The Texts Of Festival (18 page)

‘Lissen Joe, s’pose Valentine comes back an’ he’s lost his army an’ the outlaws are on his tail — wha’ we gonna do then? You gotta admit it’s quite likely.’

‘If that happens then we confine him till after the outlaws have been dealt with an’ then sort it out. Okay?’

There were murmurs of agreement and the meeting began to break up.

When everyone had left, Starkweather sat for a while in thought. He looked up and saw a figure, dimly visible in the candlelight, standing at the other end of the room.

‘Who is that?’

Starkweather squinted into the gloom, atempting to distinguish features. The figure came forward.

‘It’s me, Mistuh Starkweather — Wheatstraw the text-keeper. I was wonderin’ if I could be useful to you.’

Starkweather laughed.

‘I thought it was common knowledge that I set no great store by your texts.’

Wheatstraw looked at him intently.

‘In time of trouble men will accept counsel from many unsual quarters.’

‘And would you counsel me, brother textkeeper?’

‘The counsel of the texts has been with us from the start.’

‘You’ve become as obscure as your damned prophet. What text have you that relates to our current dilemma?’

The textkeeper smiled.

‘I have searched the subject; only the obvious — “Do what you think you should do”.’

‘Too easy, brother, too easy. Come again when you can be specific. Even I know the next lines.’

The morning dawned grey and overcast and a brisk wind from the east hinted at coming rain. Frankie Lee’s cape billowed around him as he stood outside the Last Chance and watched the team of men boarding up the windows and stacking the front porch with bags of earth. Further down another team was dismantling the flat figure of a stripper, three times normal size, that was the main feature of the facia of Cindy’s Pleasure Parlour.

He turned and hurried across the Drag to Madame Lou’s where a file of men and women came and went, checking in their personal weapons for the common defence and drawing assignments in case of attack. As he crossed the street he glanced down its length at the squad digging trenches where the Drag joined the Arena.

More men swarmed over the front of Madame Lou’s, building the same kind of fortifications that were going up at the Last Chance. Further back down the street one of the smaller bars was being dismantled to provide materials.

Inside Madame Lou’s there was another scene of frenzied activity. A long table had been set up in the centre of the main parlour; at one end of it Lou herself, bracelets jingling, checked the guns that were brought in, recording the owner’s name in a ledger and passing them to One-Legged Terry to be stacked against the wall. At the other end of the table Harry Krishna was dealing with volunteers and assigning them to the various squads. Frankie Lee stood behind Madame Lou until she had dealt with the line of people bringing in weapons. When the last one had moved onto Harry Krishna, he leaned over and spoke to her.

‘How’s it goin’ — how’re we doin’ for guns?’

Madame Lou looked up and brushed a stray wisp of blonde hair out of her eyes.

‘It ain’t goin’ too bad, Frankie.’

She ran her finger down the list.

‘We got thirty brung in since midnight an’ they keep a-comin’.’

She paused as a gambler came in and placed a pair of pistols on the table.

‘I come t’ sign on for th’ defence. ’m I gonna get these pieces back when it’s all over?’

‘Sure, I check y’ name in th’ book an’ if ’n y’ don’ get wasted y’ get y’ guns back, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Madame Lou scribbled the man’s name in her book, directed him to Harry Krishna and turned back to Frankie Lee.

‘Problem we gonna have is ammunition. I mean, like, we got thirty pieces, ri’, but not more’n two hunred rounds have come in altogether an’ I don’ see more a-comin’ in, ’cept in the same amounts, say six or seven wi’ each gun.’

‘Tha’s a problem. We got maybe three thousand rounds wi’ the guns we nicked off Aaron but tha’s gonna be spread roun’ the whole city. I don’ see us endin’ up with more’n fifty guns an’ maybe twenty rounds for each gun.’

Madame Lou shook her head.

‘It’s the best we can do. There’s plenty bows an’ the girls ’re bustin’ a gut makin’ arrows.’

‘Wha’ ’bout horses?’

‘They’re all gain’ behin’ the walls so Joe’s got some cavalry to play wi’.’

Frankie Lee nodded.

‘Many people pullin’ out?’

Madame Lou shook her head.

‘Not from aroun’ here; only a few o’ the fast boys who split to join the outlaws. But I heard a lotta the North side families had moved out, a-headin’ out through the swamps.’

‘An’ are many boys signin’ up to fight?’

‘Enough.’

‘Good. Lissen, I’m gonna take a walk an’ see how they’re doin’ puttin’ stakes across the river, okay?’

‘Okay, see you later.’

Frankie Lee walked out the door, pausing to make room for a man who came in carrying an ancient shotgun to add to the arsenal.

Through the morning the PA regularly crackled into life as announcements and information were broadcast across Festival. Most normal business had ceased and a constant stream of outlying homesteaders poured in to take refuge in the city. With the Merchants’ Quarter sealed off, food was becoming a problem and, in addition to the regular pleas for arms and volunteers, Isaac Feinberg started putting out requests that private stocks of food be turned over to the defence committee for rationed distribution.

Joe Starkweather seemed to be everywhere: checking, urging, discussing problems with the squads of men putting in the defences. Festival seemed like a transformed city as he rode through it. The normal apathy and corruption seemed to have been stripped away in the face of the threat of attack. Even the rain that began to fall soon after noon and quickly transformed the streets of the city into seas of mud could not slow down the work. Deep in the back of Starkweather’s mind, beneath the cursing and enthusiasm, the thought lurked that in all probability the effort had come too late.

18.

As Luther and Valentine raced out of Afghan Promise, the men that Iggy had positioned on the barricades to cut off any Festival men who managed to escape the shambles on the main street were already picking through the fallen, shooting the wounded and collecting the weapons of the dead. For them the battle was over and the appearance of the two men on the single horse took them completely by surprise. A few shots were loosed at them as they galloped through the gap in the barricades but after that they quickly rode into freedom beyond the range of the outlaws’ guns.

Once they were safely down the highway, Luther reined in the foaming horse and stopped. He looked grimly back at Valentine.

‘Best we dismount an’ walk the horse f’ a while. If we run it any more wi’ two of us up it’ll cave in.’

White and shaking Valentine dismounted.

‘What happens if they come after us?’

‘I don’ think they’ll be a-huntin’ for us yet a while an’ a dead horse ain’t gonna be no use at all. Like I said, best we walk a while.’

Valentine stared hard at Luther.

‘Are you tryin’ to give me orders?’

Luther faced Valentine grimly.

‘Take it how you like. I don’ think you’re in any space t’ tell anyone wha’ to do.’

‘Damn your insolence…’

‘Shut th’ fug up! You led us into that death trap back there an’ I for one ain’t takin’ no more bullshit. So you do what I say or I’ll jus’ ride off an’ leave you. Got it?’

Valentine clenched his fist and grew two shades paler but as the trooper began to walk off leading the horse he fell into step behind him.

For a while they walked in silence until the sound of hooves on the road in front of them made Luther halt and listen. Then, grabbing Valentine by the arm and dragging the horse behind him, he ran for the trees.

Carefully Iggy wiped the rain from his gun as he stood in the shelter of the porch of the Shirrif’s House and watched Winston and his men salvaging weapons from the dead who lay in the mud of the main street.

‘Hey Winston, come over here. Let them hill boys root through th’ mud for guns. I wanna talk to you.’

Winston hurried over to where Iggy stood grinning.

‘You want me?’

Iggy paused for a moment staring over the scene of desolation.

‘I guess Festival’s gotta be ours for th’ takin’, huh?’

Winston looked back over the bloody swamp that was the Afghan Promise strip.

‘Mus’ be the end of their army.’

‘Fuggin’ sho’ it is. Like shootin’ fish in a barrel, hey? You enjoy the fight?’

A slightly troubled look crossed Winston’s face.

‘A lotta good men wen’ down. We never wasted so many before.’

Iggy’s grin faded and his eyes became hard.

‘You goin’ soft on me?’

‘No, it’s jus.’

‘Jus’ what?’

‘I dunno, it jus’ seemed too easy. I like t’ see a fight, not jus’ sit tight an’ butcher the opposition.’

‘You still pissed of ’cause I didn’ let you ride out wi’ the decoy party?’

Winston hesitated.

‘Maybe, I dunno. F’get it.’

Iggy eyed him carefully.

‘There’s gonna be plenty of fightin’ f’ you to get into.’

‘Yeah sho’. I’m okay; jus’ was a lotta killin’, takes gettin’ used to.’

‘Sho’.’

For a while the two men stood in silence looking at the street. Bodies of men and horses formed grotesque humps so mud-covered that they were indistinguishable from the street itself except by their twisted shapes. After a while Iggy turned towards the door. As he opened it he glanced at Winston.

‘You send out the detail to pick up their supply wagons?’

‘Sho’, they wen’ off even before we stopped shootin’.’

‘Good, le’s go have us a drink.’

Valentine and Luther crouched in the wet bushes as a group of outlaws rode by escorting the Festival supply wagons. Silently they watched as the outlaws passed laughing and joking. The horse became restless and Luther straightened to stroke its head and quieten it. The outlaws appeared not to notice and rode on, passing around bottles of spirit obviously looted from the wagons. In front of one of the outlaws sat the girl in the red cape, her head sunk on her chest and hands tied in front of her. Valentine’s knuckles whitened but he remained still.

For some time after the outlaws had passed they remained hidden in the trees. Then Luther led the horse out onto the road, mounted and helped Valentine to climb up behind him.

They rode at an easy pace through the steadily falling rain for what seemed like hours. Cold seeped through their bodies and both men’s teeth began to chatter; it was only when the cold and damp started to become intolerable that Valentine broke the silence.

‘How long will it take to get to Festival?’

Luther looked round. Lost in his own thoughts he had almost forgotten the lord behind him.

‘If we rode through the night I guess we could be there by dawn.’

Valentine shivered.

‘We’ll die of chills before the dawn.’

Luther pulled his foot out of the stirrup and flexed his cramped muscles.

‘You could be right at that. We oughta stop although we’ll make no fire in this rain. Best go on as long as we can.’

Again they rode on silently and the clouded sky began to grow dark. Luther now knew that Valentine had been right. He was shivering constantly and was certain that the chills would get through to them before they ever reached Festival. Their problems were increased by the fact that they had emerged from the woodland and were riding across open hillside at the full mercy of the wind and rain. Then, as the hill fell away to their left into a long valley, he saw something through the rain. It seemed like a cluster of buildings halfway down the valley, either a homestead or, more likely, a ruined farm: there were no lights showing and no sign of life.

He turned to look back at Valentine.

‘There seems to be some kinda buildin’ down there. I think we oughta take a look.’

‘Anything that will give us shelter.’

Luther guided the horse through a gap in the rotting fence beside the highway and set off down the hillside. At the bottom they came onto a rough track that led from the distant building to join the highway at a point further on.

As they drew closer to the buildings Luther was able to see, through the dust, that it was in fact an oldtime farm, although it seemed in good repair and some of the outbuildings were of recent construction. At the end of the track an opened gate revealed a paved yard. Drawing level with it Luther halted and signalled to Valentine to dismount, then swung to the ground himself and handed the reins to the lord.

‘You got any kinda weapon?’

Valentine reached under his cloak and produced a pistol.

‘I’m afraid it’s empty.’

Luther cursed but took the gun.

‘Wait here while I look round.’

Walking cautiously on the balls of his feet to stop his boot heels ringing on the paved yard, Luther crept towards the farmhouse. Nothing moved. He got to the wall, stopped and looked around: still no sign of life. Gently he eased himself along the wall until he reached the doorway. Reaching carefully for the handle, he turned it and pushed. The door creaked open; no sound or movement came from within. In one action he swung round and sprang inside the house, immediately sidestepping so that he would not be silhouetted against the open door.

Crouching inside he stared round the dark room. It seemed empty and he fumbled in his pouch for a lighter. Three times he struck the flint on the steel but the wick refused to catch fire. He cursed under his breath: maybe the godam thing had got wet. On the fourth try it flared into life.

The flickering light revealed a deserted room, tidy, furnished, but devoid of people. An oil lamp stood on the table in the middle and Luther lit it. It was a pleasant farmhouse kitchen. A big dresser stood against one wall holding rows of pots and crockery. Cured hams hung from the ceiling beams and a black iron stove filled the chimney-piece. There was even a barrel of ale standing in one corner. Obviously a family of farmers had lived there until very recently but now they had gone; maybe they had fled to the east, away from the menace of the outlaws.