The Malacia Tapestry Page 11

  Outside the coupe, the faces of young and old alike were predominantly cheerful. The Buglewing marked the legendary battle of our remotest ancestors, countless millions of years ago, when the forces of the someone-or-other defeated the forces of someone-else in continent-wide battle; consequently, it was a time to be cheerful.

  Even with the Ottomans almost within hailing distance, festivities went forward. The guilds were arriving in strength, with rich processions from the Guildhall, bearing the banners and emblems of their trades. And the religious orders were also present, with many representations of Satan, God and Minerva among their banners; they moved in solemn ranks, preceded by trumpeters, carrying torches, jewelled reliquaries and swinging censers which perfumed the air as they went.

  In the midst of these holy men in their grey, black and brown gowns was a burst of colour, white, crimson and gold, where the Bishop Elect of Malacia, Gondale IX, was borne along on a canopied throne set on a platform carried shoulder-high by monks. Gondale was thin and so silvered by age as to be almost transparent; he swathed himself in white for purity and encased the white in a magnificent crimson gown which spilled down from the throne to the platform and from the platform almost to the ground. As he progressed, the holy old man scattered silver coin to the crowd with one translucent hand. The coin bore images of Dark on one side and Light on the other.

  Following the Bishop's procession were the ancestral animals of his zoo. The crowd roared its pleasure at the sight as if it too were an animal. First came the bird after which the festival was named, chained to the gauntlet of the Buglewing Keeper. It perched drowsily on his raised fist, its brilliant plumage unfluttered, its toothed beak on its breast. By its side a flautist played soothing buglewing music.

  Close behind the bird came other ancestrals, after which other festivals of the year were named. First, a great old halberd-head — shatterhorn, in popular parlance — with three horns ranked one behind the other on its enormous skull. It plodded majestically, its rider controlling it with gold reins bolted to the nasal horn.

  This living engine of war was followed by two other giants of battles past, the shaggy mangonels I had seen being prepared with riders perched high behind their ears; and wattle-tassets, striding with dignity on their massive hind legs and surveying the mob with shrewd eyes.

  After came the lesser fry, led, not ridden — such common ancestrals as yellow hauberks, hopping and croaking; yatterhobs; and a team of tree-snaphances or grab-skeeters, to use their vulgar name, their mottled skins gleaming in the sun.

  Last plodded an amiable casque-body — Old Trundles to the multitude. The two lethal spikes had been removed from its tail, but its dorsal plates were intact. It was a male, and a fine one, its head raised by the chained pole on which it was led.

  These majestic creatures pleased everybody.

  Mighty tableaux suitable to the day followed. They rumbled through the streets on heavy wheels, bearing the most beautiful scenes of mythology and pageantry that artists could devise. The glowing dreams of the world were let loose in St Marco's, and the lower classes ran by the floats, cheering and waving, men and women, as if there was nothing to their lives but glowing dreams. Beside them in a slower stream went the street-sellers, turning the natural appetites of festivity to their advantage, offering all manner of drinks and fizzes and juices and fruits and spiced meats and kebabs, hot or cold; as well as cakes, tarts, fudges, halva, pitta, bourek, ices and other sweet concoctions. The air became full of good smells. Holy and worldly things combined in our nostrils as incense mingled with the fragrance of fresh-baked bread and pies.

  During the evening we would be treated to more challenging smells, as heretics were burnt at the stake — men who believed in one god only, or who claimed themselves descended from frenetic apes.

  Our carriage proceeded with difficulty through this mêlée. Armida called an instruction to the driver and we turned into a side street, thus avoiding the main crowds and arriving safely behind the Bucintoro to which we made our way on foot.

  What a beautiful sight is the Bucintoro! Great merchants' palaces flank its southern side while gardens and the slow river flank its northern. The palaces are white in marble or golden in our local stone.

  On this occasion, as on similar ones, fences had been erected on the northern side, to keep back the crowds of commoners. The parade itself stretched between the elegant new Park Bridge and the quaint old Stary Most Bridge, with its tumbledown freight of houses, and further even than that, its official length being demarcated at one end by the memorial statue of Founder Desport confronting the First Magician and, at the other, by the ancient stonework of the Merchants' Church. Between statue and church, blue-and-black flags flew every pace of the way. On the towers of the palaces perched the flighted people, enjoying the finest views of the ceremony.

  Armoured knights on grandly caparisoned steeds paraded here, as well as town companies of halberdiers and pikemen. The military array was enlivened by the silver band of the Militia, resplendent in gaudy ancestral skins. Among this warlike splendour the four captive tyrants had their place. They entered the Bucintoro skittishly, disturbed by the crowds and the blaze of the trumpets, so that their satyrs had difficulty in keeping them in line. Each monster had a satyr astride its shoulders, perched in a saddle. The tyrants' tails curved high over their bodies and over the heads of their riders. The ends of the tails were linked by golden chains to collars about their throats. Those tails were too powerful to be allowed freedom among the crowds. Since I had seen this barbaric company in Stary Most earlier in the morning, the satyrs had garlanded their heads and horns with laurel crowns and their loins with honeysuckle.

  Along the quays was more noise where a pipe band played sea shanties. Many ships, foreign as well as Malacian, were at their moorings. A Navidadian schooner, a fine three-master ship with high prow, and two junks, lay alongside our native galliasses and triremes, so well adapted to the navigational hazards of the Middle Sea. These vessels were dressed overall and bore a considerable freight of sailors in their yard-arms.

  All this great assembly would later have its eyes, if not its prayers, set on me. The thought made my stomach turn over like a top-heavy barque. Later there would be tournaments, masques, weddings (the Feast of the Buglewing was a propitious time for weddings), burnings, a circus and fireworks, until well into the night. The fountain in Stary Most would spurt red wine as a gesture from the Council to the poor. All that would take place — all and more, for there could hardly be a soul in the multitude now assembling who had not made some special arrangement or assignation as his or her private contribution to the public celebrations. Later, later. First came I, Perian de Chirolo, in one of my most foolish and least coveted roles!

  Armida and I were led by halberdiers to the front of one of the merchants' palaces where, on an improvised platform, stood several dignitaries whose faces were as uninviting as their costumes were imposing. (But not that terrible man from the Supreme Council whose appearance was so formidable; I judged that he chose not to venture forth in public; night and privacy were part of his equipment.) Among these dignitaries was Andrus Hoytola, who sauntered forward, beckoned me up on to the platform, and gave me a few unsmiling words of reassurance. I glanced round; Armida had gone.

  'One has another hour to wait,' Hoytola said, taking snuff. He turned away and resumed his conversation with a man whose face I recognized. It was the Duke of Renardo, a fair and stalwart youth with florid visage. He looked every inch the nobleman, in his gold mail, with roll-up stockings and shoes with platform soles, square-blocked toes and high-buckled tongues. I'd have given the world — or at least the next hour of the world — for his satin breeches with matching loose coat over the mail. His loose coat had vertical pockets; its seams were decorated with elaborate gold ornamentation into which the motif of the House of Renardo was worked. The Zlatorogs had probably stitched that coat in their sweatshop.

  The young duke gave me a glance of appraisa
l and resumed his talk with Hoytola, which I deduced to be worth a ducat a syllable, judging by Hoytola's favourable response to each syllable as it was uttered. It was this same duke who had been mentioned as supporting Hoytola; he was said generally to be enlightened in the interests of the people, even backing them against the wishes of the Council. Or so it was rumoured; when the Council was anonymous, it was difficult to divine its wishes, although, on a time-honoured principle, the assumption that wishes were for the worst generally turned out to be well-founded where anonymity was involved.

  From my exposed position on the platform I could watch everything.

  The grand concourse was filling rapidly. The Militia made music at the east end before the Merchants' Church. As usual, the groundlings had assembled before the affluent. Pedlars moved about selling toys and pamphlets as well as food. I tried to pick out my father's face in the mob, but it was hopeless. Nor could I see the Mantegan banner, so I did not know if my sister was present — or even if her husband Volpato was back from his latest bout of travel.

  Waving hands attracted my attention. There, behind the barricade, stood my friends de Lambant and Portinari, with two girls.

  It was Bedalar with de Lambant, while de Lambant's sister, Smarana, was escorted by Portinari. When I made them a bow some people applauded, and the tips of my ears went red.

  I stood at one end of the platform, which would shortly be the cynosure of all eyes, slightly apart from the stony-faced dignitaries. The rest of the space was occupied by a number of strange objects, the like of which had never to my knowledge been seen in all the long history of Malacia.

  Seven wooden frames or towers had been built above the platform. They were filled with gigantic sacks of silk which wobbled and rustled in their cages as if alive. Danger of fire attended these objects; two men with a hose and pump stood by on the platform, occasionally dousing the cages with water, which gave everyone nearby a splash.

  The ends of these seven huge sacks trailed down to seven barrels, one large, six smaller, which had in their time contained wine. The barrels stood on end and were being tended by a crew of men, supervised by Bengtsohn and his man-boy, Rhino. The crew regularly poured liquid into the barrels through spouts set in the staves. They also wheeled up barrows containing a gritty substance with which they topped up the barrels.

  Beyond this activity, at the far end of the platform, was a groom gentling a stallion, a mettlesome black from Hoytola's stud; it bore his colours as well as the flag of Malacia, draped over its hindquarters. It had been specially shod for the occasion with silver horseshoes. I looked speculatively at the horse. It looked speculatively away from me.

  On the pavement below the platform stood a long, black carriage covered with black drapes and guarded by two gentlemen dressed in black, even to masks over their faces. As if aware that they struck a sombre note on a cheerful day, they bore a wreath of white flowers above them on a pole.

  It was this mournful cortege as much as anything which made me feel that I was attending my execution. When a messenger came to the platform and thrust up a message between the railings in a cleft stick, I snatched it as if it were a pardon. It was a note from my revered father.

  I suffer from the colic yet you never visit me. Or it may be the gall-stone. I do not eat. I am busy with my research, so that I have ceased to bother about feeding myself. It is all very interesting. Never trust doctors.

  Your letter was welcome, although your hand does not improve. I think you should not ride horses. You were not successful in that line as a boy, no more than in any other line. Meanwhile, I elucidate much that was obscure regarding the diet of Philip of Macedon, or Makedonia. I have no guilders to spare for fancy shirts or other fripperies. Please take care. Why don't you come and visit me? I never go out since the parrot died.

  You must not expect me to approve your foolish antics. You will only fall off. I am better today but shall be worse tomorrow, so send my best wishes.

  Your devoted

  Father

  Well, there, I thought, tucking the paper into my tunic pocket. I must go and see the old swine. Assuming I don't fall off.

  To quell a certain shaking at the knees, I went over to speak to Bengtsohn, who was working at the barrels. He had removed his old fur jacket, and a rough canvas shirt adhered to his ribs; his minions toiling beside him were stripped to the waist. His manner was eager and excited as he ordered more liquid to be poured into the largest wine-barrel of the seven.

  'So, Otto, you are practising the distillation of Hollands in public. Or is this an example of Progress?'

  Conspiratorially, he said, 'Do not utter aloud that word. It is that, to be certain, in as prime a case what this ancient city saw ever. The great Fatember himself should be here to paint this historic scene. We've a new weapon of warfare. It will change things, and all poor men are for change.'

  He dashed sweat from his brow, looking about to find something to shout at, but apparently everything proceeded according to plan.

  'Why are you so contradictory, Otto? You long to change things, you work for progress, yet you write a stale old drama which might have been performed a million years ago.' I had dropped my voice to match his.

  Again one of his searching looks. 'Try to learn, try to understand what the world, what to you seems so good, is like really — full with cruel injustices. If your mind is ordinary, your station in life is sufficient, you are then safe, enchanted, when at least youthfulness is with your side. But if you are poor, if you have a mind beyond ordinary — if you think! — then you need to change things, then the world with its powerful men roll against you like a spiked wheel.'

  'For you the buglewings fly in vain.'

  He made a contemptuous gesture. 'There are those — even on this platform — what continue to exploit us, even on days of festivity.'

  'If it makes you so unhappy, then stop criticizing.'

  Otto wiped his hands on his shirt and replied almost pityingly. 'When a man ceases for to be blind, does he deliberately then blind himself? You have such a cossetted mind — wake up, Perian, see what's happening really! Yes, I work for change and I write the play in old-fashioned style, just to have it at all accepted. My Mendicula play was the intention to be set in present-day among poor folk like the Zlatorogs, not among princes. You know I love not princes.' He gave me a sly grin. 'Then, with its success, I would do another drama of the poor, for exposing more of the truth. But those what own the Arts don't want for to know about the misery of starvation or seeing die your children, as mine own children died long ago once. All this talk about religion and science and art — they also are the toys from the rulers. They never aid the common people.'

  'I see it differently. It doesn't affect everyone in that way.'

  My placatory remark excited him again.

  'Yes, it does. It does, with certainty. One lie in life affects every life. We swim in lies, to the richest, to the poorest. Only the rich benefit by such lies, spawn them as salmons spawn eggs. The lies even affect your cosy life, though you haven't opened yet your eyes to see how it works.'

  'You know I live in a garret, that I have little work, that only a week ago I was trying to scrounge a shirt for my back. Don't be so prejudiced against me.'

  'No, you want to be a carriage dog — I have eyes! You won't know hardship till you're married and the kids are dying with worms crawling out from their backsides. As for that shirt you mention — let me tell you something what you fail to see. The Zlatorogs and Letitia slave their fingers to their bones for to make meet ends; they can't afford to give away shirts — it's giving away part from their life-bloods. Couldn't you see that?'

  'I saw how poor they were. But Letitia is such a mean little hussy. She doesn't like me. Why, I had a little fun with her and she went straight and told Armida all about it.'

  He regarded me sadly. 'She is not mean. She does not dislike. It is only that she is poor and her family also poor. That is all. That's the fact. She is a generou
s soul, finer than young Armida in every way, much disturbed in her heart by love for you. But family miseries distort every factor in her life.'

  I gave a brief laugh. 'She loves me, so she tells Armida what I did!'

  He hastened over to Rhino and set him to work on a task which involved hauling up another barrow from the pavement. The barrow contained what I took to be ash. When it was safe on the platform, Bengtsohn turned back to me.

  'That's iron filings in there. We have to make careful — the danger of fire is every present but we've survived enough well so far. Where were we? Yes, we spoke of little Letty. Couldn't you try to understand her situation? Letitia loves you but knows she can never have; perhaps she told Armida, of whom she is envious naturally, in order to sow the trouble between you.'

  'I am not beholden to her for that. Let's drop the subject.'

  'I'll tell you something.' He edged nearer, again favouring me with his best conspiratorial manner, one eye rising from under a hill of brow. 'Do not repeat or I'll hear, and my friends in the city will make trouble for you.

  'Observe again the working of poverty, which is more strong than morality. You know Letitia. You have met her uncle Joze — a fine man, though crippled. It is he, with his penned energies, what keeps going that family. He's brave. The mother is a thing broken since her husband's demise. Now, Perian, on account of poverty, that little family, all five from them, sleep together on the floor on some mattresses, one against the another. The uncle, a man of normal inclinations but ever in that loft, he lies against Letitia. What will you say takes place?'

  'She wouldn't — her mother —'

  'Her mother, for the peace, for their general survival, insists the girl will comply to her brother's wishes. And not Letitia only — her sister Rosa also, indiscriminate. Yes. I had it from Joze, the uncle himself, one night when I took with him a drink. What else do you think can happen in the piteous circumstances, forced by exploitation?'