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 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, anxious 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
‘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 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, anxious 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
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