The Texts of Festival

by Mick Farren

  * * *

  Iggy sat on his horse some way up the hill, relishing the cat and mouse game as his archers pinned down the survivors huddled under the steam engine and the four wagons stranded where the road reached the floor of the valley.

  He giggled quietly as the thought struck him that the longer he held up the final assault, the greater the chance that the wagonmaster might try some futile attempt to break out. It would be much more amusing if they tried something. Just sending in Oltha’s hillbilly butchers seemed an anticlimax after the rush of the downhill chase.

  He noticed Oltha between him and the bowmen, riding purposefully in his direction. Iggy kicked his horse and rode down to meet him.

  ‘What’s the trouble chief, you lookin’ f’ me?’

  ‘Soonly my warriors become restless.’

  ‘Yeah, wha’s the hurry? We got all day.’

  ‘We come to fight, not watch.’

  ‘Aw, let the bastards sweat for a while, they can’t move.’

  ‘We finish it now.’

  ‘Leave it, we ain’t had no fun with ’em as yet.’

  ‘We are men, we fight, we move upon them now—now!’

  ‘Lissen…’

  ‘Now.’ The chief began to look dangerous. No point in looking for trouble this early. Iggy shrugged.

  ‘Send in the slaughter crew then. I’ll use the battle wagons to give coverin’ fire if you need it.’

  ‘No need of that, the men become impatient for the rush of the manslayer. We finish it.’

  Oltha wheeled his horse and galloped to give the orders to his foot men. Iggy turned round more slowly to where Winston had assembled his men around the two wagons.

  ‘Wha’s happenin’ chief, why the hangup?’

  Iggy halted.

  ‘No hangup ol’ buddy. Oltha’s a-sendin’ in his butcher boys. All we have t’ do is wait.’

  ‘We ain’t a-goin’ in?’

  ‘No point in bein’ heroes, just move in easy when they’ve taken care of business. You take two men an’ make sho’ nobody else gets the strongbox, ri’? An’ detail two guys to pick us the pieces from the dead, an’ what might be left in the wagons’ gun racks, okay?’

  ‘Sho’, Marty an’ Gay Dave stick by me, an’ Pig an’ Rummy, you get the guns.’

  * * *

  The arrows fell, volley after volley, making their unique, eerie hiss. Eddie pressed himself as far back as possible into the driving box of the upturned wagon. Across from him, he could see the puller’s wheels. Were the outlaws going to keep them pinned like this forever? Eddie was tempted to make a run for it. Maybe a suicide dash would be better than letting a psychopath hill chief play with him like this. Then, almost in answer, the arrows stopped. Eddie tensed for the dash back to the engine. For a moment there was silence. Eddie, a gun in each hand, made his dash. Halfway across the space a furious shouting began. Hesitating, Eddie glanced round. Running tribesmen were coming from every direction. Two, one brandishing a knife, the other a long axe, ran round the side of the upturned wagon. Eddie fired one barrel of his shotgun and they went down. Turning, he found a tall rangy hill man with an ugly scar down one cheek between himself and the puller. He rushed Eddie, swinging a double-handed axe. Eddie sidestepped, ducked and chopped him with his gun barrel. The man fell but started to rise again and Eddie finished him with his second barrel.

  Then they were everywhere; Eddie threw down the shotgun and fired a rapid burst from the repeater. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie backed up against the engine, wielding his gun butt like a club. The burst of fire cleared a space in front of Eddie for an instant, then the clip was exhausted and the tribesmen pressed towards him. In a momentary flash before he was overwhelmed he saw Hoover running desperately, his green coat flapping like useless wings and, still clutching his hat and travelling bag, pursued by three laughing outlaws.

  Then they swamped him and Eddie saw nothing.

  * * *

  Although the men shouted and laughed Nath was aware that most of them shared his mild disappointment. The raid would yield much booty but that was for the tribe. For the individual warrior there had been few scalps and no women. The only consolation was in the dozen kegs of beer that Funka had discovered undamaged in one of the wagons.

  Under the supervision of Oltha, the tribesmen unloaded the loot from the wagons. The strange-eyed horsemen of the new tribe moved through the wreck of the caravan, seizing an item here and another there. They seemed to take no great pleasure in the victory.

  Nath shouldered a sack of grain and looked forward to the night of drinking.

  * * *

  Iggy stared at the steam engine. It was magnificent with its black ironwork, its shining polished steel pistons and brass fittings. There were dents in it though and some of the cab’s wooden panels had been smashed by gunfire. If only it could be made to work. He turned to Winston.

  ‘Any of the boys know how to work this mutha?’

  ‘I think Banana useda boss a puller before he joined us. Hey, Banana, get ya ass over here.’

  Banana, a big muscular negro, sauntered over.

  ‘Whasamatta chief? You wants somethin’?’

  ‘The boss wants to know if you kin get this big mutha rollin’.’

  ‘No sweat if’n it ain’t bin busted up in the fight.’

  Iggy inspected the machine.

  ‘It don’t look busted.’ He turned to Banana. ‘You reckon it’ll roll to Festival?’

  ‘No reason why not, all it’ll need is wood;’

  ‘Hey Winston, get a coupla Oltha’s axe boys to bust up a wagon, an’ Banana, get together, let’s see if it works.’

  ‘Sho’, chief.’ He started to climb into the cab. Winston went off to find Oltha. After another look at the steam engine Iggy followed him.

  * * *

  Night fell and a high keening cut through the silent air. Although they would later be drinking, the men in Oltha’s tribe now sat in a rough circle, a short distance from the wrecked and looted wagons, their voices raised in the solemn chant, the ritual Singing of the Dead.

  Iggy’s men had lit a fire further up the hill, and they huddled around it uncomfortable and tense with the high, droning chant. Iggy stood a little way off, hugging his cloak around him against the evening chill and gazing across the darkening landscape. Figures of the crystal comedown darted at the edge of his vision. Originally he had been impatient at the chief’s refusal to discuss the next move until after the tribe’s ritual, but after an hour of the wailing chant he was on edge and had to concentrate to stop the hand that gripped the front of his cloak from shaking.

  ‘We sing. It is down upon the victor. The Song of the Dead cannot remain unsung.’

  There was a depth to these tribesmen that made Iggy ill-at—ease. He had not allowed for it. Once they were hooked on crystal, he would feel a lot happier. Then it would be he who decided the tribe’s rituals.

  Slowly he walked down the hill, his black woollen cloak making him almost invisible in the darkness. He gave a wide berth to the mass of squatting, wailing men, almost as though their fur-wrapped figures were the source of a strange power that he had no wish to approach.

  The steam engine loomed big in the night, its brasswork reflecting the flicker of the distant firelight. Iggy took off his glove and laid his hand on the cold, dew-wet iron.

  ‘Oh baby, with you nothing can stop me, nothing.’

  VII

  There was an almost carnival air as Frankie Lee lounged by the entrance to the Merchants’ Quarter and watched the soldier boys ride out of the Highway Gate. A crowd had gathered, and fast to cash in, hawkers, pimps and pickpockets moved through the mass of people, taking care of business. He could even hear the tuneless voice of Blind Larry, the wandering text singer.

  ‘Wanna hear a rare tex’ for a token?’

  The squad of soldiers was clear of the gate, and riding, doing their best to look grim and purposeful, down the highway to the west.

  For
cats who lounged around all day and scratched themselves they put on a good show, thought Frankie as the troop, about thirty in all, passed him. The first dozen wore the black surcoats with the device of the high lord, the white circle enclosing an inverted ‘Y’. The remainder wore the retainer livery of various merchants and cartels.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ A bearded man in the costume of an out-of-town merchant turned to Frankie. ‘Is this some kinda regular parade?’

  ‘No, man. They’re a-gonna check ou’ some kind a trouble up the highway, some travellers came back with a tale of a caravan gettin’ wiped out.’

  The merchant looked anxious.

  ‘That’s terrible, I’d planned to ride back to the Bridge in the nex’ coupla days.’

  ‘Reckon you’d be wise to wait till these troubles are sorted out.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  The soldiers were now out of sight, and the crowd began to drift away. Frankie turned to go, but the merchant caught at his sleeve with an embarrassed grin.

  ‘Lissen, uh… you look like a man of the world an’ I… uh…’

  Shit, thought Frankie, now the rube wants to get laid. Thinking of the possible percentage, he restrained himself from laughing at the man.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I was wondering’ if’n you could fix me up with a bit o’ fun, you know what I mean.’ The man winked.

  Frankie moved away a pace before the rube started nudging him.

  ‘If you wanna get laid, there’re plenty o’ chippies on the Drag.’

  ‘Yeah, I was wonderin’ if’n you could connect me with something’, like, you know, a bit… uh… unusual.’

  Frankie stared at the man and the urge to gross him out became too strong to ignore.

  ‘I know this hooker who got a floggin’ not two days ago, that’d be pretty, uh, bizarre, huh?’ Frankie nudged the man in the ribs and leered at him. The merchant looked uncertain. Frankie leered again, showing his teeth.

  ‘It won’t cost too much and it’ll sure be somethin’ to tell the boys back home. C’mon an’ buy me a drink, an’ I’ll fix ya up.’

  Frankie walked off with the man following.

  * * *

  Valentine, the seventh high lord of Festival, sat in the informal audience room of the stone palace and eyed the young woman who sat across the room from him. Normally the high, echoing room with its hangings, carpets and upholstered furniture, priceless objects from the days when men had crossed the sea, the smell of incense and the girl, painted and dressed solely to be an object of his lust, would have filled him with a happy sense of what he called exquisite grandeur. But today his full, rather cruel lips were thrust into a pout that gave his face the expression of a sullen child.

  This trouble on the highway was monstrous. Probably some brain-damaged drifter had made up the tale for drinks and the soldiers would find nothing. There was no excuse for dragging him from his bed and sport so early in the day. The young woman with the gold hair and small firm breasts was excellent, one of the best his agents had ever found, and although he would quickly tire of her the novelty of the new body was still such that it irked him to have to spend the day investigating a fool’s paranoid fantasies.

  The doors opened and Senior Official Lazarus bowed in. The old man in his long black robes stood silently in front of the door; Valentine was tempted to ignore him, but knew he would probably stand there for ever if he did. For a while Valentine examined the rings on his left hand. Then he raised his head.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The textkeepers request audience, my lord. Phelge an’ Wheatstraw wait without. They claim they have amassed such Self-Evident Truths as can be gleaned from the texts regarding the current emergency.’

  Valentine cursed under his breath. After half the morning haggling over who should provide the soldiers for the inspection party, the textsayers now wanted their token’s worth. Any advice those two dodderers might offer would be buried in an hour’s debate over points of definition. It was unfortunate that his authority and title were so intertwined with the belief in the texts that he was unable to rid himself of the old fools. Personally he viewed the textkeepers’ lore as irrelevant nonsense and was sure that when his ancestor Homer the Leader had talked of ‘the spirit of Wustock returning to his people’, his vision had not included the continuing debate as to why the spirit was depicted in the old prints as a small scruffy bird accompanied by a dog figure in a strange helmet. Nonetheless, he was forced to pay lip service to the absurd cult, since it kept the people quiet and maintained his position.

  Valentine brushed imaginary fluff from the sleeve of his velvet tunic and noticed with distaste that the nail polish on his right hand had already begun to chip.

  ‘I s’pose you better show them in, but make it clear that I cannot spend too long with them. Oh, an’ after they’ve left I shall want to eat. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Old Lazarus bowed and left the room. A few moments later he returned, followed by the two textkeepers in ceremonial robes. He backed from the audience room, closing the door as he left. The textkeepers bowed in unison and stood looking anxious. Valentine sat for a while watching them.

  ‘Well, what have you got to waste my time with now?’

  ‘My lord, we have studied the texts an’ I hope we have searched out those that might apply to the current problem. But, my lord, it is difficult…’

  ‘What is difficult?’

  Phelge looked uncomfortable. Will Wheatstraw darted a glance towards the woman.

  ‘My lord, I hesitate.’

  Valentine laughed.

  ‘Oh, it’s the woman, is it,’ he turned to face her, ‘you better split, my love, you make these learned brothers uncomfortable.’

  The girl stood up and walked towards the door. As she passed Wheatstraw and Phelge she twitched her hips exaggeratedly. Valentine roared with laughter and Phelge turned a similar shade of crimson to his robe.

  ‘My lord, I…’

  ‘Stop shuffling and stammering, you look absurd. Jus’ tell me what line of rubbish you intend to feed to the rabble about these supposed bandits.’

  ‘If only my lord could find a greater degree of faith in the blessed texts, it would…’

  ‘Your lord has immense faith in the influence that the texts have on the ignorant and superstitious populace, so come to the point.’

  ‘My lord is prob’ly aware that the subject of violent robbery is a popular theme that recurs throughout the great texts.’

  ‘I was aware; I have heard enough of them.’

  ‘The general trend with this class of texts is that of the eventual triumph of authority, an’ I would cite the well known “I fought the law, but the law one” as a primary example although,’ he glanced at Wheatstraw who, while still silent, seemed to be controlling an urge to interrupt, ‘some of my colleagues who place an illogical store by the A.J. concordance would read far deeper meanings into what is a simple matter of literal symbolism.’

  Wheatstraw appeared to burst.

  ‘My lord, I must protest at my brother’s…’

  ‘Enough!’ Valentine began to get angry. ‘I refuse to listen to interminable wrangling over irrelevant points of interpretation.’

  ‘But my lord, when this man takes it upon himself to…’

  ‘Enough!’

  The two old men fell silent.

  ‘Good. Now, as I see it, we circulate the idea that the outlaws will get theirs because that is what was written, an’ give out a few suitable quotations to back up that idea. I am right?’

  ‘My lord, it is not…’

  ‘Am I right, yes or no?’

  ‘In very basic terms—yes. Except…’

  ‘Well, my lord, there is an obscure text which we have come across; unfortunately both author and title are unknown, but the fragments that remain seem to relate very closely to the situation which we are dealing with.’

  ‘Don’t you think we are takin’ your precio
us texts a little too seriously?’

  Phelge pressed his lips together in a pious scowl.

  ‘My lord, all matters relating to the…’

  ‘I know, I know, just tell me what it says. I don’t need a lecture on my lack of belief.’

  ‘Well, my lord, basically we only have a few lines we can pick out. I had them transcribed from the tape.’ He produced a sheet of paper from under his robe. ‘They read:

  “The outlaws come flying, out of the west,

  On their pale lips are framed words of death”,

  then there’s a break an’ it continues:

  “Come on everybody, come gather round friends,

  This is the day civilisation ends.

  Let’s get together and do death’s dance

  And go loot”,

  the rest of the line is undecipherable. That is all, my lord.

  It would seem that our own outlaws do in fact “come flying out of the west”. We thought it might have some bearing on the problem.’

  ‘It hardly seems conducive to social order and stability. It is my wish that the existence of this text is not made generally known, is that dear?’

  ‘But my lord, surely it constitutes a crime against the purpose of the Leader to deliberately suppress a text?’

  ‘I shall be the judge of that. I am the lord an’ I am the embodiment of the Purpose. At the next celebration—what’s that? in five days I think—you will broadcast texts on the lines I have indicated. As for your little gem of potential civil disorder—lose it! That is not only my wish, but my order.’ Valentine stood up. ’Now leave me. Oh, an’ send the woman back in.’

  The textkeepers bowed out and Valentine sprawled back in his chair. The girl came in and closed the door behind her. He smiled as she walked towards him.

  ‘Relax me, my dear. Those fools have made me very tense.’ Then he closed his eyes as the girl kneeled in front of him and slowly brought her face down to his lap.