The Texts Of Festival (6 page)

In his youth things had been different. He had grown to manhood in the Western Commune, a busy healthy community organised in the spirit of the text and the writings of the legendary, pre-disaster heroes. He remembered the great names Mao, Huey, Guevara, Angela and Brother John, and the way life in the commune had run on lines of open equality; how they had tackled the problems of reconstructing a culture out of the chaos left behind after the death of the great civilisation.

Of course life had been hard; the ruined soil and poisoned rivers didn’t yield a lot to live on but, little by little, they had managed to bring life back to the tainted land. Then the conflicts of the outside world had begun to threaten their work, and Joe had been elected to lead the people’s army against the savage tribes who had grown from the greaser gangs that had survived through the disaster years.

The sadness had begun when he had returned from the final campaign. His victorious men and women had returned from the October battle to find the commune fallen into decay. Dogmatism had replaced enlightenment, and the wisdom of the old writings was ignored in a fury of blind worship for the memory of the writers. Reluctantly he had offered his army the choice of staying in the commune, with its narrow code and ideological witch hunts, or following him to find some kind of free life. Most had followed and the commune had closed its doors on the outside world and become a tight, isolated community. Eventually Starkweather and his people had drifted to Festival and had been absorbed by it. The lords had welcomed him; he had organised its military. The years of peace had made him soft. An ageing, half-forgotten hero who clung to a few neglected principles that would probably die with him.

Joe limped along the south wall. The pain in his damaged leg decreased in the morning sun. In front of him, beside the Arena Gate, a group of courtiers craned over the wall, laughing and shouting, obviously amused by some spectacle taking place at the foot of the wall.

Joe leaned over the parapet. It was a merchant punishment; a small fat man was being cut down from a post that had been erected by the base of the wall. To one side, armed retainers guarded four prisoners who were roped together at the neck. Nearer the post a group of merchants, one wearing the fur trimmed silk robes of a justice, stood and watched. A huge retainer with a long whip stood stripped to the waist and waiting for his next victim. The guards holding back the crowd of spectators allowed two to come through and help the fat man away. Another prisoner was dragged forward, this time a young woman. The guards secured her hands in the leather straps fixed high on the post and then slit the back of her dress so it fell around her hips. The merchant in justice robes read something, inaudible to Joe, from a paper. The retainer flicked his whip, as though testing it. As the first blow fell and the girl screamed, Joe turned away and walked off in the direction from which he had come.

Humanity was a long way from the founders’ conception of a non-authoritarian society.

Frankie Lee stood in the crowd and watched as Claudette got ten. It was always really bad, what with the crowd, the nobles shouting and laughing on the wall. Frankie winced as another blow fell and Claudette’s body twisted and squirmed, tugging against the sweat-stained bands that held her wrists. The crowd always had itself a time when the retainers pulled in a woman, gawping at her hanging from the black polished post, stripped to the waist.

Another blow fell, and Claudette screamed and writhed against the post as the whip left another red weal across the brown skin of her back. Frankie gave thanks for the bystanders who had sworn that he had killed the country boy in self defence. If they hadn’t come across he’d be strapped to the post himself, and it wouldn’t be only ten he’d be getting. It was too bad about Claudette; she was a fool to try stealing purses from merchants who were still sober.

The last blow fell; Claudette shuddered and sagged against the post. Her head was sunk between her shoulders and her long dark hair hid her face. Frankie Lee pushed through the crowd. The least he could do was to help her back to the Last Chance.

Isaac Feinberg was crouched over his bench in the sound shack to one side of the Stage. He squinted into the interior of the stripped-down amplifier and probed with a screwdriver. Each year more of the equipment disintegrated, and in the not-too-distant future it would no longer be possible to put out any sound from the Stage at all. He hoped he would be already dead by then; he didn’t want to be the one to tell the high lord that there would be no more text ceremonies. In the meantime, he would go on trying to patch up the ancient circuitry, pay foragers to hunt down spares, and try to build substitutes for the simpler parts. He knew, though, that it was a losing fight.

The whole thing was ridiculous anyway. At the time Festival had been founded, the dark years of chaos after the disaster, any weird idea had seemed viable to the tiny percentage who had missed death or mindless idiocy. When Homer, the original lord, had led his troop of survivors out of the drowning ruins of ’Ndunn, the idea of founding a festival modelled on the old legendary Events and the hope that in it, men and women could rediscover the old ways and the best of the old spirit was, to the shattered survivors, no more absurd than many of the other survival schemes that had sprung up after the disaster.

Most of those schemes had failed while Festival had, for some reason, flourished and grown to become a bustling city. As the years had passed, the ideas that Homer had used to encourage his people were taken more and more literally. The celebrations that had taken place in Homer’s time had become stylised rituals, the music they had brought from the ruins as a means of enjoyment had gradually been adopted as the divine basis of society. The songs had become the texts, the final appeal for all people in Festival; used as if they were holy relics, containing obscure but divine wisdom.

Feinberg wondered why he bothered coaxing ancient, broken sound gear to go on working, so that the textkeepers and the lords could indulge their obscure foolishness. He was too old to change now. Let them build up their walls, hold their rituals; he’d fix the equipment as long as he could. His father and grandfathers had done it before him, he couldn’t give up now. Better to take pride in the absurd role of Soundmanager to the lords of Festival than to have no pride at all.

‘Just my foolish pride,’ he muttered. They even had a text that covered it. At least he had no son to saddle with the lifelong job of tinkering with failing equipment in the tiny shack high in the supports of the vast spidery structure of the great Stage. He shouted for his apprentice, and the boy appeared in the shack doorway. Feinberg pointed to the stripped amplifier.

‘Finish putting this together. I’m goin’ to the Last Chance for a brew. Old Joe should be there about now lookin’ for a chess game.’

Frankie Lee and Wimp, one on either side, carried the semiconscious Claudette back to the Last Chance.

Fending off the bar flies who gathered for a closer look, they took her into one of the back rooms where they could lay her on a bed. A kid was despatched to find Madame Lou who would have some kind of salve for Claudette’s ravaged back.

‘At least,’ mumbled Frankie cynically, ‘she’s got the consolation that she’ll make a bundle out of pervies who’ll pay to touch her back.’

Madame Lou bustled into the room trailing pendants and draperies. Shooing the two men out of the room, she clucked and started to attend to the girl. Frankie and Wimp went up to the bar and ordered beers. Lazy Henry the bartender brought their drinks and leaned on the bar, as though he wanted to chat.

‘Bad scene, Claudette gettin’ hersel’ hauled in fer ten.’

‘Yeah, too bad.’

‘You coulda got it yoursel’ if that rube hadn’t had a gun.’

Frankie didn’t want to be reminded of the possible consequences of shooting the country boy. Henry leaned closer to Frankie and dropped his voice.

‘I bet she sure wriggled some while she was gettin’ it, huh?’ Henry winked and nudged Frankie’s arm. ‘I like to see a punishment, but the boss said I had to watch the bar. I bet her tits were flyin’ every direction.’

Frankie tried to ignore the barkeep, but Henry went on with his speculation.

‘I woulda really like to ha’ seen it, watch her ass a twistin’ about. I met a guy once who said that some women’ll try, actually try to get hauled in ‘cos they enjoy it. Enjoy it, you believe that, Frankie boy? Huh? You believe that?’

Frankie motioned to Henry to lean closer. He dropped his voice too, mimicking the barman’s insinuating whine. ‘You know what I think, Henry ole buddy?’

‘What?’ Henry looked eager. Frankie raised his voice again suddenly.

‘I think you got a fat pervy mouth that you oughta keep shut.’

Henry jumped and shuffled off wiping his hands on his apron and muttering. Wimp laughed.

The swing doors opened, briefly letting in the morning sun to light up the dust and smoke inside the bar. Joe Starkweather came in, his walking stick rapping on the board floor. He made his way to the corner table and Henry hurried over with old Joe’s regular beer and shot of root spirit. Frankie Lee watched the old man sip his drink. It was funny how a man who could spend his time drinking with lords should choose to come to the Chance almost every morning. Starkweather looked up and beckoned.

‘Hey, Frankie Lee, come over here a minute.’

Frankie walked over to the old man’s table.

‘Take a seat, boy.’ He turned to the bar, ‘Hey Henry, bring another beer.’ He turned back to Frankie Lee.

‘I saw a punishment this morning, a woman gettin’ flogged. It wasn’t a girl from here?’

‘Afraid so. Claudette, sir, she got ten.’

‘What was she supposed to have done?’

‘Clipped a purse off some merchant john. He got home, found it gone and yelled for the retainers.’

‘That’s too bad.’

‘We just brought her back, like.’

‘Is she okay?’

‘Sure, Claudette’s a tough broad. Madame Lou’s with her. Reckon she’ll sleep it off.’

Starkweather tossed back the tumbler of spirit, took a sip of beer and leaned back to fill his pipe.

‘I heard you killed a man, that true?’

‘Self defence, sir. I took a pile off this country boy an’ he went for his gun. Nothin’ else I could do.’

‘Still robbin’ hicks, Frankie, is there nothing else you can do?’

‘It was a straight game, sir. A man’s gotta make a livin’. I value my freedom too much to hire on as a merchant’s watchdog. Anyways the rube was askin’ for it. Like the texts say, one should never be where one does not belong.’

‘The devil quoting scripture?’

‘It’s me name-text, sir?’

‘Listen, you better split, I see Isaac Feinberg comin’ for his chess game. Take care now.’

‘I’ll try, sir.’

Frankie Lee went back to the bar as Feinberg sat down at Starkweather’s table. Henry bustled over with a tray of drinks and the chess board.

6.

The caravan was only a hundred paces from the crest of Ruined Hill, and Big Eddie began to relax. He felt that the muscles in his neck and arms had become stiff with the tension of the climb; he uncurled his hand from around the rail of the cab, realising he had probably been squeezing it for the entire haul up the gradient. He grinned at Mac.

‘Looks like we made it.’

‘Sure does boss, those ruins give me the creeps. I was just waitin’ for a horde of yellin’ savages to come burstin’ outta the undergrowth.’

‘Maybe we’re gettin’ too old, Mac, lookin’ for trouble behind ev’ry bush.’

The big engine breasted the hill top, and Eddie stared out over the broad valley. Covered with high grass, it was such a contrast to the bare brown hills with their clumps of black, diseased trees. Nothing in sight; it looked like a quiet run right through to Festival.

‘Let her run free, Mac, blow out the spooks an’ cobwebs.’

Mac knocked the engine out of gear, and it began to pick up speed. Eddie glanced behind, and grinned as he saw the first mule team cross the top of the hill and break into a gallop. The puller was now rolling free down the slope, much faster than it could ever run on the flat under its own power.

A sudden movement on the hillside caught his eye; then he stared in disbelief as a line of horsemen broke out of the woods and raced down the hillside to intercept the puller at some point further down the highway. Eddie felt his stomach turn over; there must be a hundred or more racing down the slope. He leaped to the gun rack, yelling to Mac to reduce speed. Mac yanked on the gear shift and the grate of tortured metal screamed from inside the machine.

‘I can’t slow ’er, chief, she’ll just strip her gears an’ strand us at the bottom.’

‘Grab a gun, an’ get under cover.’ Eddie ducked as a bullet ricocheted off the boiler. The leading horsemen had opened fire. There was little doubt that they meant business. More bullets thudded into the side of the cab as the first wave of riders drew level with the engine. Eddie let go with one barrel of his shotgun and one rider, a short burly fellow, his head shaved except for a single scalp-lock, dropped from his horse. Mac and Danny were now firing too but there were screaming horsemen on both sides of the cab, keeping up a steady crossfire that made accurate shooting difficult. Then Danny spun and fell against the steering rods. The engine careered across the highway, ploughing through a group of horsemen. Pushing the wounded stoker to one side, Eddie wrestled with the rods to bring the engine back onto the road.

Shouts and scuffling behind him made Eddie turn his head. Mac was clubbing with his gun butt at a thin, wild-eyed outlaw who clung to the outside of the cab, waving a long knife in his free hand. There was a crunch as Mac brought his clubbed gun down on the tattooed hand gripping the cab rail; then the man fell back and was caught by the enormous rear wheels.

Iggy rode flat out to keep pace with the thundering steamer as it rolled headlong down the slope. Every so often it would swerve, side-swiping one of his men and throwing horse and rider screaming to the road. Iggy pumped bullet after bullet into the cab of the big machine, but the speed of the pursuit made it impossible to shoot accurately. His heart pounded from crystal and excitement, his mouth was dry and his lips were drawn back in an animal grin which tightened to a silent scream as the kill-frenzy took control of him. One of his men, loaded beyond rational thought, had leaped onto the side of the puller and, clinging with one hand, was trying to fight his way into the cab. Iggy laughed as the man became dislodged and was crushed by the iron driving wheels. Iggy let go a burst at his man’s opponent who stood for a moment silhouetted in the entrance to the cab.