The Texts Of Festival (10 page)

‘Whassamatta Mose, you’re s’posed to be at the gate.’

‘I know Luther, but I jus’ heard something from a weed buyer who jus’ rode in from Afghan Promise that I thought I oughta come over an’ tell you.’

‘Okay, okay, what is it?’

‘Well, it seems that this fella was in Eggs’s joint in Afghan Promise a few nights ago, an’ Hud an’ his boys come in there an’ start drinkin’ it up. Way I reckon, it musta been their first night out. Anyhow, it seems one of them gets in a fight with some drifter over a chippy, an’ then the drifter’s partners show up an’ shoot the place up. Anyway, like them drifters waste a buncha Hud’s boys an’ split an’ Hud takes off after them soon as his boys are sober enough t’ ride.’

Luther and Starkweather looked at each other, then Luther turned back to the soldier.

‘Did this guy say how many men Hud lost?’

‘He didn’t rightly know, but he figured it musta been around seven, mebbe eight or nine.’

‘An’ the outlaws got away?’

‘Yeah, seems Hud’s boys were really ripped, an’ at least one of these guys had a rapid-fire.’

Luther turned to Starkweather.

‘What are drifters doin’ with rapid-fire guns?’

Starkweather frowned but said nothing. Luther turned back to the trooper.

‘Lissen Mose, you go back to the gate an’ find out all you can, but keep your mouth shut until we have more information.’

Mose returned to his post and Luther shut the door after him. Starkweather sat down looking thoughtful. For a while he stared at the table. Then he looked up.

‘Maybe I’m gettin’ old an’ paranoid, but I just get a vibe of trouble. Real trouble. Outlaws with rapid-fires, an’ looted caravans on the main highway, it’s like somethin’ was brew-in’ in the hills.’

‘I dunno Joe. I jus’ know the lord’s gonna freak out all over the guy who tells him a buncha his boys have been wasted.’

Joe shrugged.

‘That’s Festival, what can you do? Somebody’s gonna have to tell him.’

‘Yeah, but I sure wish it wasn’t down to me.’

Valentine lay entwined with his two women of the previous night. His make-up was smeared and the bedchamber was littered with discarded jugs, broken glass and scattered rugs and cushions. On the floor beside them an overturned silver box spilled crystal onto the carpet. Torn and strewn clothing added further indication of the strenuous evening.

A rapping on the door caused him to stir and turn over. One of the women awoke.

The rapping was repeated. She sighed and sat up. ‘Our lord’s asleep,’ she hissed, ‘go away.’

The voice of a servant came from beyond the door. ‘My lord must prepare for Celebration.’

The girl turned to Valentine and, stroking his hair, whispered to him.

‘My lord.’

Valentine rolled over and buried his face in a pillow.

‘Let me sleep, damn you.’

‘But my Lord…’

‘Leave me alone or I’ll have you on the stake.’

The girl crouched back among the cushions and kept silent while the knocking on the door was repeated. Valentine sat up.

‘Go away, fug you, or I’ll have the skin off your back.’

‘But my lord, Celebration, my lord. You gave orders to be awakened.’

Valentine stood up and wrapped a robe around himself. Throwing the door open he seized the servant by the front of his tunic.

‘Who told you to come disturbing my sleep?’

‘Lazarus, my lord.’

The man stammered, wide-eyed with fright. Valentine suddenly released him and he staggered back into the corridor.

‘Fetch me beer and a fresh box of crystal, an’ don’t hang about or you’ll regret it. And send Lazarus up here.’

The servant scuttled away, and Valentine turned back into the room where the two naked girls sat nervously in the big bed. He waved his hand towards the door.

‘Out! Take your clothes an’ get back to the Drag or wherever it is you were brought from.’

The girls hastily squirmed into their clothes and hurried from the room, passing Lazarus who came in with a tray in one hand and a freshly pressed suit of clothes over his arm.

‘I’ve brought your clothes, my lord, a jug of cold beer, an’ a box of crystal.’

Valentine grunted.

‘What kinda day is it?’

‘The sun is up, my lord, an’ it looks as though it might be fine.’

Valentine sat down and swallowed a draught of beer. He took a generous hit of crystal and shook his head.

‘My mouth tastes like a sanitation pit.’

‘Is there anything else I can get you, my lord?’

‘No! Just shut your mouth an’ help me dress. Did you bring the black satin?’

Half an hour later Valentine, in his ceremonial satin tunic and trousers and high leather boots, strode into the formal audience room where the textkeepers and officers of the guard waited for him, bowing as he entered.

‘Is Feinberg here?’

Wheatstraw, the senior textkeeper, bowed.

‘He sent word that he would be here shortly; he is makin’ adjustments to the equipment balance.’

Valentine scowled and sat down.

‘His belief that he is irreplaceable is making him insolent. You,’ he pointed at a guard, ‘go fetch the old fool.’

Before the guard could comply, the door opened and Isaac Feinberg bustled in. He smiled benignly round the assembly.

‘I think the equipment should work okay, maybe even the after-dark lights.’

Valentine pursed his lips.

‘I’m so glad you’re finally satisfied, Mister Feinberg.’ Feinberg appeared not to notice the sarcasm and beamed all the more.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

Valentine stood up.

‘If this tedious performance is to start on time, I suggest we should move to the Stage, now Mister Feinberg has condescended to join us.’

The guards came to attention and the courtiers divided, leaving a clear path to the door; then they fell in behind him as he left the room.

The crowds had been converging on Festival since just after dawn and by just before noon a crowd of nearly ten thousand was packed into Festival’s broad arena.

Frankie Lee moved through the crowds, catching snatches of conversation and drinking in the hustling atmosphere. Everywhere he went the main topic seemed to be the missing caravan and the Afghan Promise shootout. He heard Blind Larry’s strange text repeated and there seemed an extra quality of tension present among the crowd.

None of it seemed to deter the hawkers, beer vendors, whores or pickpockets who did the roaring trade expected at Celebration. Frankie even saw Blind Larry himself, shuffling through the crowd, offering his texts to the waiting throng.

Then the ancient sound system hummed and crackled as power was fed into it. Frankie began to work his way to the front for the best possible view.

‘My lord, the power is running an’ everything is ready.’

Lazarus stood respectfully beside Valentine as Festival society milled in the Backstage refreshment hall, and servants circulated bearing wine and quartered chickens. Valentine, camp-sinister in black satin, held a glass of wine in one hand while with the other he fondled a young woman whose red velvet cape was thrown back to reveal the elaborate designs on her breasts and torso painted in vivid colours that contrasted with her wide, white studded belt and long matching boots.

Valentine turned to face the old Official.

‘Are you telling me that I’m keeping the mob waiting?’

‘Of course not, my lord. It’s just that …’

‘It’s just that you’re trying to hustle me into the private enclosure.’

He looked at the girl.

‘I don’t think this old fool will give me any peace until I take my seat. Shall we go, my dear?’

The girl lowered her eyes.

‘Whatever you wish, my lord.’

Valentine turned towards the Stage entrance, but stopped as he saw Joe Starkweather hurrying towards him. Valentine cursed under his breath. Starkweather was the one man who made him nervous. If it wasn’t for the ridiculous affection that the mob had for the man, he would have disposed of Starkweather years earlier.

‘Ah, Joe Starkweather. You don’t usually attend a Celebration; I thought you boasted little enthusiasm for our simple beliefs?’

Starkweather smiled.

‘I’ve nothing against a pantomime, Lord Valentine. In any case, I needed to speak to you.’

‘I’m just on my way to the enclosure …’

Starkweather cut him short.

‘This won’t take a moment. There’s a guard captain outside who has what I consider vital information.’

‘I don’t think it could be anything that won’t wait until this evening.’

Valentine turned on his heel and hurried from the hall before Starkweather could reply.

‘No rain.’

‘No rain!’

‘No rain.’

‘No rain!’

A junior textkeeper led the crowd in the traditional chant for good weather. The sound system broke into a distorted roar and the crowd cheered the start of the first text.

As the introduction pounded away, four mummers danced onto the Stage carrying their carved instruments, faithful replicas of those in oldtime prints, and wearing the huge grotesque masks, each representing an Author. The voice cut through the blur of electric sound.

‘Unermathum thersagirl
whonce hadme down.’

A ripple went through the crowd as the figure pranced, hand on hip. There were few in the crowd who hadn’t been threatened as tiny children with the figure of evil who would ‘stick his knife right down your throat’.

Group after group of mummers performed on the wide Stage until, just before sunset, a reverent hush fell across the arena as a single figure in a mask with heavily-sunken cheeks, a thin jutting nose and a mass of black curly wig walked slowly to the front of the Stage, and the first of the Great Texts was played.

The symbolic figure of the prophet Dhillon swayed gently as the texts crackled from the ancient speakers. Finally, when the sun had gone down and the holy lights had blossomed into their electric brilliance, the sound faded and the figure walked from the Stage. The crowd shuffled restlessly, anxious to be away to the traditional night of revelry, but aware that until the lord had completed the announcements, there would be no drink served in Festival.

A line of soldiers filed onto the Stage and took up positions at the rear. The senior textkeepers paraded out and finally Valentine himself walked directly to the front of the Stage.

For a moment he acknowledged the forced and scattered applause from the crowd. It was no secret that Valentine was not the most popular lord of Festival.

He quickly intoned the ritual opening announcement.

‘This — one — thing — that — I — was — going — to — wait — awhile — before — I — talked — about — it — but — maybe — we — should — talk — about — it — now — we — are — putting — the — music — up — here — for — free — we — are — bringing — the — food — in — but — the — one — major — thing — you — have — to — remember — that — the — man — there — next — to — you — is — your — brother — and you — better — damn — well — remember — it — or — we — blow — the — whole — thing.’

Valentine paused and a senior textkeeper stepped forward, arms raised, first two fingers on each hand extended.

‘The sign, people, the sign.’

Apathetically the crowd repeated the sign. Valentine spoke again.

‘My people, the giving has been good. Festival prospers and although some may say the spirit does not come to us, no one can deny we live well and with honour. The peace of Festival extends as far as man may travel …’

Valentine stopped as a voice floated clearly over the crowd:

‘Horsepiss!’

A whole section of the crowd took up the cry.

‘Horsepiss!’

‘Horsepiss!’

The soldiers started to move forward as Valentine stood rooted, blood draining from his face. A beer jug shattered against the front of the Stage and a squad of troopers moved into the arena as more shouts came from the crowd.

‘The outlaws are flying out of the west!’

‘The outlaws — what about them?’

‘Bring back Starkweather!’

‘Starkweather!’

Suddenly Valentine’s voice roared over the speakers. ‘Shut up you swine! The Ceremony is over.’

He stalked from the Stage and the soldiers moved in to clear the sullen crowd from the arena.

10.

Elly-May dug her nails into the burly skinner, faking ecstasy as he grunted and humped on top of her. Mentally she cursed herself for turning down a free ride into Festival for Celebration. The revelry there had left Afghan Promise half-empty and she was forced to make a token with tricks like this oaf.

Why couldn’t she find more guys like the drifter who had got into the shootout with the troopers from Festival? He was a crystal freak and fargone too; turning a trick with him probably would have been weird and even painful, but at least he was pretty, and his eyes seemed to reflect more than the usual johns’ that hung round Eggs’s joint.

The skinner gasped and lay still. His dead weight forced her down on the hard bed. She wriggled to ease the bruises that still remained from the beating the soldiers had given her, trying to get information about the drifter.

‘You finished, darlin’?’

The skinner grunted and rolled over. Elly-May got up from the bed, wiped herself and squeezed into her dress. She threw the skinner’s shirt onto the bed.

‘You better get dressed an’ split darlin’; otherwise the boss’ll wanna charge you for twice.’

The skinner raised his head.

‘Stop hustlin’ ya bitch, I’ll go when I’m ready. Got it?’

‘Don’t tell me, darlin’, tell the boss. He makes the rules.’

Despite his protests, the skinner began pulling on his clothes. When he was dressed he came over and tried to grab her. Elly-May ducked under his arm.

‘All right lover boy, you had your fun. If you want any more you gotta pay, or I yell for the boys.’

Muttering, the man stumped out of the small room. Elly-May sat down on the bed and began to re-draw the patterns on her breasts and eyelids with colour sticks from her pouch.

Fug this town, she thought, I don’t know why I bother to get done up for most of these pigs. It wasn’t as though she couldn’t compete with the Festival girls: she had a good figure, breasts that needed no support, a slim waist, long legs. Her face was okay; maybe her nose was small and her mouth was a little too large, but the men seemed to like it that way; and her hair — she was really proud of its natural pure black and the way it hung almost to her waist, like in the text, ‘rolls and flows all down her breast’.