HONKY IN THE WOODPILE

by John Brunner

  It lasted for a thousand years.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Dawn. When I opened my eyes I remembered I’d just been thinking about a curious mixture of subjects: on the one hand revolutionary situations in general and Madrugada in particular, and on the other the envy with which European travelers once reported back from the great West African empires, Mali and Songhai, because they were so well governed and so thoroughly policed that merchants might wander where they liked without fear of being robbed.

  Grey light through a window which had been un-shuttered beside the altar. The figure of Don Sábado had gone. The picture of Don Amedeo had returned. The glass over the photo had been smashed and a trace of fresh blood, very red, had been smeared over its eyes and mouth.

  There were a few people on the floor, stretched out fast asleep. One fat man was snoring terribly: hr’ronk, hr’ronk! By himself, as though deliberately shunned, the old man with one eye was sitting on a nearby pew, head in hands, his shoulders shaking now and then as he was racked by silent sobs.

  What—?

  “Lie still,” Elspeta’s voice said, and I felt something cool wipe across my face. I rolled my head and discovered with amazement that right next to me was a big tin box, black, but bearing on its open lid a white circle with a red cross on it.

  “You cut yourself,” Elspeta said, and touched my left hand. I realized it was strapped around with sticking plaster. “But I have put the right ointment on it, and it will be healed in a little while.”

  She threw aside the wet cloth she had wiped my face with, gathered up her reel of sticking-plaster, her packets of sterile dressings, a tube of antibiotic ointment and a bottle of disinfectant, and returned them to the box.

  I sat up, groggy, but without any other after-effects I could detect from my weird experience. I touched the box with my sound hand and gave her a mute questioning look.

  “It was a gift from Don Fierro,” she said. “Don Rafé his brother came to Aragon seeking subjects for his paintings; it is here as you know that badoan is most accepted. He invited me to go to the clinic, and there I learned many things that my mother would have told me if she had known them, but she did not.”

  Slam. Bang. Crash. In my mind a dozen things snapped together which had been isolated before, making wonderful new sense.

  “Of course, that was one of the reasons why the old folk distrusted me,” Elspeta added. “But after last night they will never do so again. He is finished.” With a contemptuous jerk of her thumb at the old man.

  The door at the far end of the geraba flew open and a tall muscular young man marched in. I recognized him; last night he had first challenged me with a knife, then put it away and tried to help free me from the net. Spotting Elspeta and me, he hurried towards us, his face grave.

  “Too late?” Elspeta said, rising to her feet.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” the guy grunted. And added to me, “Apologies, señor. One did one’s best, but…”

  I’d managed to stand up myself now, though I was having to support my weight on the corner of the altar. I said foggily, “What are you apologizing about?”

  “It was too late to warn your friend Don Diego,” he muttered, and shuffled his feet in embarrassment.

  “You mean…” I drew a deep breath. “You mean I told you about him while I was under the yoma-xi?” I didn’t have the faintest recollection.

  “Yes, señor. And because I too hate the Sabatanos I took my boat and hurried to Lastilas. But already when I approached the shore I found there were many Sabatanos in cars, and police too, and I heard guns being fired.”

  He scowled ferociously. “Oh, those devils! Those devils! And when I think if it hadn’t been for him…!” He spun on his heel and took a pace towards the old man as though on the point of kicking him. But Elspeta called him back.

  “No, he is only a fool, not an evil man. Leave him be!” And to me, by way of explanation: “Mauro went at once to help your friend, so do not be angry at his failure. I’m sure he did his best because he detests the Sabatanos so much. His family were driven from their homes on Petty Madrugada to make way for the army training-ground, and it was the Sabatanos who evicted them.”

  I nodded slowly. “You have no news of my friend, then?” I said.

  “I wish I had, señor. But it would have been suicide to go ashore and try to find him.”

  Well, this news didn’t mean that Diego was done for—he must have an instinct for survival as highly developed as mine to have stayed alive for so long in this hostile environment. But I hoped desperately he hadn’t walked into the trap the Sabatanos meant for me.

  “Still,” Mauro said more cheerfully, “now you have shown us a way to attack them and their bosses the garzos, it will not be long before we are rid of the lot of them.”

  I glanced at Elspeta. But it was obviously me the guy was referring to. I said feebly, “What—what way to attack them?”

  “Oh, a marvelous scheme!” Mauro said with enthusiasm. “And one which will easily be made to work, too—isn’t it, Mama ‘Speta?”

  But Elspeta ignored him. Her eyes steadily on me, she said, “Ah, I see you have forgotten. Don’t worry, it’s often that way the first time you take yoma-xi. But it was the true thoughts of the god that came through your mouth. Only a god could have conceived the plan.”

  “What plan?” I blasted, suddenly frightened and angry at this interference with my memory, casual as editing a movie film.

  So she told me, carefully and with a wealth of detail, as though like many sub-literate people she had the sort of memory which enabled her to recite word-for-word something she had only heard once. Mauro was damned right. It was an absolutely fantastic plan.

  Also, of course, it was absolutely crazy. But what was it she had said last night? “The thoughts of gods are not like the thoughts of men.”

  While she was explaining the scheme to me, though, I did remember one thing, very distantly. I remembered smashing the glass over Don Amedeo’s picture with my fist, and here the cuts on my hand were throbbing to prove that was real.

  “Will the people help?” I said at length.

  “Yes, they have taken the oath of our Lord. You may rely on them implicitly.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Brascoso’s air was full of music. It had started at six a.m., when after the chimes for the hour the carillon in the cathedral played the National Anthem at immense volume, relayed by radio to every corner of the country. Within minutes the streets were alive with people impatient to get on with their fun. It seemed that either nobody had been to bed, or they’d all risen before dawn.

  Boats from all the out-islands crammed the harbor to the limit, and many of them had to anchor beyond the mole and ferry passengers to shore in hired rowboats. From every corner of Grand Madrugada people rolled in by bus, by cycle or on foot. From Petty Madrugada came more still, plus convoys of old trucks, farm-wagons drawn by tractors, rusty cars frighteningly overloaded with human beings, carnival-style costumes, musical instruments, home-made caxa, picnic meals… They streamed across the Ocean Bridge at such a rate the guards could only stop about one vehicle in every three or four to be checked, and the checks were rapid because of the jeers and complaints from the people being delayed.

  Pedlars selling the local equivalent of tamales, frijoles and empanadas supplied breakfasts by the thousand, then switched to soft drinks and ice-cream for the rest of the day. Already by nine o’clock the square of St Luke in front of the cathedral, from which the grand parade was scheduled to move off at noon for its three-hour tour of the city, was packed nearly to capacity with singers, dancers and hangers-on, and there were several fights between rival groups who had slung one insult too many, but these were quickly broken up because today everybody, even the police, felt in a good humor.

  With some minor exceptions like all the Sabatanos and especially Don José Moril, but they were only a handful among the hundred-thousand-strong crowds.

  Late, but not d
isastrously so, the Archbishop arrived to conduct a well-attended service at the cathedral, while outside people sang and played drums and guitars and danced and ate and passed around bottles of caxa and joints which were supposed to be illegal because the Americans at the naval base insisted but in fact were too common for the police to worry about, and one way and another things boiled up to a fine froth.

  There were more fights over precedence when the time came for the parade, but the police solved them in the regular manner, by pulling out the groups to which the quarrelling factions belonged and promising that if they didn’t cool it they would be prevented from marching altogether, so they calmed down with grumbles and fell in towards the end. The contingent from Aragon was on its best behavior, of course.

  Off the parade went, with groups from neighborhood communities and from small out-island villages dolled up in fantastic costumes, immense head-dresses, incredible masks, singing and playing and laughing and dancing as they went. At intervals they paused to make rendezvous with local singers—nobody seemed to know just how that custom arrived in Madrugada, because it doesn’t survive in Northern Spain and only barely in Southern Spain and Portugal at Easter-time, but it had taken good deep root here—and stood around more or less in silence while the singer performed a new song, specially composed, then either screamed wild applause or booed equally frantically.

  Lorreo met the parade at the Cinema Coloseo, and sang to them from the roof of the marquee over the entrance through a gang of loudspeakers. His song was nothing special, but a good thousand of his young and adoring fans had already assembled before the procession reached the spot, and they were so fanatically devoted to their idol that it would have been more than your life was worth to boo. They insisted on hauling him down to come march along and sing with them near the head of the line… which also led to some arguments, and considerable delay, so that the procession was more than an hour late making its rendezvous with Don Amedeo.

  At the port they had erected a dais gaudy with bunting and flowers but enclosed with bullet-proof glass. Either side of it was ranged an honor guard of armed soldiers, and in front of it stood a group of distinguished garzos, including cabinet ministers and heads of the wealthiest families—most of whom were entitled to wear generals’ uniforms, whether or not they’d ever served in the forces. No ambassadors were present; they would turn up later, at the baseball stadium.

  Proudly, and to the accompaniment of the National Anthem repeated and repeated by a not-quite-in-tune military band, Don Amedeo waved to his people as they marched past. When the tail of the procession had disappeared, he transferred to his transparent-topped Cadillac—also bullet-proof—and drove in triumph after them, showered with confetti and flowers.

  With men carrying machineguns in open convertibles before and after.

  The tourists, of course, thought it was fabulous. All of it.

  People made for the Estadio del Béisbol even before the procession returned to St Luke’s Square and broke up; by four o’clock, there were lines of disappointed would-be gatecrashers milling fifty deep at all the entrances. Meantime, under the far side in the catacomb-like dressing-rooms and shower-rooms, representatives of what Moril had called “a microcosm of Madrugadan culture” prepared for their big moment: repairing spoiled costumes, grabbing a snack and a drink, rehearsing three different songs in one room, insulting one another as usual, throwing up excess intake of caxa, praying either to the Virgin or to Jesus or to their own darker patron.

  By five-thirty the distinguished guests were rolling up: once again the rich garzos and their families, the ministers of the government, a few of the really prominent Sabatanos—Moril among them—and the foreigners who had either earned Don Amedeo’s favor or paid exorbitant prices to scalpers. Altogether there were about six hundred who packed into the best seats around the presidential box behind the home plate. Don Amedeo had never actually attended a baseball game here, but one couldn’t design a major public building in this country without arrangements for satisfying him if he did show up.

  Ambassadors; heads of the local branches of foreign corporations, mostly American; senior officers from the naval base; they crammed in with the wealthy and powerful garzos until they were almost knee to knee. Meantime the lucky members of the general public who had secured tickets were being scrutinized and admitted by the police, with supervision from the Sabatanos. The theoretical capacity of the stadium was eighteen thousand. More like twenty were ultimately jammed in, because naturally some enterprising guy had been at work forging tickets.

  There were a few more disputes over the right to occupy particular seats, and three people had to be rushed to hospital with knife-wounds.

  None of the fights, however, was that serious in the block of seats directly facing the presidential box, where the performers were squeezed tight as sardines in a can. Outstanding figures like Lorreo were down front; ordinary folk from the out-islands, for whom this was their annual day of glory, were higher up. Officious but worried-looking young men marched importantly up and down, synchronizing their watches and muttering to remind the leaders of the various groups of performers when they were supposed to go below and get ready for their appearance.

  It wouldn’t take long. Most of them were already in full costume—masks, head-dresses, paint, the lot.

  Things were reasonably quiet when, only ten or twelve minutes past the due time of six p.m., the voice of the Minister of Culture who was acting as mc boomed over the pa system to announce the arrival of the president. Everybody rose while the National Anthem was played, and he took his place in the box smiling and waving just as he had done when the procession marched past his dais at the port.

  Next there was a flourish of trumpets—they weren’t in very good tune either—and a horde of soldiers in the dress uniforms worn by the sentries at Don Amedeo’s palace came doubling from the changing-rooms with about thirty portable altars, which they disposed around the perimeter of the field.

  Directly they were in position, the Archbishop paraded stately into the arena tailed by a gang of white-robed choirboys and a couple of hundred extra priests and lay servers. He took station at the altar directly facing Don Amedeo, folded his hands and bowed, and everybody sat down again while he described the reason for this special mass—to commemorate the cherished freedom of our beloved homeland, or words to that effect. People lucky enough to have acquired printed programs took to using them as fans because the evening was very hot and humid; there were supposed to be enough to go around, but they were being sold at two thousand doblones each, so not everyone was provided for.

  Then the service started, and went ahead with quite un-Madrugadan briskness, as though everyone was anxious to get this formality out of the way. The Host was consecrated in unison at all the altars, and the Archbishop himself delivered it with dignity to Don Amedeo and his immediate entourage, but everywhere else priests and servers rushed into the crowd at a near-run with great ciboria of wafers.

  The rite lasted a mere half-hour, and was brought to a prompt finish. It wasn’t that they’d run out of wafers; more, a surprisingly large number of people were not taking the communion. Obviously many of the foreigners weren’t Catholics, let alone Catholics of the rather odd Madrugadan sub-species, but a remarkable proportion of the people from the out-islands made a point of staying firmly seated when the rest of the audience were stretching their necks and tongues towards the passing priests.

  The Archbishop and his followers departed to places reserved for them on the side nearer Don Amedeo, the soldiers came running back to take away the altars, and—finally—the Minister of Culture announced the change of schedule which had cost five thousand dollars.

  He could be quite clearly seen; he was up in what must be the press box, high on the right of the stadium, and since the arrival of Don Amedeo darkness had gathered, so there were now spotlights springing up everywhere.

  “Señor Presidente Don Amedeo! Your Grace! Your excellencies the
ambassadors! Ministers! Señores, señoras, señoritas! I, the Minister of Culture of the Republic of Madrugada, have the honor to present to you, to commence our magnificent festival marking the natal anniversary of our beloved leader, the—uh—the…”

  Rustling of paper, immensely magnified by the mike. A young man could be seen whispering to him.

  “The… Ah, yes. I’m told there has to be a slight change in the running order.” Recovering his full former enthusiasm. “The grand and authentic spectacle of the revivification of the zechazu, the traditional and folklorical ceremony presented by the people of Cayachupo, Aragon!”

  A sort of groan went up, and the guy who was originally meant to go on first—a singer, with a reputation less distinguished than Lorreo’s—started squawking furiously down front, complaining to one of the ushers. His supporting band joined in, four or five of them with their instruments slung around their shoulders.

  Speaking of Lorreo, though…

  A voice piped up from anonymous shadow, either a girl’s or a very young boy’s; “Lor-r-r-r-reo!”

  A chorus of cheers followed. There appeared to be a block of Lorreo’s fans seated together, at the back of the bleachers close under the press box.

  “Lor-r-r-r-r-rrrr…!” It was like a buzz-saw.

  Lorreo rose graciously to acknowledge the tribute, bowing from side to side, and after a few seconds caught Señora Redón, seated at his side, by the wrist and made her stand up too. Some quick-witted guy put a spotlight on him and the cheers redoubled.

  The more respectable Brascosans, naturally, did not join in. He wasn’t married to her. But then half the people of Madrugada either didn’t get married, or did so late in life when they’d saved up for a proper fiesta and their children could enjoy the fun.

  “Now?” Elspeta murmured to me.

  It was no good nodding; she couldn’t see my head move. I said, “I guess so.”