Blood Red Road

the bunkhouses an stream across to the open space. Men, women an even a few children. In front of the platform, they start to dance wildly, swayin an spinnin an leapin high over the fire-buckets. The growin throb of the drumbeats fills the night.
    The Tonton drummers start to chant an the slaves join in. No words. Sounds from deep in their throats. The Tonton sway an twirl. The slaves leap an spin.
    There’s movement around the Palace. Torches light the path from the house down to the fields.
    Epona’s still got the looker. She holds it to her eyes. Somethin’s happenin, she says. Then she sucks in a breath. Ohmigawd, she whispers. Ohmigawd. I don’t believe it.
    What? I says. What is it?
    She shakes her head as she hands me the looker. Her eyes is wide.
    Like she’s jest seen a ghost.

    I train the looker on the Palace.
    Vicar Pinch stands on the steps.
    My heart slams to a stop. Then it starts racin. It cain’t be, I says. He’s dead!
    What? says Jack. You don’t mean Pinch? The King’s alive?
    Yeah, I says. But I seen him. He was dead. I swear he was dead.
    The devil ain’t so easy to kill, says Ike.
    Pinch is dressed all in gold. Short puffy britches, stockins an high heeled shoes. Over top of it all, he wears a splendrous golden robe trimmed with white fur. The robe sweeps down to the floor an trails behind him. It’s crusted with sparklin stones, bits of lookin glass an shimmer discs. He’s got white hair today. Long curls reach down past his shoulders. Tower high above his forehead.
    His face is painted gold too. Some kinda paint with sparkles in it. He poses with his walkin stick at the top of the steps. The torchlight plays on him. He shines in the darkness, like the sun come down to earth. The Sun King.
    Suddenly I notice that he’s favorin his left leg.
    I crouch down, peer unner the landboat .
    Vicar Pinch lies on the ground. His right leg splays out at a strange angle .
    He’s hurt his leg, I says. Must of happened when the landboat flipped over on him.
    Four boy slaves lift the ends of his robe. Then two of the biggest Tonton come an lift him carefully. They carry him down the steps an hand him into a sparklin golden car chariot that’s waitin there. The boys arrange his robes. Then six Tonton pick the chariot up by the handles an start down the torchlit path towards the chaal fields.
    I track ’em with the looker as they head fer the open space where the platform is. Pinch’s chariot squeezes through the heavin crowd of slaves, still chantin an dancin. They reach up their hands, frantic to touch him. The Tonton carriers kick an shove people away. They carry the chariot up the stairs onto the platform an set it down in the middle.
    Then they lift him out. His shimmerin robes billow in the night wind. They carry him up the steps to the smaller platform, an sit him on the golden chair. Then the Tonton take his chariot an leave.
    I’m startin to git that feelin agin. The jumpy feelin, deep in my gut, that means somethin big’s about to happen. I don’t know ezzackly what it is, but I’m gonna be ready fer it. I used to git it before I went into the Cage.
    It’s the red hot. It’s on the rise.
    Let’s git down there, I says.

    We keep low. Me an Jack an Ike an Epona run between the rows of chaal bushes. We duck unner the irrigation troughs. We reach the edge of the open space.
    We crouch down behind the chaal bushes. They’re so thick with leaf that they give us good cover. The slaves seem to be in a frenzy. They leap over the firebuckets. They dance an chant an spin. The drums vibrate inside me. The stomp of feet shakes the ground. The flutes squeal. The sweet smell of burnin chaal leaf fills the air.
    Vicar Pinch sits in his golden chair. DeMalo stands to one side of him. There’s another Tonton on his other side. Pinch is holdin somethin in his hand that looks like a big horn. He lifts it in front of his mouth. I see his lips movin, like he’s sayin somethin, but there’s too much noise with the drums an chantin.
    DeMalo whips a shooter out from inside his robe. Shoots it into the air. Three times. The shots crack through the air with a little flash.
    It’s such a shock that everythin stops. Jest like that. The drums, the dancin, the chantin.
    That ain’t no bolt shooter! I whisper to Jack.
    It’s a firestick, says Jack. Stay outta its way, whatever you do.
    The slaves face the platform, pantin fer breath. Their faces an bodies shine with sweat by the firelight an their