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Authors: Mick Farren
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laughed Nath was aware that most of them shared his mild disappointment. The raid would yield much booty but that was for the tribe. For the individual warrior there had been few scalps and no women. The only consolation was in the dozen kegs of beer that Funka had discovered undamaged in one of the wagons.
Under the supervision of Oltha, the tribesmen unloaded the loot from the wagons. The strange-eyed horsemen of the new tribe moved through the wreck of the caravan, seizing an item here and another there. They seemed to take no great pleasure in the victory.
Nath shouldered a sack of grain and looked forward to the night of drinking.
Iggy stared at the steam engine. It was magnificent with its black ironwork, its shining polished steel pistons and brass fittings. There were dents in it though and some of the cab’s wooden panels had been smashed by gunfire. If only it could be made to work. He turned to Winston.
‘Any of the boys know how to work this mutha?’
‘I think Banana useda boss a puller before he joined us. Hey, Banana, get ya ass over here.’
Banana, a big muscular negro, sauntered over. ‘Whasamatta chief? You wants somethin’?’
‘The boss wants to know if you kin get this big mutha rollin’.’
‘No sweat if’n it ain’t bin busted up in the fight.’
Iggy inspected the machine.
‘It don’t look busted.’ He turned to Banana. ‘You reckon it’ll roll to Festival?’
‘No reason why not, all it’ll need is wood.’
‘Hey Winston, get a coupla Oltha’s axe boys to bust up a wagon, an’ Banana, get together, let’s see if it works.’
‘Sho’, chief.’ He started to climb into the cab. Winston went off to find Oltha. After another look at the steam engine Iggy followed him.
Night fell and a high keening cut through the silent air. Although they would later be drinking, the men in Oltha’s tribe now sat in a rough circle, a short distance from the wrecked and looted wagons, their voices raised in the solemn chant, the ritual Singing of the Dead.
Iggy’s men had lit a fire further up the hill, and they huddled around it uncomfortable and tense with the high, droning chant. Iggy stood a little way off, hugging his cloak around him against the evening chill and gazing across the darkening landscape. Figures of the crystal comedown darted at the edge of his vision. Originally he had been impatient at the chief’s refusal to discuss the next move until after the tribe’s ritual, but after an hour of the wailing chant he was on edge and had to concentrate to stop the hand that gripped the front of his cloak from shaking.
‘We sing. It is down upon the victor. The Song of the Dead cannot remain unsung.’
There was a depth to these tribesmen that made Iggy ill-at-ease. He had not allowed for it. Once they were hooked on crystal, he would feel a lot happier. Then it would be he who decided the tribe’s rituals.
Slowly he walked down the hill, his black woollen cloak making him almost invisible in the darkness. He gave a wide berth to the mass of squatting, wailing men, almost as though their fur-wrapped figures were the source of a strange power that he had no wish to approach.
The steam engine loomed big in the night, its brasswork reflecting the flicker of the distant firelight. Iggy took off his glove and laid his hand on the cold, dew-wet iron.
‘Oh baby, with you nothing can stop me, nothing.’
7.
There was an almost carnival air as Frankie Lee lounged by the entrance to the Merchants’ Quarter and watched the soldier boys ride out of the Highway Gate. A crowd had gathered, and fast to cash in, hawkers, pimps and pickpockets moved through the mass of people, taking care of business. He could even hear the tuneless voice of Blind Larry, the wandering text singer.
Wanna hear a rare tex’ for a token?’
The squad of soldiers was clear of the gate, and riding, doing their best to look grim and purposeful, down the highway to the west.
For cats who lounged
Under the supervision of Oltha, the tribesmen unloaded the loot from the wagons. The strange-eyed horsemen of the new tribe moved through the wreck of the caravan, seizing an item here and another there. They seemed to take no great pleasure in the victory.
Nath shouldered a sack of grain and looked forward to the night of drinking.
Iggy stared at the steam engine. It was magnificent with its black ironwork, its shining polished steel pistons and brass fittings. There were dents in it though and some of the cab’s wooden panels had been smashed by gunfire. If only it could be made to work. He turned to Winston.
‘Any of the boys know how to work this mutha?’
‘I think Banana useda boss a puller before he joined us. Hey, Banana, get ya ass over here.’
Banana, a big muscular negro, sauntered over. ‘Whasamatta chief? You wants somethin’?’
‘The boss wants to know if you kin get this big mutha rollin’.’
‘No sweat if’n it ain’t bin busted up in the fight.’
Iggy inspected the machine.
‘It don’t look busted.’ He turned to Banana. ‘You reckon it’ll roll to Festival?’
‘No reason why not, all it’ll need is wood.’
‘Hey Winston, get a coupla Oltha’s axe boys to bust up a wagon, an’ Banana, get together, let’s see if it works.’
‘Sho’, chief.’ He started to climb into the cab. Winston went off to find Oltha. After another look at the steam engine Iggy followed him.
Night fell and a high keening cut through the silent air. Although they would later be drinking, the men in Oltha’s tribe now sat in a rough circle, a short distance from the wrecked and looted wagons, their voices raised in the solemn chant, the ritual Singing of the Dead.
Iggy’s men had lit a fire further up the hill, and they huddled around it uncomfortable and tense with the high, droning chant. Iggy stood a little way off, hugging his cloak around him against the evening chill and gazing across the darkening landscape. Figures of the crystal comedown darted at the edge of his vision. Originally he had been impatient at the chief’s refusal to discuss the next move until after the tribe’s ritual, but after an hour of the wailing chant he was on edge and had to concentrate to stop the hand that gripped the front of his cloak from shaking.
‘We sing. It is down upon the victor. The Song of the Dead cannot remain unsung.’
There was a depth to these tribesmen that made Iggy ill-at-ease. He had not allowed for it. Once they were hooked on crystal, he would feel a lot happier. Then it would be he who decided the tribe’s rituals.
Slowly he walked down the hill, his black woollen cloak making him almost invisible in the darkness. He gave a wide berth to the mass of squatting, wailing men, almost as though their fur-wrapped figures were the source of a strange power that he had no wish to approach.
The steam engine loomed big in the night, its brasswork reflecting the flicker of the distant firelight. Iggy took off his glove and laid his hand on the cold, dew-wet iron.
‘Oh baby, with you nothing can stop me, nothing.’
7.
There was an almost carnival air as Frankie Lee lounged by the entrance to the Merchants’ Quarter and watched the soldier boys ride out of the Highway Gate. A crowd had gathered, and fast to cash in, hawkers, pimps and pickpockets moved through the mass of people, taking care of business. He could even hear the tuneless voice of Blind Larry, the wandering text singer.
Wanna hear a rare tex’ for a token?’
The squad of soldiers was clear of the gate, and riding, doing their best to look grim and purposeful, down the highway to the west.
For cats who lounged
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