The Texts of Festival

by Mick Farren

  ‘This is the day

  Civilisation ends.’

  A sleepy figure, huddled by the wall of Madame Lou’s, stirred slightly as Blind Larry went by, then drawing its legs closer to its chest it continued its unhappy sleep.

  ‘Let’s get together

  And do death’s dance.’

  His foot struck an empty spirit bottle and he bent down, feeling with his hand, to pick it up. Hooking his cane over his arm, he raised the jug to his lips to drink any discarded trickle. Nothing came and he hurled the bottle across the avenue. The dog barked as it rattled off the sidewalk in front of Cindy’s Pleasure Parlour. Blind Larry spat in the dust and shuffled on.

  The crash of swing doors from the direction of the Last Chance made him stop singing and pause to listen attentively.

  On the sidewalk in front of the Last Chance, Frankie Lee yawned and stretched. It had been a good night’s game despite the fact that he had come out with little more than he had sat down with. An honest game among professionals was much more satisfying than just taking money off a mark.

  Seeing the blind man standing in the middle of the avenue, he called out to him.

  ‘Hey Larry, wha’s ’appenin’?’

  The blind man stared sightlessly in the direction of the voice.

  ‘Who’s ’at, who’s talkin’?’

  ‘It’s me, Larry, Frankie. Frankie Lee the Gambler.’

  The old man stood still, saying nothing. His ragged coat flapped in the breeze. Frankie Lee stepped off the sidewalk.

  ‘Well Larry, ain’t you got nothin’ to say? Wha’s the word, ol’ man?’

  ‘Wha’s the word, Frankie Lee the Gambler, named for the text? I have no word. What word? Word for what?’

  Frankie Lee grinned; the old man was crazy, but he had the gift of fools.

  ‘No word for this new morning in Festival, Celebration morning?’

  ‘No word for Celebration, no word for morning, but for Festival there is a word in the west, too soon to know, p’raps the pale word, p’raps death.’

  ‘Death, ol’ man? Or mebbe weed an’ corn spirit. Let’s knock up Madame Lou, mebbe she’ll serve us eggs. Words of death run before a full gut.’

  Frankie Lee clapped Blind Larry on the shoulder and led him off in the direction of Madame Lou’s.

  * * *

  Joe Starkweather slung his legs over the side of the bed and fumbled with his weed pouch. Lighting his pipe he inhaled deeply and coughed. There was little point in trying to sleep any longer; his leg had hurt like hell all night, and now that the dawn was filtering through the window shutters there was little use in a pretence of rest. He would be better occupied watching the early preparations for Celebration.

  He pulled his shirt over his head, struggled painfully into his hide pants, and pulled on his boots. Then, throwing his coat over his shoulders, he limped out of his quarters.

  The paved courtyard of the walled Backstage was deserted except for a cat that prowled through the previous night’s garbage. Starkweather headed across the yard in the direction of the guard house beside the Highway Gate.

  He rapped on the heavy wooden door and after some delay a trooper, rubbing his eyes and straightening his surcoat and belt, opened it.

  ‘Joe Starkweather! You’re about early.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, Luther. Ain’t you gonna let me in?’

  ‘Sure, sure. C’mon in.’

  Luther held the door as Starkweather walked into the guard house and then shut it behind him.

  ‘Sit down, wanna drink?’

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  Starkweather seated himself at the square wooden table. Luther brought mugs and a bottle of spirit. Two more troopers lay asleep in a double bunk against the wall. Luther splashed corn spirit into the mugs, and raised one to his lips.

  ‘Cheers Joe.’

  ‘Yeah, cheers.’ Starkweather picked up his mug and drank. Then he set it down and looked at the soldier.

  ‘So tell me Luther, how are things?’

  ‘Much as usual.’

  ‘Yeah. Hud Daley back with that patrol yet?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’d have thought he’d be back by now.’

  ‘I reckon he’ll ride in today. I don’t see him chasin’ round the hills longer than he needs to.’

  ‘Unless he found some real outlaws.’

  ‘Come on, Joe, outlaws would’ve been long gone by the time Hud got there.’

  ‘Maybe. Any outlaw who’s prepared to jump a big caravan that close to Festival must be pretty confident, perhaps have something to be confident about.’

  ‘Could just be crazy.’

  ‘I just reckon any outlaws who could take on a caravan could give Hud an’ his patrol a hard time.’

  ‘Lissen Joe, I reckon today’ll see Hud an’ his boys ridin’ in. If not today, tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re most likely right.’

  Luther refilled the mug and they both drank. The hard liquor temporarily eased Joe’s sense of misgiving and for a while they sat in silence. Joe filled his pipe and passed his pouch to Luther. Just as he was about to light up, there was a rap on the door. Luther stood up and slid back the bolt. A trooper waited outside.

  ‘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 ought a 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 brewin’ 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 beyo
nd 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 kind a 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.

  ‘He sent word that he would be here shortly, he is makin’

  ‘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 fifth figure capered onto the Stage in the mask of the legendary Djeggar, the witch king of before the disaster. 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, an
xious 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 dearly 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.