FESTIVAL - PROLOGUE

F E S T I V A L

A Novel by M.H.Allner

Prologue : The Queen of Cups

If cards could tell him anything, it was that his life was wasted. Wasted telling inconsequential people inconsequential things that might make inconsequential changes to their desperately banal and pathetic lives. Eminently average, everyone who pulled apart the beads of his tent tended towards the eminently average. Mediocre looks, regular build, middling intelligence – yet these were the people he interacted with – the gullible, the anxious, the new age curiousity kids. His was a stall that people giggled at, snickering at their inquisitiveness even as they murmured to their friends about whether or not they were ‘believers’. His trade was trickery. His art remained the delivery of verbalised fantasies to those determined to find meaning in the meaningless.

From his fingers cards twisted and fell, pouring from the tips of his right hand onto the palm of his left, then riding an invisible string back to his right. Every movement pretended to act against the laws of physics. Springing back to return, cards popping up and down and up and down, in poetic monotony. Twisting his hand, a snake, a twirl...

The bell tinkled between the veil of beads that opened and closed with a swoosh of air. Between them came a breath of cool grassy air, stirring the heavily incensed interior and his hair so it blew away from his eyes. He looked up, eyes glowering in the gloom.

When she stepped forward, with magazine brond hair and thick black liner around her purple eyes, he instantly hated her. He hated her waist high shorts with their rounded cuts that left half of her quibbling arse hanging out. He hated her black and white polkadot shirt and the way it just tucked into the bright red belt that dented her middle below her braline. He hated that her lipstick didn’t match the belt. He hated that she wanted a Hagall spread – because she was going through a difficult time and felt that here, in this place, she could begin her spiritual growth. He tried not to sneer. No one’s lives began here.

Cutting an eye with the deck in his hands, he indicated that she should sit on the garish orange cushion on the opposite side of his obsequious, purple table. With a giggle and a plum cheeked smile, she did as bidden.

Ten cards face up. The central card staring up at him in reverse.

The Queen of Cups.

Her face was serious and he noticed how she’d misdrawn the shape of her eyebrow, straggling hairs sticking out from a pencilled line. As she waited in the silence, peering at the cards as if they might speak to her, he started to speak.

As a central card the Queen of Cups meant everything. He smiled. She relaxed. Decorating his explanations with delicate words and soft suggestions, he reeled her in. She was lonely in the crowd because she was here with her sister, that’s what that card meant and this one, that could apply to her lack of interest in the music here, in fact paired with this one – did she come here mainly to fit in? Tearily, she met his dollish eyes, sniffling and letting him guide her. Perhaps she’d like to meet him later, he could introduce her to some of the performers and give her a story or two to tell her sister. Maybe that’s what this card meant, to take a chance.

When she left, her face was lit in a smile. His was alight with something else entirely.

*

Eight Weeks Prior

“What would you rather do? Pretend to have a desk job for eight weeks, when really all you’re doing is running around fetching coffee and making photocopies? Or, go to Glastonbury?”

Harper Lensing-Hayes stood squarely before her best friend; hand on hips, green eyes flashing with determination, “This really shouldn’t even be a choice. Seriously.”

On the other hand, Jess Fatcher wasn’t so convinced. Pale eyed with pale skin and pale blond hair, Jess could only pull an impatient face at Harper’s antics. Sitting at her desk, chair unwillingly swivelled to face the tyrannical redhead, she rolled her eyes, “Some of us need these internships.”

“But you don’t.”

“What on earth makes you think that?”

“The fact that we’ve just finished third year and you’ve had summer internships with newspapers and magazines and blogs and pretty much anything literary since we were fifteen.” Harper already looked triumphant, “What good will another year as some writer-hacks lacky do you now?”

“We’ve only one more year before we graduate-”

“But you could write about the festival-”

“About what? The fashionistas in their retro sunglasses and wellingtons?”

“Or the music? You could write about the different acts – the bigs ones the littles ones. You might find the next big thing?”

“Do I need to remind you that I know nothing about music?”

Harper’s face creased up in concentration, lips beginning to pout at the first sign of defeat, “What about... about...”

Feeling like success was imminent, Jess began to smile, “You see, I’m –”

“But there are plenty of famous faces at these things. Fern Cotton, Taylor Swift, Wayne Rooney.”

“Do I look like I want to write for a tabloid?”

“But lots of them go. Ian Rankin was at Edinburgh Festival last year-”

“He lives in Edinburgh! And it’s not a music festival-”

“Come on, Jess. It’s our last summer as students. Then it’s real world and work and salaries and taxes and grown up newspapers. Why can’t you just say no to a job for once and come and have fun with me like we used to?”

So it had come to the puppy-dog eyes. Green, sad, perfectly almond shaped eyes widening and begging miserably. Jess sighed, those eyes hadn’t worked on her for years but when it was something like this... when she secretly really wanted to say no to the Buckinghamshire Standard and say yes to her over-demanding sister-from-another-mister...

Harper was good at sensing when she was winning though, it was the gift gained from a spoilt childhood.

“Come on. I’ll book us podpads and everything. No tents, posh wash, young professionals and press abound...”

With a sigh, “Fine,” Jess caved, “But you’re paying for petrol.”

The ridiculous wriggle of excitement that rippled through her then made her laugh, “I can’t believe I’m saying yes.”

Grinning, Harper nodded, elated, “I can.”

They began to chat about dates, about the fact that the tickets were already bought and the podpad already paid for (Jess glared at Harper for that even though the latter insisted it hadn’t been presumptuous), about what to pack, what to expect, who was playing... The lineup was meant to be one of the best of the festival season this year, eclectic but brilliant artists almost putting prior British Summers to shame. Looking over the list, Jess made a mental note over several, promising herself that if nothing else she’d see them only for Harper to then point them out as well. Just as Jess was settling into the fizz of enthusiasm, she caught the words that doomed her summer entirely:

“And then when Glasto finishes we can take the car up to ...”

***

N E X T

To watch my progress through NaNoWriMo: http://nanowrimo.org/en/participants/dragoon362/novels/festival-230383

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER