The Texts of Festival

by Mick Farren

  Fingers from the darkness tugged at Jo-Jo’s cloak.

  ‘Wanna space fo’ fun, stranger?’

  Jo-Jo spun round. A youngish woman with the hard smile of the full-time whore stood looking at him. She let her brown, shapeless wrap drop open to display a flash of white breasts and stomach. Jo-Jo grinned.

  ‘Later, babe, later.’

  He’d have a dozen whores at the end of the night but right now his luck was running and he was going to clean up.

  ‘Okay honey, don’t say you missed out.’

  The girl swayed off looking for johns more anxious to play. Jo-Jo moved on, no longer hurrying but content to stroll and savour the atmosphere of the Drag. In front of Harry Krishna’s Last Chance he paused. Maybe he should start with a couple of the smaller joints and build up a stake, but then again he had eight shells and the piece for capital. Why not start at the top?

  Jo-Jo marched up to the swing doors.

  The heat, noise, and smell of weed and spirit hit Jo-Jo like a physical force. Flickering lamps swung under the low-beamed roof and were reflected by the big cracked mirror behind the bar. A guitar player sat on a small raised platform and tried desperately to be heard above the conversation of the fifty or so drifters, hustlers, whores and tribesmen who thronged the bar and crowded around the half-dozen gambling tables.

  The people in any gambling joint can be divided into two strict groups, the hunters and the prey, and although individuals may swap roles the rule remains absolute. One man who prided himself on always running with the hunt was Frankie Lee.

  Frankie Lee sat at his table with the air of a man who owned it. It was the table where everyone knew they could find him; where he took care of business and he ran the game.

  He wore a black velvet frock coat, the kind of pre-disaster relic that marked the successful gambler. The tight rawhide trousers and high-heeled boots also’ had marks of a hustler who had made it, as did the gold earring that glinted as he brushed back his mass of black curly hair. The look of money made him seem taller than his true height which was only medium, and his sharp, weather-beaten face had the look of one who spends a lot of time knowing or at least bluffing that he is right.

  Through the weed smoke and between the line of men and women at the bar, Frankie had noticed the furtive form of Jo-Jo come in. Maybe the loser had ripped himself a stake. Frankie had taken Jo-Jo three times before, this hill boy who fancied himself as a hotshot card player. No matter how he tried to hide his country ways, that Jo-Jo was a rube loser. Frankie sat and waited; Jo-Jo would be over to play him.

  Before coming into the Chance Jo-Jo had jacked four of his shells into the gun. That left him four to play with. He put them on the counter in front of the barkeep.

  ‘Change these into script.’

  ‘Sure,’ the barkeep shuffled away and returned to dump a small pile of tokens and paper on the bar. Jo-Jo pushed a single token towards him.

  ‘Brew.’

  The barkeep handed Jo-Jo a mug of beer. Jo-Jo turned, beer in hand, and faced the room. On the far side of the room Frankie Lee pretended not to notice him. Tonight, Jo-Jo thought, tonight I’ll clean out that superior mother. He swallowed his beer and made his way through the crowd to where Frankie sat.

  ‘Hi there, Frankie Lee.’

  ‘Greetin’ rube, have a seat.’

  Frankie Lee grinned at him, flashing his gold tooth. Yeah, thought Jo-Jo, tonight you are really going to pay for riding me. Frankie riffled the deck of worn dirty cards.

  ‘What’s your pleasure, rube?’

  Jo-Jo hesitated and to cover his indecision he leaned back in his chair. Frankie grinned again as though he knew his ploy.

  ‘How about twocard kid? That your strength?’

  ‘Suits me.’

  ‘You sure? It could cost you.’

  Jo-Jo reached inside his cloak and pulled out the handful of papers and tokens, dropping them on the table.

  ‘Strong enough to start?’

  Frankie was stuffing his pipe with weed. He struck a flame, inhaled and blew smoke across the table towards Jo-Jo. In the centre of its wooden top, stained black by a century of spilled alcohol, was a deck of dirty, dog-eared cards.

  ‘Yeah—cut to deal?’

  Frankie tapped them.

  ‘Why not.’

  Jo-Jo turned up a seven; Frankie showed a jack and reached for the cards. He called a low ante and Jo-Jo slid a handful of tokens across the table. Frankie Lee dealt the cards.

  * * *

  Frankie had won the first game but the pot had remained small. Jo-Jo then won the next three in a row. The first two had been worth very little, but the third had built a little and Jo-Jo began to suspect that his feeling on the road had been correct. Frankie won the next and for the three hands after Jo-Jo did nothing, folding immediately. Then Jo-Jo was dealt a pair and forced up the bidding against Frankie’s queen. Frankie had no second queen and the pot gave Jo-Jo double the script that he had brought to the table.

  As the size of stakes started to increase, a small knot of drifters and bar girls formed around the table, the majority standing behind Frankie Lee, watching his cards. There was little action on the next few games and the spectators began to drift back to the bar or the faster play of the dice table.

  Before the next game Frankie yelled for a drink and Jo-Jo began to feel a sense of elation. After the hole cards had been dealt he paused before making his bet.

  ‘Frankie, you don’t look too happy, old buddy.’

  Frankie stared coldly at Jo-Jo.

  ‘Make your bet, rube.’

  ‘Hold on there old buddy. Give me a filla weed.’ Jo-Jo paused as he picked up Frankie’s pouch. ‘Ain’t that my country ways are gettin’ to you? Ain’t that, is it old buddy?’

  Jo-Jo put a flame to his pipe and inhaled. For a second he held his breath, then he blew very deliberately at Frankie who scowled and said nothing. Jo-Jo looked at his hole card. It was a ten. Slowly and with care Jo-Jo divided his money into four equal piles; then he pushed one of the piles into the centre of the table. Frankie met the bet. The pile of money in front of him was dwindling rapidly. With a rigid face he dealt the second cards. Jo-Jo showed a queen and Frankie a seven. Jo-Jo grinned, expecting Frankie to fold. Instead he checked and Jo-Jo, still grinning, slid the second of his four piles across the table. But still Frankie Lee didn’t fold. Using all the money he had left on the table, he raised Jo-Jo’s bet. Jo-Jo’s rat-grin faded a little but, still smiling, he put his two remaining piles into the middle. Frankie had no more money; he had to fold this time. But Frankie was reaching inside his shirt, pulling out a wad of papers. He was raising the bet again.

  Doubt rushed into Jo-Jo’s mind. Maybe he was holding a pair. He pushed back the idea. It was his night and he had everything on these cards. It was too late to fold. It was his night; he had to win.

  Jo-Jo stood up. He undid his gunbelt and laid it on the pile of money.

  ‘I’m callin’ you, Frankie, I reckon that covers the bet.’

  Frankie said nothing. He just smiled and turned over an ace.

  Jo-Jo went limp. No, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. He’d blown it. His hand darted for the gun.

  Before Jo-Jo had even pulled the gun clear of the belt, a little single-shot ball gun had appeared in Frankie Lee’s hand. The round ball had taken Jo-Jo in the chest, knocking him back into his chair. For a moment he had hung there and then the chair toppled and he hit the floor.

  In that moment Jo-Jo realised that, if his run of luck had really ever started, it was now finished for good.

  III

  The spread fingers were rigid on the wooden table. The knife was a blur as it rose and fell, stabbing viciously at the spaces between the fingers. The men in the tent finished the chant with a shout and Nath stood back from the table, wiping the sweat from his shaved head. Dimly he was pleased that his turn in the knife game was safely over, for, although proud of his speed, old Wob had lost a finger not long ago. He was
content to chant with the rest.

  Oltha sat in a carved chair in front of the table where the men played the knife game. Apart from straw, rugs and two large chests, the table and chair were the only furniture in the tent, in fact the only furniture in the whole camp, the property of the chief—tokens of his authority, carefully carried from place to place in the rear wagon.

  About fifteen men crowded the tent, some standing, some sprawled in the straw. They were short, thickset men with. coarse, brutal faces, and either shaved heads or long straggling hair, greased down with animal fat and gathered into heavy plaits wound with strips or rags. They had a standard dress of a coarse woollen or hide tunic: a sleeveless one-piece garment’ ornamented with crude brooches or studs and their leggings were bound up with thick strips of leather. Their bare arms were covered with tattoos, birds, animals, skulls, and women in obscene poses; and their faces carried the marks of a hard, bestial, outdoor life.

  A few were already snoring; the hill farmer’s beer was taking its toll and would ensure that the game did not last all night, although it was likely that fights would break out before the last man collapsed. Fights, however, broke out most nights in camp and it was as well that the men were unconscious while the moon was still high. At dawn they would have to break camp and make the long day’s journey to the meeting place.

  Outside the tent the remainder of the mounted guns stood watch, lounged by the fire or grappled with a woman in the deep shadows. The deal of beer had turned the camp into a party and around the twenty fires or in the dozen squat, conical tents figures shouted, sang and stumbled. Even the guards grew lax.

  It was as well that they were partying tonight. The next few days would be given to travelling and fighting.

  He stood up and the knife chant faltered. The man with his hand spread in the candlelight stopped his stabbing and straightened.

  ‘ ’Nuff?’

  ‘ ’Nuff,’ confirmed Oltha, ‘soonly I sleep. March tomorrow.’

  The men nodded and filed out of the tent. For a while he sat in the empty tent. He listened to the shouts as the men from the tent joined their brothers round the fire. Oltha scratched his stomach and felt pleased. His tribe was becoming strong. Not, of course, as strong as in his grandfather’s day. He dimly remembered the legendary time: how once the guns had ridden the roaring iron monsters that sped across the land. In his grandfather’s day the tribe had been invincible; even the lords of Festival had feared their might and paid tribute. But the iron monsters had one by one died until, even when he was a child, only five had remained. As he grew their magic had failed and the stocks of the spirit had dwindled. Then had come the defeat in the west; the last two machines had been destroyed. The warriors, his father among them, had fallen before Starkweather’s army and their repeating guns and he became chief of a broken tribe, outcasts on the barren, spoiled hills.

  Gradually they had regained their strength, raiding farms, absorbing small warrior bands and attacking hill settlements.

  Of course many had died in their wanderings, particularly the children, but gradually the power of the tribe grew. They raided towns, taking weapons, supplies and women captives to swell the tribe. The tribe stood at thirty mounted guns, seventy archers and two hundred foot warriors. With the power of the alliance they would take tribute from Festival for the first time in two generations. Oltha stood up and pushed through the tent flap. The warriors round the fire greeted him; one passed him a jug of beer. He drained it and spat in the fire. Maybe they wouldn’t stop at tribute; maybe they would take Festival itself.

  Oltha stalked through the camp. Silhouetted against the fire light, dark figures swayed and stumbled between the rough hide tents, and smoke drifted close to the ground. Occasionally it would billow up and catch his throat. A huge warrior pumped at a woman on the ground in Oltha’s path. Urgently they forced themselves at each other; the woman, head thrown back and a white leg clasped across the warrior’s back. looked with unseeing eyes at Oltha as he grinned and stepped round.

  Indeed, with the added strength of Iggy and his hard crystal boys, maybe they would take Festival. Of course the alliance would not last. The crystal madness of Iggy’s gang would quickly lead to fighting. With luck most of them would die in the battle. Their wild-eyed killing was awesome but their madness also led to massive losses. Oltha could deal with Iggy. Oltha could deal with the world.

  Pressed against a tree one of old Peg’s brood, a leggy teenager with small hard breasts, struggled with a short fat bowman.

  Oltha approached them, spun the man round by his shoulder and hit him once across the mouth with his fist in its studded leather glove. The man crashed into the base of the tree and slid to a sitting position, wiping blood from his lips. Oltha laughed and, seizing the girl round the waist, slapped her backside and half dragged, half carried her back to his tent.

  * * *

  By the time the sun stood clear of the hills the tribe was on the move. In single file they had come down from the hillside and formed up to march in open formation along the broad valley.

  The mounted guns came first, abreast of each other in a broad line. Behind them a wide loose column of the foot men. On either flank a line of archers watched the hill slopes and then the wagons and a straggle of women, children and animals.

  Oltha sat on his pony in the centre of the line of horsemen.

  For most of the morning they moved slowly down the valley. The sun grew hot. Oltha sweated in his leather shirt. The studs chafed his shoulder blades. Beneath him the pony plodded across the hard ground and sparse grass. Beside them a river wound sluggishly down the valley, its banks lined with weed beds where mosquitoes danced.

  At the end of the valley Oltha ordered a stop and women served a meal of dried meat, cheese and hard bread, and another deal of beer was distributed. They ate hurriedly and then reformed into a long column to cross the hills. By mid-afternoon they halted at the top of the line of hills. On the other side of the valley beneath them was the settlement where Iggy and his men had turned a tribe of hill farmers into their slaves.

  Oltha sent his scouts ahead.

  * * *

  The crash of boots on the front porch roused Iggy from his nod. Winston was yelling in his ear, going too fast for him to make intelligence of it.

  ‘Cool off, mutha, whassa matta?’

  ‘Looks like they’re a-comin’.’

  ‘You sho’?’

  ‘Sho’.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Top of that hill, bro’ Iggy.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘An’ scouts a-comin’.’

  Iggy giggled and stood up.

  ‘Round up the boys, an’ get the signal t’gether. Ri’?’

  ‘Ri’ on.’

  Winston thundered off and Iggy yelled for a villager to get him a jug of water and sluiced it over his face and neck. The hill boy stood looking at him, scared and awkward.

  ‘Whatcha starin’ at, mutha, ain’tcha got no work?’

  Iggy aimed a kick at the hill boy who scuttled away; then he buckled on his gun, pulled his wide brimmed hat over his eyes and stepped down into the village square. He was aware that he cut an impressive figure in front of his men. He had class. His black silk shirt was an antique, as were his high boots while the black trousers of finished leather with the silver studs down the outside seams had belonged to one of the sharpest dressers in Festival until he had taken a fancy to them. His hard eyes, which contrasted so strikingly with the soft femininity of the rest of his face, scanned the dusty square of the little village. He scowled; it was little more than a collection of brick and thatch cottages grouped around a well and a square of beaten earth. He knew that he could do better than this. At” his signal a villager brought his horse.

  Men started to assemble in the village square as Winston spread the word. Iggy selected seven of his top guns and told them to saddle up. A pillar of smoke rose from the signal fire. Oltha would be coming in. Iggy grinned and s
niffed a small pinch of crystal. Winston hurried across the square.

  ‘Break out the repeaters.’

  ‘Sho’ Iggy.’

  ‘An’ load ’em.’

  ‘Sho’.’

  The seven men whom Iggy had selected returned with their horses; then Winston led a party of villagers who carried the eight priceless rapid-fire guns into the square.

  ‘Okay, each of yous take a repeater; we gonna blow Oltha when he sees us.’

  The guns were handed out and Iggy turned to Winston.

  ‘Get the rest of the boys spread out, an’ wait. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Iggy mounted and the troop of eight rode out of the village.

  * * *

  Oltha’s tribe wound its way down the hillside. The scouts had spotted the signal and Oltha had moved the tribe. At the front, his ten best guns bunched behind him, Oltha looked back at the whole tribe. If it was a trap there was no way back. They would have to fight their way out of it.

  As they neared the foot of the slope Oltha saw Iggy and his men sitting motionless by a small clump of trees perhaps three hundred paces distant. Oltha raised his hand and one by one the tribe halted. For a while they paused, peering across the valley at their future allies; then Oltha kicked his pony and, motioning to the ten to follow, thundered across the grass to where Iggy and his seven riders sat waiting.

  Iggy watched, his face blank as the tribesmen galloped towards them. Only the occasional twitch of the black gloved hands showed the tension and the hits of crystal he had been through on the way to this meeting.

  With ten paces between the two groups, Oltha halted his men. They wheeled their ponies flashily, making them rear and throw up divots of turf. Then they formed into a line and Oltha walked his pony slowly forward. Iggy, equally slowly, rode out from the shadow of the copse to meet him. Facing each other they halted.