The Magnificent Showboats (16 page)

“Possibly true. It is indeed pleasant to see you, and I wish you well in your new careers with Garth Ashgale.”

Gandolf spat over the gangplank into the river. “Ashgale lacks real competence. His productions never approach the quality we took for granted on the old
Miraldra’s Enchantment
.”

Wilver the Water-walker remarked, “Ah, the old troupe! Those were halcyon days!”

Thymas said: “Ashgale supplied us transportation back to Coble, true enough, but now I too am considering a change.”

Wilver the Water-walker said thoughtfully: “I would resign my important position in an instant to rejoin the old troupe! What do you say, Master Zamp? Why should we not revive the glorious old times?”

“Never be guided by sentimentality!” advised Zamp. “I advise you all to remain with Garth Ashgale, whose terms of employment are stable; as I recall he discharges only the notoriously incompetent.”

“He can also be a difficult taskmaster,” grumbled Wilver. “He wants me to perform my act without glass stilts, which is difficult.”

“We all have similar problems with Ashgale,” said Thymas. “For instance, in his production
The Extraordinary Dream of Countess Ursula
Gandolf and I must simulate strange animals in questionable poses.”

“I believe, all taken with all, that I will accept Master Zamp’s offer,” said Gandolf.

“I likewise.”

“And I.”

Zamp shrugged. “As you wish. I have no present need for a water-walker; Wilver must serve as an apprentice grotesque. You must all supplement your duties as grooms to the bullocks. Your stipends will not be large, since Master Gassoon is a practical man. You may bring your effects aboard at once.”

Wilver, Gandolf and Thymas slowly descended the gangplank, muttering to each other.

To the annual fair came folk from along the shores of Surmise Bay, from everywhere about the Delta, from as far up-river as Badburg, from places even more remote: Iona on the Suanol, Byssus on the Wergence, Funk’s Grove on the Lant, the travelers arriving by way of Nestor on the Murne. The inns of Coble were suddenly crowded with a diversity of people, and Waterfront Avenue seethed and pulsed with their costumes. Along the docks temporary booths displayed artifacts, oils, essences and balsams; also, sausages from Verlory on the Murne, potted reed-bird from Port Optimo, candied ginger and pickled mace from Callou across Surmise Bay. The glassblowers of Lanteen offered utensils, carboys, flasks, cups and dishes, as well as toys and little glass animals. The Ratwick tanneries displayed hides along a row of redolent racks; agents of the Wigtown looms draped their cloth over lines strung between lime trees; the Coble factors sold shoes, sandals, boots, hats, cloaks, breeches, jackets and shirts to the outlanders.

During the morning Garth Ashgale advertised his performance with pyrotechnics, balloons, and a parade up and down the waterfront, and his afternoon performance was played to an overflow audience. Throdorus Gassoon scorned what he called ‘flummox and puffery’. “We are not interested in sensation-seekers,” he told Zamp. “Let them waste their iron!” Nonetheless, a large number of folk, turned away from
Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit
, paid their way aboard
Miraldra’s Enchantment
, and Gassoon was pleased to hear the clink of iron.

Zamp thought that the performance went off tolerably well, although Damsel Blanche-Aster still brought to the part of Lady Macbeth a debonair facility which distressed Gassoon. The audience seemed not to heed this particular shortcoming, if such it were. They sat entranced, or perhaps bemused, apparently convinced that a production so obscure must necessarily be significant, and at the finale applauded politely, though without hysterical enthusiasm. Gassoon, on the whole, felt encouraged by the day’s work, although the incidental business and specialties which Zamp had introduced received what he considered unwarranted approval.

On the morning after the close of the fair
Miraldra’s Enchantment
sailed north from Coble. At the last minute Gassoon became nervous and declared the vessel not yet ready for so far a journey. Zamp, choking on his impatience, insisted that the boat would never be more ready. “The monsoon blows up-river; time presses hard on us! Let us be off!”

Gassoon made a flapping desperate gesture, which the dock-hands interpreted as a signal to cast off lines. Bullocks heaved at the capstans; the stern-paddle groaned and creaked; the great boat eased away from Bynum’s Dock and out into the stream. The sails billowed, rippled loosely and were sheeted home;
Miraldra’s Enchantment
moved north.

For three days
Miraldra’s Enchantment
enjoyed a wind so fair that even Gassoon showed no inclination to halt; the towns Spanglemar, Wigtown and Port Moses were passed and left astern.

Garth Ashgale, bound for the settlements of the High Suanol under the Lornamay Hills, had departed Coble a day previously to
Miraldra’s Enchantment
. At Ratwick
Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit
was discovered moored to the single dock. Zamp and Gassoon agreed that no good purpose could be served by anchoring in the stream to await Ashgale’s departure, and
Miraldra’s Enchantment
continued up-river.

Late in the afternoon, with the wind faltering, Gassoon decided to sail behind that tract of land known as Harbinger Island, in order to play a program at Chist, a village usually avoided by reason of its poverty and somewhat inconvenient location. The
River Index
described Chist as

… a generally placid village of five hundred population, originally settled by a band of Fundamental Vitalists fleeing the persecutions of the Grand Doctrinate at Chiasm, Lune XXIII Central. The Chists are ruled by a matriarchy and observe a number of peculiar taboos, none of which need overly concern the cautious ship-master. So long as he makes no reference to local conditions, he will find the folk of Chist a disciplined and attentive audience. No great profit can be expected, as payments are ordinarily made in barter.

Gassoon ignored Zamp’s unenthusiastic report, and took the showboat up to the rickety pier. As soon as the gang-plank was extended, a pair of song-girls carried placards down to the dock. One depicted a mailed warrior hacking apart his adversary, and bore the legend:

MACBETH

A
N
E
PIC OF
A
NCIENT
E
ARTH

On the other a woman with flying yellow hair held aloft a bloody dagger. The inscription read:

MACBETH

T
HE
M
URDEROUS
R
ITES OF
A
NCIENT
E
ARTH

Gassoon stepped out upon the gang-way stage to address the crowd of villagers. For the occasion he had donned a black cape and a tall-crowned narrow-brimmed black hat, under which tufts of white hair thrust forth to right and left. He held up his arms in a commanding gesture. “Dignitaries and gentlefolk of Chist! I am Throdorus Gassoon and I am privileged to come before you with my wonderful vessel and my band of artists and musicians. Prepare yourself for an emotional experience the like of which you have never known! We are prepared to present before you an authentic drama of ancient Earth!”

An old woman called up: “Does that mean real killing?”

“My dear lady, of course not!”

The old woman spat toward the posters. “So much for your advertising.”

Gassoon in some perplexity came down off the gangplank and examined the placards which he had not before seen. Zamp was forced to concede that Gassoon encompassed the situation with aplomb. “These placards,” stated Gassoon, “represent the theme of
Macbeth
in bold symbols; like all symbols they must not be mistaken for the products they advertise.”

Another old woman said briskly: “Well then, to negotiate for the entire village — what will be your fee, symbols and all?”

“Our prices are very fair,” said Gassoon. “For the entire village I must reckon on a crowd of total capacity.”

Eventually Gassoon agreed to accept, in lieu of iron, a ton of cattle fodder, six measures of bog syrup and a quantity of smoked eel.

At dusk the lamps were lit and immediately the population of the village began to board the vessel: men, women and children; and in short order the benches were crowded, although the stipulated commodities had not yet been delivered. Gassoon protested to the chief matriarch who threw back her head in annoyance. “We never pay until we test the goods. If your performance is largely symbolic, as I understood you to say, then our fee will also be symbolic.”

“This is unacceptable,” stormed Gassoon. “Deliver the fodder, the syrup and the eel, or we will perform no masterpiece whatever!”

The matriarch declared that she would not be so hoodwinked, but a man who had gone aboard the
Two Varminies
at Badburg assured her that Gassoon’s conditions were not unusual, and finally the produce was delivered to the ship. Gassoon gave a signal; the tympanist sounded gongs and the orchestra played that rousing tune which Zamp had contrived as an overture.

The curtain drew back to display a dismal wasteland. Rocks jutted into a black sky; the set was illuminated by a pair of flaming torches. Three witches crouched about a fire where a cauldron seethed. Rather than immediately entering the dialogue, which Zamp considered abrupt, the witches cavorted in an odd triangular dance, toward and away from the fire, employing gestures at once wild yet controlled, to suggest a weight of purposeful evil. Finally, drained of their frenzy, the witches lurched to the fire, to sag into misshapen wads of black and brown rags.

The music halted: dead silence smothered the stage. In a sour-sweet voice the first witch spoke:

When shall we three meet again,

In thunder, lightning or in rain?

Zamp, at the drawing of the curtain, had noticed a stir of tension in the audience. The witches danced to furtive snickers from the men and hisses of indrawn breath from the women.

Fair is foul and foul is fair;

Hover through the fog —

One of the matriarchs stepped forward, and spreading wide her arms stopped the performance. “We did not pay produce to suffer your mockeries!”

Gassoon ran forth in a fury. “What is this? Please seat yourself, madame; you are disturbing our performance!”

“This is our performance! We paid for it!”

“Well, yes, this is true enough —”

“So then, we want it altered. These caricatures offend us all!”

“Impossible!” cried Gassoon in a brassy voice. “We follow the authentic text. Be so good as to resume your seat. The drama will proceed.”

The matriarch sullenly returned to her seat; the scene changed and Gassoon came onto the stage as Duncan:

What bloody man is that? He can report

As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt

The newest state.

Watching from the wings Zamp noticed that the audience seemed uncommonly attentive. Their eyes glinted with torch-light reflections and they sat stiffly erect.

Scene 3: the witches once more occupied the stage. Certain young men in the audience could not suppress their amusement. The matriarch rose to her feet and pounded with her staff. “I have seen enough. Remove our goods; it is precisely as I had feared.”

Gassoon sprang forward. “Be calm, all! Resume your seats! We will play the drama without the witches!”

Zamp, with somewhat more experience, gave other orders: “Slip the hawsers! Pressure on the pumps! Tilt the deck!”

The ship floated away from the dock: the enraged folk of Chist were washed down the decks into the water. The stern-wheel churned and the vessel swept off up-stream, around Harbinger Island and back to the main channel of the Vissel River. The evening was dead calm; the vessel anchored in midstream, and the remainder of the night passed placidly.