The Lost War by Karl Gallagher (novel24 .txt) 📗

between the trees and neighboring tents. Her father was unhooking the open-topped trailer from his SUV about sixty feet from the empty campsite.

“Let’s get to pushing, boys,” he said, as his wife drove the SUV away. Two younger men joined him at the back of the trailer and leaned into it. Newman grabbed the front corner and pulled.

Redinkle walked ahead, calling left and right to steer them clear of trees and tents. They avoided collisions until just before their campsite. A wheel brushed against a tent stake, knocking it out of the ground.

Fortunately, the neighbor tent was held up by enough ropes that losing one didn’t endanger it. When the trailer stopped Newman walked back to the tent, stretched its rope out taut and shoved the stake through the loop at the end a couple inches into the dirt.

One of the trailer pushers said, “Gimme a minute and I’ll get the sledge out.”

Newman stomped on the stake, driving it almost another foot into the ground.

The stranger blinked. “It usually takes a few taps with a three pound sledge to get one of those in.”

“I weigh more than three pounds.”

“Guess so. I’m Pernach. Thanks for helping us out. You’re Goldenrod’s guy?”

“That’s me,” Newman said. ‘Goldenrod’s Guy’ felt like a more solid identifier than ‘Newman Greenhorn.’

Pernach was married to Redinkle. She handled the rest of the introductions. “My parents, and the heads of House Applesmile, Master Sweetbread and Mistress Tightseam. My cousin Pinecone and his girlfriend Shellbutton.”

“Unloading time,” said Sweetbread.

Newman tried to carry as much as he could. He kept being redirected to put things in a different pile. These people had developed an elaborate system for where to put everything for an efficient set-up. Baskets and chests to the outside, canvas in different places according to weight, and wooden poles where they’d be in the final position.

Tightseam and Shellbutton held flashlights to help them see in the gloom. The sun had set while they’d been wrangling the trailer.

The last poles—beams, really—were the heaviest. Newman was directed to put his in the center of the campsite. Sweetbread joined it with the other oversized pieces in a pi shape.

“Now the roof.”

Newman and the other two young men carried the heaviest pile of canvas into the middle. It unfolded into a rectangle.

“Corners up!”

The group split into pairs. Goldenrod handled inserting the spike of one pole through the metal grommet in the corner of the roof. Two ropes with loops on their ends went onto the spike.

“Now lift it straight up,” she said.

The pole wasn’t much weight for Newman, even if it was a foot taller than him. Pulling the heavy canvas off the ground made it an effort.

“Good!” called Sweetbread. “Move them out some, we want the sides straight.”

Newman had to shift a couple of feet to take up slack. When Sweetbread was happy with everyone’s position Goldenrod put a pair of heavy tent stakes in the ground and looped the ropes loosely around them.

The roof would rise a few more feet above its end when finished. Right now it hung down blocking Newman’s view of the other corners. He could hear the ring of a sledgehammer driving in metal stakes.

Sweetbread came to their corner last. “Neat job. You’d think you’d put up a tent before.”

“I have, sir. Just not this kind.”

“Fair enough.” He drove in the last stake. “Let’s get the ridgepole.”

Newman and Pernach lifted the two supporting poles to hold the ridgebeam against the center of the roof. Sweetbread and Pinecone slid the blunt spikes on the poles into grommets, then tied fabric strips hanging from the roof around the beam.

“Doesn’t the roof stay on by its weight?” asked Newman.

“Depends on how much wind we get,” said Sweetbread. “I’ve seen storms pull a tent right off its poles. That’s the last. Lift, now. Slowly. Keep them at the same angle.”

Newman matched his pole to Pernach’s. In moments they were vertical. It felt like a tent now, a very big and roomy one.

“Side poles now,” said Sweetbread.

A dozen more poles were spread among the four sides. Then all the gear was brought inside before they hung the canvas walls from the roof.

“Free time,” announced the master of the house when the walls were done.

“Oh, good,” said Goldenrod. “Let’s go get our gear.”

***

Goldenrod had packed sandwiches for Friday night so they wouldn’t have to cook. She led him into the mess hall, which she called the ‘common pavilion,’ a huge tent filled with tables. Most were packed with people in a variety of costumes—no, garb. A woman waved from the end of a table. Goldenrod hugged her before sitting down. “Lady Buttercup, I’m pleased to present my friend Newman Greenhorn.”

Buttercup shook hands firmly. “Welcome, Newman. First event?”

“Yes’m. I mean, yes, my lady.” He realized she was at the end of the table because her wheelchair was blocked by the built-in benches.

“Oh, don’t be fancy with me, I’m an artist, not a duchess.”

“Newman’s an archer,” Goldenrod supplied.

“Going to compete in the tourney?”

Newman nodded. “It’s been a few years since I’ve done any shooting, so I don’t expect to do well, but it’ll be fun to use my bow again.”

“Is it a compound?” Buttercup asked. Modern bows were banned from the competition.

“I have a couple of those but didn’t bring them. I’m using a composite I made myself for a merit badge project.”

Buttercup’s brows lifted. She turned back to Goldenrod. “Your young man has some talent for carpentry. But don’t let them name him after the glue.”

Goldenrod laughed.

“Wait,” said Newman, “I don’t get to pick a name?”

“You can try,” said Buttercup. “If you pick something that fits and there’s no one else using it you can make it stick. If you stay Newman too long we’ll find something