bowls still standing with their water to find the one he had used to wash Poppy. Her hair formed a sad pattern around the bowl. He hesitated, then spilled some of its water on a clear patch of earth and rubbed it in with his palms. The mud he made looked like blood. He cursed. It seemed an omen of death. He gouged some of the red stuff onto his fingers and smeared it over his face, round his neck, his lower legs and feet, the backs of his hands. He searched around for the largest blanket he could find and wrapped it round him.
Another fanfare made his heart jump up into his throat How much would he be endangering the Tribe? Though he told himself he was doing this for Poppy, perhaps he was only desiring to satisfy his curiosity to see the childgatherer that had haunted his childhood. Was it a craving for one last glimpse of the exquisite wonders of Osrakum? He felt a surge of self-loathing. He was a Master. He held his hands up. Nothing could hide the brightness that lay beneath the brown. Nothing could change that he was a Master. Osidian was right; his kind had all been right. What were his sensibilities but a thin garment he wore to conceal his true nature from others; from himself. A sickening fear oozed into him that his revulsion of what was happening to the Tribe down at the Poisoned Field might be nothing more than an attempt at denying the appetite in his blood at this rare chance to fully experience, to soak in the misery of the Plainsmen; to savour the torture of these barbarians he chose to fool himself he loved.
Wild with the torment of these thoughts, he ran to clutch the mother tree. He laid his cheek upon her soft bark. He could feel the power in her coming up from the good earth. She cleansed him. She gave him the courage to believe it was not wholly a Master's heart that beat within him. Salvation came from the love he bore Poppy, Fern, Akaisha and the Tribe. A love he had to believe in or else be lost, not knowing who nor what he was.
Tentatively, he released the tree and folded his arms over his chest, trying to catch any vestige of the warmth Poppy had left when her body had trembled against his. He could not abandon her. Whatever Fern had said, or Akaisha, his place today of all days was with these people who had given him love in spite of what he was. He must share their suffering. He began to mutter to himself, listing arguments why he would not really be putting the Tribe in danger.
'No one could see me. No one would expect to. Least of all the childgatherer. How would he guess that one of the Seraphim would choose to conceal himself painted in mud among barbarians.'
He shook himself free of this mood. He had to do this now or not at all. Before self-hatred could weaken his resolve any further, he made off in the direction he had seen Fern go; a direction which he knew led over the hill and eventually down to the Poisoned Field.
The air was deathly still as Carnelian crept around the Crag. He could hear nothing but the sound his feet made on the path. Peering down the slope into the Grove, he saw the branches of the mother trees were mute. It was as if they were listening out for their lost children. In that frozen world, he alone seemed to be capable of movement.
The clearing that lay below the Ancestor House was filled with amber heat. He groaned at the shock of passing into it from the shadows. He ran down the clearing to its further end, panting relief as he regained the cool, concealing shade.
On the edge of the rootstair he could see meandering down between the cedars, he paused to peer in the direction where he knew the Poisoned Field lay, but could see nothing through the meshing canopy. He descended the stair until he reached a fork. The right hand one led to the Northgate; the left one, to the childgatherer. Today, he could feel in his stomach why the Tribe called it the Sorrowing. He forced himself down it lest his doubts should make a coward of him.
The Sorrowing brought him within sight of the Childsgate. Wary of the light pouring through onto the stair, Carnelian left it, slipping under the cedars, aware he was trespassing on the rootearth of another hearth. Picking his way over roots, he made his way down the slope, approaching the Homeditch with stealth.
When he reached one of the cedars bordering the ditch, he crushed his back against it and closed his eyes. It was a while before he could hear anything over the beating of his heart. Then eerie silence. Carefully he turned and, clamping his chest to the trunk, he edged round. Every crack and channel in the tree's russet skin was starkly visible. Every tendril of moss, each molten glowing drip of resin. At last one eye was able to look out over the Poisoned Field.
The Tribe were formed up on the other side of the Homeditch, with their backs to it. Looking out over them were creatures from another world, with faces of pure sunlight from behind whom rose a billowing cloud of purple speared through with poles that were shafts of light topped with spiralling fire. Carnelian tried to still the beating heart of his terror. Ammonites, they were only ammonites catching the sun on their silver masks. His eye was drawn squinting to the centre of their glaring line. Some giant stood there, an alarming monster with two heads, masks; no, it was just the green and the black face standards of the God Emperor, rising up behind a chair that seemed to be made of shimmering water.
It was his heart that made him search for Poppy. He was forced to move around the tree and peer out the other side. She must be there beneath the Crying Tree, in among the massing of rosy brown skin that was the naked children of the Tribe. When Carnelian glimpsed the face of a mother or father, he saw it wore a strange passivity. Even the youngest looked old. Only their eyes moved, furtively, as if they feared they were being watched.
A throaty fanfare broke out, so harsh, so terrifying, Carnelian clapped his hands to his ears. He located the source of the sound: three ammonites, the lips of their fiery masks fixed to the mouthpieces of curving trumpets whose bellies were sunk into the dead and ashen earth. His attention was arrested by an apparition rising up from behind the platform like a sun, its perfect face, of metal, flashing. Dragging its purple brocades, accompanied by a staff of ammonites, the Gatherer came to the edge of the platform and looked out over the assembled Tribe. Wherever he looked, light moved over the crowd of covered heads, as if sunrays were leaping from his eyes.
'We are come from the paradise that lies within the Mountain at the centre of the world.' The clear Vulgate rang the silver of the Gatherer's face. 'Come as the emissary of the God and their angels to speak to you their commands. Obey them as you have always done. The tribute you give to them of your flesh should be a thing of joy to you. Those of your children chosen here today will at the proper time be given to them. They are to be considered fortunate indeed whom the God and his angels consider worthy to be their slaves. Shall you obey them?'
Carnelian broke free of the compulsion to gape and glanced at the sullen faces of the Tribe, knowing that few of them could have understood. But then, as one, the crowd rumbled: 'As they command so shall it be done.' A response in Vulgate many could only have learned as sounds.
The Gatherer waited for them to fall silent and then sat himself down upon the silver chair. At a lifting of his hand, one of the ammonites nearby let drop a length of glimmering string Carnelian knew must be a beadcord record.
'At the last audit, how many of the male gender?' the Gatherer asked.
The ammonite felt a portion of the cord. 'Eighteen twenties, and eleven, my master.'
'How many of the female gender?'
'One four-hundred and three, my master.'
'How many creatures in this tribe?'
'One four-hundred, eighteen twenties and fourteen, my master.'
'How many live offspring are projected by the Wise for this octad?'
'Eighteen twenties and twelve.'
'How many were not delivered to the Mountain?'
'Six, my master.'
The number to be chosen is therefore…?' 'A twenty and eighteen.' 'Ignoring the fractional part?' 'Precisely so, my master.'
The Gatherer turned his polished face towards the Plainsmen and cocked it slightly to one side. 'Are we not generous then in this calculation of your flesh tithe?'
The Tribe seemed to have been turned to stone. Mouths were lines. Eyes shadowed by hatred did not move their narrow stare from the mirror of the Gatherer's face.
As he threw up his hands, their honey-gold betrayed him to be a marumaga in whose veins some tiny portion of the blood of the Masters ran.
'You may petition us now.'
The Elders of the Tribe were let through, each accompanied by a youngster. Carnelian looked for but could not discern which of them was Akaisha. The Elders seemed suddenly very old as they leant on the youngsters and climbed the few steps to a shelf that lay below the Gatherer's feet. Slowly, painfully, they slid down to sitting. The wealth of salt in their hair seemed dull and mean in comparison with the flashing silver of the Gatherer's face.
'Petition me,' he said again, impatiently.
For an age the Gatherer and the Elders negotiated, the process made necessarily slow by those among the Elders who spoke Vulgate having to translate for those who did not. At last, one of the Elders stood to face the Tribe. Carnelian saw it was Harth.
They asked for thirty-eight, which takes into account the marked children who died before they were taken to the Mountain.' She paused. Her posture spoke of defeat. 'We've managed to reduce their demand by three.'
It was a small victory but Carnelian could see how much hope it gave the Tribe.
'Begin,' said the Gatherer.
Everyone craned to see the children creep forwards towards the ammonites. Those who could not yet walk were carried by those who could. Carnelian watched the first few being clasped in the hands of the ammonites, shrinking from their instruments and the reflections of themselves they could see distorted in their masks.
In ones and twos, the rejected were forced to plunge their hands into jars of black paint and then were released, coming tottering back into the arms of their families. Others, however, were driven up the steps to the Gatherer. One at a time they were given to him. He took their heads and squeezed, felt their bones, his fingers controlling their squirming as if they were nothing more than fish. He forced their mouths to gape by putting pressure on the hinges of their jaws and peered inside. He prised their eyelids open. Watching this, the faces of those waiting in line creased with terror. One little boy looked out across the Tribe screaming for his mother. Breaking, a woman's voice answered him. At the sound the children on the platform began whimpering. More women shrilled names, encouragements. The Tribe began to lose their sullen composure as their agony began bleeding out of them in a wailing. Carnelian felt himself being unmanned by the sound. He lived again the day he was forced to abandon his people on the island to famine. It was only the hard faces of some of the men that helped him retain control. He chewed his tongue like them and ground his teeth and clenched his fists against the lust for violence.
And so it continued as the sun rose high and scorched them and then began sinking. Carnelian's legs ached from standing too long, but he would not even allow himself to seek the relief of crouching when he saw how the Tribe were bearing their pain.
The Gatherer examined one child after another, sending some down to the tattooists with their needles, releasing the rest to have their hands blackened. The mothers of these rejected children would push through the press and grab them, shrieking with joy. The other mothers looked on these scenes with a kind of hatred, before resuming their bleak vigil.
Carnelian could not see the selected children among the tattooists, but could hear their moaning, their cries for their fathers and mothers as the glyphs were pricked into their palms. These too would find release at last into their mother's arms. Many stumbled as they ran, dropping the small pieces of cloth they had been given to staunch the bleeding. The bloody palms would be stared at in the vain attempt to read there how much time they had before they must be sent away.
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.