The custom is perhaps a hundred years old, that at some time on the eve of the Festival of Fools — nobody knows the moment exactly, but it comes between sundown and ten o’clock — a boy on a white horse will ride through Palace Square with a jingly cap on his head and carrying a long whip that has a soft silken tassel at the end. He cavorts around the square sassing the crowd and being pelted with flowers; at last he flicks his whip at one man and one woman, choosing them to be King and Queen of the Fools for the next twenty-four hours. They’re hustled up to a throne that stands waiting on the steps of the presidential palace, and the President himself comes out to crown them. He kneels to them, with considerable ritual, not all of it comic. The custom of washing the feet of the King and Queen had gone obsolete in Dion’s time, but-
It happened to Nickie and me. I ought to have foreseen it. The crowd was large, the light failing, nevertheless my lady’s face must have stood out among the other pretty girls in the crowd like a diamond among glass ornaments; I was obviously her companion, and I have red hair. The boy on his white horse bore down on us, making the crowd give way so that his whip could reach us. Then the people were closing in, laughing, kind, noisy-drunk and heavyhanded, carrying us up to the throne on their shoulders. And the Regent, Dion Morgan Morganson of Nuin, appeared in his fancy dress, and seeing Niche — frightened I know she was, rumpled by the crowd’s well-meant horseplay, staring straight in front of her — Dion went pale to the lips. Presently he was ordering one of the attendants to bring the silver basin that had formerly been used in this ceremony — I too ignorant to know this was unexpected — and he washed our feet although it had not been part of the ritual for thirty years.
“And distrusting myself,” said Dion — speaking here in our airy shelter on the island Neonarcheos, his arm around his lovely bedmate Nora Severn, and hearing as I did how a sea wind was wavering through the warm rain — “distrusting myself, I needed you, Miranda. Later on—” he said this with something more than courtesy — “I found out I needed Davy too, and the cockeyed useful way the little devil has of looking at things and speaking out.”
I was aware, on that eve of the Festival of Fools, that Dion had loved my woman before ever I knew her. It was years before, actually, for he was fifteen when she was born. Her mother Serena St. Clair-Levison was Dion’s first cousin. He was often with the family, and used to carry the baby around before she could walk. Her first clear word, spoken when he was swinging her up to the ceiling, was Di-yon… I could not have avoided knowing it, hearing him speak her name in a helpless, explosive way, there on the steps of the presidential palace when he was holding her little brown foot in his hands. It is not, today, the love of a very young man for a child, since Nickie is not a child. It is the love of friends, and on his side, more than that. We have been able to speak of it a little, the three of us; we do not when Nora Severn is with us, though she knows of it. It is not something that could be solved by a three-marriage, as Adna-Lee Jason and her lovers have done. Dion and I are are both too possessive, and Nickie is certain that for us it would not be the answer. Nay then, how much of our human complexity is our own fault!
“I think,” said Nora Severn, “that a man who knows the old dangers of autocracy, watches for them in himself — why isn’t such a man better as a governor than one who might have less self-knowledge? Not that I’m urging it — you’re more fun as a private citizen.”
She was wearing nothing but a little skirt, like most of our girls. Blonde and delicious, you wouldn’t think to look at Nora almost naked that she’s an expert weaver and spinner, so deft and imaginative that some of the older women have asked her for instruction. At work, she never spends a second of waste motion, though every thin steady finger seems to possess an independent life. She is trying sculpture too, claiming to be no good at it, and has searched the island for usable clay.
“Some of the time back yonder,” Dion said, “I’m afraid I liked being His Excellency by grace of God and the Senate Regent in Our Very Present Emergency — hoo boy! The emergency was good for eight years and would still be perking if we hadn’t been kicked out. I thmk the term ‘emergency’ originally meant ‘until His Excellency Morgan the Third by grace of God and the Senate President of the Commonwealth shall have the gracious goodness to cork off.’ But then time spun on and on, and it came to mean ‘that period extending from the time your Excellency got away with it until such time as your Excellency can by grace of God and the Senate be safely booted the hell out…’”
* * *
We were obliged to stay in East Perkunsvil until after Jed’s funeral. But for Vilet we’d have been forced to do a sneakout, for Sam and I between us hadn’t anything like the money needed for the expected religious performances, yet we were thought to be aristocrats and loaded with it — dear Jed, he would have explained it was a punishment on us for lying to the guard that evening. No doubt religion had to be invented for such gentle and simple minds, and perhaps they can’t get along without it any more than I can get along with it. Vilet had enough salted away in her sack to meet the expenses, and now — why, now Vilet was a pilgrim and didn’t want money.
She rejoined us that frightful morning after a long private session with Father Fay, and gave Sam what Father Delune had told her would be the cost of a good ceremony, our humble way of showing God that we understood and loved Jed for the martyr he was. She told us then how Father Fay had accepted her as a pilgrim, with the prospect that she might some day become sufficiently purified to take the veil. Maybe only Father Fay could have given Vilet that much comfort and saved her, as I hope he did, for the human race. In the same degree, maybe no one but Father Delune could have helped me so nicely along the path of heresy. I wanted to suggest to him that if God was all-knowing he might be able to catch on without our blowing everything on a church performance, and, if he was really all-knowing, how about asking him what the hell good Jed’s martyrdom did to anyone, beginning with Jerry? I said nothing at all of course, mindful of Sam’s neck as well as my own, but my religious feeling ended just about then. I have never missed it.
I felt Vilet’s quiet when she talked to us after that time with Father Fay: quiet and distance, yet she didn’t seem a stranger. I had never understood the hidden existence of a nun in her, cool dim sister to the warm lovable wrestlingpartner who’d opened her good flesh to me many times. The nun was in charge now, staring somewhat blindly out of the face of a woman who had in the last few hours aged twenty years. I don’t think she asked Sam and me what we meant to do. She lost track of her words now and then, as if following sonic discourse in another room. Father Fay max’ have given her a penance — shirt to wear — her smock looked ridgv and she moved carefully like one in physical pain. Her left eye was blinking in a tic i’d never seen before. The pilgrims were conducting a private prayer-meeting of initiation for her soon — after which, she told us, she must not so much as speak to any male except Father Fay until the penitential part of her pilgrimage was done. Leaving us, she kissed me on both cheeks and told me to be a good boy.
I saw her once again, dressed in white with the other pilgrims, at the funeral two days later. If she knew where we were sitting she thought best not to look our way… It seems to me now that I loved her a great deal, maybe as much as I loved Caron who is probably dead.
* * *
I remember now a decree I pronounced from that throne on the steps of the presidential palace. The evening was wearing on; they’d brought us a musky wine that went to our heads. I decreed that everyone without exception must immediately live happily ever afterward; somehow I could think of no more fitting decree from a King of the Fools.
19
After the funeral — dismal enough it was, and our Jed would have thought it finer than he deserved — Sam and I didn’t wait for the coach that might go by on Saturday, but decided to chance it on foot at least as far as Humber Town.
In East Perkunsvil after the disaster I heard virtually no talk about the t
iger, and not even a sidelong mention of his possible return. The village Guide brought back his hunting party the next day — sorry, angry men they were when they heard the news — and in the afternoon men went out to cultivate the corn patches with no protection but a couple of bowmen. That night also, men were outside minding watchfires, not against tiger but just to keep the grazing creatures away from the corn. Hunters and old wives and other founts of absolute wisdom agree that unless old or sickly, a tiger will attack a particular village only once in a season, and then move on. It could even be true, though I doubt it.
The senseless, accidental quality of the event was what shook and overwhelmed me, I think. Sam stood by me; we didn’t talk much; he was just there, letting me be alone with myself in his presence. Nickie is the only other I’ve known who can do that.[20] When the funeral was over and we were on the road again, I was beginning to understand how if there is any order, meaning or purpose in the human condition, human beings must make it themselves.
We made an early morning start. On such a summer morning, a west wind running along the hills and the sun not quite risen, a freshness everywhere, a ripple of birds’ music, a glimpse of a whitetail deer slipping into the daytime secrecy of the forest, the warmth of the present and the surging life of your own blood make up the whole aspect of truth — how else could it be?
Humber Town is a busy and ambitious place, too small for a city, too large for a village — say about six or seven thousand population and, to use a quaint local expression, growing all the time. On the road Sam and I chewed over a few plans but settled nothing. I still desired Levannon, and the ships. But I had been noticing how often a plan is a scribble on the wind. Sam allowed that, to keep us going, he might look up some journeyman carpentry or mason work — he knew both trades — in Humber Town. He agreed it would be safest to move over into Levannon, if there stifi was a war going on by the time we reached Albany on the Hudson Sea. At East Perkunsvil the only war news they had was whispery rumors about a battle at Chengo in the west, and another on the Hudson coast a little north of Kingstone, barely outside Katskil territory.
Sam and I had not spoken at all of the relation that might exist between us. But as we were coming up to the gates of Huinber Town I said: “If’n you want to be my Da and I want it thataway, it maybe don’t matter if I was or wa’n’t out’n the actual seed?”
“Why, that’s about the way I had it lined up to myself, Davy,” he said. He’d been calling me Jackson as usual that morning. “We might leave it at that…”
The gate guard was happy about something, which made him show uncommonly good manners for a policer. As he let us in I heard the brisk tinkle and thrill of a mandolin somewhere. Then a drum was warming up oom-ta-ta oom-ta-ta, and a flute and a pretty sharp cornet jumped in, not quarreling at all, with the “Irish Washerwoman.” It was happening out of sight around a curve of the main street, not far away. Wherever the Washerwoman came from, and I believe it was Old Time, she’s a grand durable quail and always welcome. “There they go!” the guard said to us, and I saw his feet were interested, and so were mine. “Best damn gang ever was here. You be strangers to Humber Town?”
“I was by, yeahs ago. Sam Loomis, and this ’ere’s my boy Jackson — Jackson David Loomis. Who be they, sounding off?”
“Rumley’s Ramblers.”
“Ayah?” said Sam. “Well, that comet’s got a power into it, but he don’t blow as good as my boy…”
A small idle crowd was already lounging at the rail fence that bordered the town green, though no special show was going on and it was only mid-morning, when most of the townfolk would be at work. The musicians had drifted together and tuned up to amuse themselves, that was all. But nobody with ears and eyes would just walk by, not with Bonnie Sharpe cross-legged on the grass tickling her mandolin, and Minna Selig with her banjo, and Stud Dabney teasing his drum to funny stuff with his white head stuck out over it and his squabby body in a kind of crouch, like a snowy owl about to fly away. Little Joe Dulin was there too tweedling his flute, and big Tom Blame stood back of him — far back, following a rule of his own, for Tom always insisted he couldn’t make his cornet cough up a decent tone unless there was a plug of good tobacco stuffing a hole where a couple of teeth were long gone, which meant spitting at the end of near-about every bar; and he couldn’t spit good, he claimed, unless he was free to swing his head real liberal and fair warning to the world. Uhha, Tom was there in all his glory, as Sam and I joined the other loafers to rest our feet on the rails — Long Tom Blaine pointing his crazy comet at the sky, a man drinking music and turning his head quick as a cat to spit and drink again. Hoy, so I’m running on ahead of myself and don’t care. These were people I soon began to know and love; when I touched my pen their names came tumbling out.
The green was large and nicely designed — everything appeared spacious and rather different in Humber Town, or else I’m remembering it better than it was because that was where a good time of my life began, my time with Rumley’s Ramblers. The wagons made a neat square within the green; I saw the big randy pictures and strong colors all over the canvas tops and sides, and the well-fed heavy-muscled mules tethered out where they could find shade and space to move about without bothering anyone.
Rumley’s was a good-sized gang, with four of the large covered mule-wagons and two of the ordinary kind for hauling gear and supplies. The covered wagons — nothing like the rattletrap vans the gyppos use — are for the gang to dwell in whether they’re on the move or in camp. One long covered wagon can provide cubby-hole quarters for more than eight people with their possessions, and you won’t be too cramped so long as the clothes and things — dudery, to use the Rambler word — are properly stashed away. It’s a thing you learn, and once you do, why, it’s rather like living on shipboard and is not a bad way to live at all.
The musicians had polished off the Washerwoman by the time Sam and I got there. The girl with the mandolin was strumming aimlessly; the other had put down her banjo, and when she caught my eye and maybe Sam’s her hand went up to her black curls in that feminine hair-fixing motion which goes back to the time when (Old-Time science says) we were living in unsanitary caves and women had to pay attention to the hairdo so that the mammothbones they got hit with would bounce gracefully. Minna Selig was a charming bundle, but then so was Bonnie Sharpe. For some tinie — near six months as I remember — I could hardly focus on one without being suddenly hornswoggled by the other. They planned it that way.
The flute-player and the cornet man strolled a little way off and settled down with a deck of cards. I saw a tall broad-shouldered gray-headed woman, barefoot and dressed in a faded blue smock, come out to sit on the letdown back step of one of the big covered wagons and smoke a clay pipe in solid comfort. The white-haired drummer, the snowy owl, had quit his music too but stayed by the girls, fiat on his back with an ancient flopperoo of a farmer’s straw hat over his face and his drumsticks weighting it down in case a sudden wind should rise and find him disinclined to move. Stud Dabney was tremendous at that sort of thing: Pa Rumley called him the original God-damned inventor of peace and quiet. He devoted such enormous thought to working out new ways of being restful that it sometimes made him dreadfully tired, but he claimed this was in a good cause, and he’d keep it up b’ Jesus ’n’ Abraham, no matter if it wore him out into an early grave. He was sixty-eight.
That gray-haired woman on the wagon-steps had caught my attention about as strongly as the girls. It was her calm, I think. She’d done her morning chores and was enjoying the lazy break, but it was more than that. She spread calm around her, as other people may spread atmospheres of uneasiness or lust or whatever. Well, after I had known the lady quite a while — two years later, I think, when I was past sixteen — Mam Laura remarked to me that she thought her even disposition was partly a result of her trade of fortune-telling. “You can’t,” she said, “predict anything downright awful to the yucks, that’s obvious — bad for business even if th
ey could take it, which they can’t. But I’ve got an old yen after truth inside me, Davy, same as your father has. So while I dream up sugartits of prophecy to happily the yucks and send ’em away imagining they amount to something, I’m thinking to myself about the actual happenings likely to come upon ’em — and upon me, merciful winds! — this side of death. It’s sobering, calming, Davy. Including the small happenings — I mean the ten million little everyday samenesses that leave you weathered after a while like an old rock, like me, like an old rock in sandy winds. Ai-yah, and after such thinking inside of me while I prophesy, I’m beat but sort of cleaned out too, peaceful, feel like acting nice to people for a change and mostly keeping my shirt on. Philosophy’s what it is, Davy — nay, and there’s another advantage of Rambler life (which I prophesy you’ll not be living all your days — you have a complicated future, love, too complicated for an old woman) and that is, a Rambler woman at my age (never mind what that is) can afford a smidgin of philosophy, the way I believe a woman can’t if she’s running the house and trying to fathom where romance went to and what in thunderuption ails her teener daughters…” She was spreading calm around her that first morning I saw her, smoking her pipe and studying everyone within her view but not seeming to.
I fidgeted against the fence rail and said: “Sam, for honest — how good do I blow that horn?”
“All I can do about music is like it. Can’t even no-way sing. You blow it, to me it sounds good.”
Davy Page 21