The Texts Of Festival (5 page)

4.

‘Hey wagonmaster, you wanna join us for a game of stud?’ one of the skinners called to him out of the gathering dark.

‘Leave me out Charlie; I ain’t got the head for it tonight.’

‘Okay.’ Charlie disappeared round the side of a wagon.

The wagons were formed into their protective circle and for Big Eddie the day was over. But he still felt tense and uneasy. Five days out from the Great Bridge. No trouble, except the big puller throwing a piston coupling. With only three days to Festival it was unlikely there would be trouble but still the feeling remained; nothing that he could put his finger on, just a bad feeling.

And there had been rumours. Again nothing very tangible. Just an increasing number of reports of bandit tribes moving south. The crystal-freak gangs getting bigger. It was almost as though the wolves were hungry in the hills and moving on the town. Only the town was Festival and the predators were human. If that was the case it was going to make a wagonmaster’s job a great deal more difficult, particularly as most dealers were too concerned with profit margins to provide a solid escort for their caravans.

Eddie shrugged. If anything was going to happen it would probably be when they crossed Broken Hill the next morning. After that they’d be in Festival territory proper and there’d be nothing to worry about.

Eddie climbed the iron ladder to the small sleeping cabin at the rear of the big puller’s great black iron boiler. Inside the little cabin Danny Junior, the stoker, sprawled in his bunk in his vest and leggings, his heavy fur-lined jacket banging from a nail and the rich smell of good Brissol weed filling the cabin.

‘Hey chief, wanna pipe? You look on a down.’

‘No’ now kid, where’s Mac?’

‘I dunno, mebbe in a card game. He shut down steam an’ wandered off.’

‘I wanna make an early start. You better get the fire going before dawn.’

‘I was gonna crash soon, so tha’s okay. What’s the trouble, though, chief? We’ve come five days from the Bridge, it’s been real easy.’

‘No trouble, I just got a bad feelin’, I wanna make an early start.’

‘I never heard you bitch before about a trip bein’ too easy.’

‘Yeah well, maybe I’m gettin’ old.’

‘Mebbe you been pushin’ caravans too long, mebbe you should settle down in Festival. Join the stageguards.’

‘An’ get fat? Sure.’

Eddie pulled off his steel-shod boots and climbed into his bunk.

‘It’s a good life bein’ a solja, so they say.’

‘Those fools swaggerin’ round Festival in their fancy surcoats. They ain’t soljas. I should know, I was in a real army.’

‘When was you in an army?’

Eddie paused.

‘I rode with Joe Starkweather, years ago, when I was just a kid.’

‘No kiddin’, when he put down the Christies?’

‘Yeah, an’ when he breaked the tribes.’

‘Shit.’

Danny puffed on his pipe. Starkweather and the commune army were almost a legend and now he finds out that old Eddie was with them. The world was pretty strange.

‘How come you never settled in Festival when Joe led his people outta the commune?’

Eddie thought for a while. When they had followed Joe to Festival, after the commune had lapsed into isolationism and dogma, he had the chance. Most of his comrades had stayed in the comfort of Festival. Even Louise with whom he’d gone through three campaigns.

‘Just couldn’t stay in one place, I guess. Just had to keep on keepin’ on.’

That was it. After the first month in Festival he had become restless, split with Lou and signed on to collect a puller for the yards in the North. There he had met old Mac and they had been partners ever since, hauling caravans. Mac driving a puller, Eddie either stoking or, eventually, riding herd on the whole deal as wagonmaster. For twenty years they had pushed loads from the Great Bridge, in and out of Festival, to and from the southern ports. He could never settle down. Settling down was a form of dying.

Eddie swung his legs over the side of the bunk. He couldn’t shake the restlessness. He dragged on his boots again and laced them.

‘I’m goin’ out for a last look round.’

‘Okay chief, I’ll prob’ly be asleep when you ge’ back.’

As Big Eddie walked across the compound formed by the circle of wagons, skirting the men grouped around the fire in the middle, a small nervous man hurried up to him.

‘Evenin’, wagonmaster.’

Eddie recognised the man as Hoover, a small-time crystal dealer travelling alone with a package of crystal in the caravan strong box. The man stretched his face into what Eddie assumed was intended to be an ingratiating smile but which in fact caused him to resemble a lizard. The resemblance was heightened by the way his small body was hunched into his long green coat.

‘I trust everything is goin’ well.’

Paranoid little shit, thought Eddie.

‘Just fine, Mister Hoover, just fine.’ Eddie tried to walk off but the little man still seemed to want something.

‘How many more days do you think we should be out, wagonmaster?’

‘Well, Mister Hoover, we cross Ruined Hill tomorrow an’ after that I reckon two days of easy ridin’ clear through to Festival.’

‘You don’t expect any trouble?’

‘Well, the piston on the puller is a bit fouled up but I don’t think it’s …’

‘No, no, wagonmaster, I meaned with bandits, tha’ kinda trouble.’

‘I don’t think so, Mister Hoover, I think you’ll find that any serious danger finished when Joe Starkweather breaked the tribes in his last campaign.’

‘Sometimes I think Starkweather’s greatest success was his publicity campaign.’

Eddie clenched his broad calloused fist. He ought to take the little punk’s head off. Then he remembered where he was and how punching out passengers was a sure way to end up right back stoking.

‘It takes all kinds of opinions, comrade Hoover.’

At the old commune form of address the little man started, mumbled goodnight and hurried off.

Eddie made his round of the guards and then headed back to the puller to prepare for sleep.

In the grey pre-dawn, Eddie hustled about in the caravan, rousting out his men, yelling for the skinners to get their teams in line and shepherding passengers back onto the wagons.

Hoover the dealer kept out of his way.

When finally he had the caravan strung out into one single line he climbed onto the footplate of the big puller, the giant steam engine that hauled the two biggest wagons. When Eddie had started hauling caravans it had been common for a train to include three or four pullers. Now the rule seemed to be one on each train, with the other wagons being pulled by mule teams.

While the caravan formed up Mac and Danny had fired the boiler and raised a head of steam. And when Eddie climbed onto the footplate, shouting to be off, his nailed boots crashing on the steel floor, everything was ready for the big machine to start moving.

‘Ready to roll, chief?’

‘Sure Mac, an’ let her roll good, make those skinners work to catch up, okay?’

‘Okay chief.’

Mac eased open the main valve and the piston slid forward. The big wheels spun a little and Eddie grabbed a brass handrail as the machine lurched forward.

They quickly picked up speed until the mule skinners were forced to run their teams to keep pace with the steam engine and its load.

The rising sun was reflected in the brass trim of the dull black iron boilers and the brass plate beside the smokestack that read:

Alvin the Founder — Brum

Eddie pulled his peaked cap down over his eyes, and leaned out of the side of the cab, letting his shoulder-length, greasy hair fly in the breeze. His uncertainties of the night before began to fade with the exhilaration of letting the puller run.

Leaving the ground where they had camped, the caravan pulled out onto the great highway which, along with the Bridge, formed the most lasting monument of the men who bad built them but perished in the disaster.

Eddie knew that if he ran the caravan that fast for long, the mules would tire and fall back. But a brisk start in the morning was refreshing and for a while he leaned on the cab rail, his weed pipe clenched in his teeth. As he expected, a gap was opening between the steam wagons and the first mule team and he signalled to Mac to cut the throttle and match speed with the mules.

The fun of the day was over and it was just a matter of following the highway at the speed of a man running. The three leaned on the rail, letting the breeze offset some of the heat from the firebox that was already darkening their overalls with sweat.

Iggy sat on his horse, hitting crystal and feeling pleased. The meeting between his boys and the barbarians had gone off without serious incident. The overnight camp had resulted in one of his men knifing a tribesman but Winston had shot the man and Oltha wasn’t making any trouble, so at present everything was working out very well.

Iggy’s girlish face, framed by his wide-brimmed hat and long, curling black hair, was brought to unpleasant life by a slight smirk as he watched Winston setting out his men for the ambush. His grin broadened as he remembered how the hicks’ eyes had popped out of their heads when the battle wagons had been rolled out, with their four-horse teams, driver and the six guns behind their steel shields and overhead leather canopy. He had noticed the great degree of respect with which Oltha treated him since the chief had seen Iggy’s entire force made ready to fight.

Iggy was still grinning when Oltha rode up on his short-legged pony.

‘Hey, hey, buddy, how’s things?’

Oltha halted.

‘A good, good ambush.’

Sure it’s a good ambush, thought Iggy, I spent a longtime figuring it. Ruined Hill was a high escarpment with a long, even climb on one side and a steep drop on the other. The caravan would sweat their way up the hill, through the deserted town from which the hill got its name, every minute half expecting bandits to jump them from the overgrown ruins. They’d reach the top with a sense of relief and start to roll down the highway that sharply traversed the face of the scarp.

When they were rolling too fast to stop, the horsemen would break from the woods at the top of the hill and attack them on the run. At the foot of the hill a short upgrade would break the caravan’s speed and the archers could go into action. At that point the wagonmaster could do nothing except pull his wagons into a loose protective circle. Then his battle wagons could go in, followed by Oltha’s foot men and it would be all over. It was a neat ambush and Iggy knew the hill chief was aware of the fact.

‘Your men in position?’

‘My men are ready.’

‘Scouts’re down the road a piece. Nothin’ to do but wait.’

‘I go join the horsemen.’

‘I reckon I’ll stay here a while. Till the scouts come in. Then I’ll join ya.’

Oltha turned his pony and rode off in the direction of the woods.

Iggy fingered his gun, flicked the reins, and flexed his fingers, watching his rings sparkle in the sunlight. The crystal and the excitement were beginning to get to him. The waiting was hard; he’d better ease off on crystal until the scouts returned. He pulled on his thin black gloves.

Winston rode up and told him everything was ready.

‘How’re the hill boys makin’ out?’

‘Fine man, they may be dumb, but they’re pros.’

Ri’ on, head for the woods and I’ll come in with the scouts.’

Winston rode off, leaving Iggy alone on the sunny hillside. To all appearances it was now deserted save for a single rider on a large black horse.

Iggy sat peering into the hazy distance. Where was the mutherin’ caravan?

5.

It was a fine morning and Joe Starkweather was walking, taking the air, watching life in the town of Festival. Many men of his age would have been content to sit home and watch life go past but Joe Starkweather was not many men. He knew he stood apart from the majority of people, separated by the Starkweather legend, the spurious myth that was remembered while the ideals that had created the legend were forgotten. To most of them he was just a tall grey-haired man in a leather campaign coat and riding boots, whom they respected because they had always respected him. That seemed to be the way of Festival, the way of humanity. It was reflected all the way from the wild-eyed crystal freaks to textkeepers who bickered about the literal interpretation of words and phrases, and waited for a revelation that would save civilisation, without even a clear concept of what civilisation might mean.

Starkweather limped along the high stone wall. The wall that sheltered the privileged from Common Festival, the sanctuary of the lords, the textkeepers and élite protected by their military. Unwittingly it had been Starkweather himself who had created that military.

He paused at the south-west corner of the wall and stared out over the sprawling city. Immediately beneath him was the Merchants’ Quarter, sheltered by its own walls: a solid wooden stockade which was protected by its own guards and retainers. Beside its tents and buildings, the flags of the various craft guilds and traders, with their individual symbols, fluttered in the breeze. Beyond the south wall of the Merchants’ Quarter ran the Drag, with its thieves, whores and gamblers. In the morning sunlight its gaudy facias looked cheap and tawdry. Many of his people had joined the merchants, the guards or the hustlers on the Drag: the whole spectrum of human behaviour that the founders of the commune had worked to make a thing of the past. Yet the work of the founders had come to nothing.

Along beside him, with the morning sun just clearing the top of its high canopy, was the enormous structure of the Stage, the focus of authority and culture in Festival.

The actual Stage level was some twenty feet off the ground, with the superstructure that had once held banks of speakers and electric lights, and the great plastic canopy. Originally the Stage had been enclosed in wooden side walls, like a barn with one side missing, but over the years all but the boards of the Stage itself had been removed for other buildings, and now only the spidery structure of black rusted iron scaffolding remained. To Joe the Stage represented Festival as a whole, a skeleton that would not concede that its purpose was long dead.