Tidetown (13 page)

‘I saw Valence on his boat in the bay,' says Aimu, peeling a pomegranate, sucking out the bitter crimson fruit from the pith. ‘He called out to me. He said I was needed.'

Carmel remains silent, pouring water from a glass jug into earthenware goblets.

She passes a cup to Aimu and then one to me. Aimu catches her eye; she looks down at the rug.

‘I'm afraid the situation here has got much worse since I last wrote to you.'

So exotic: these vistas of whitewashed buildings, these smells of cypress trees and peppered air. The home of Omar El Prins is situated at the top of the hill. The one lane leading to it winds and twists between the last houses and shops of the town until it ends at a lookout with a breathtaking view of the harbour and bay below. A place where lovers have stood and pledged eternal devotion. A secluded spot where once a young man, spurned by life more than by love, leapt to his death on the jagged rocks below. Omar El Prins, Aimu's venerable uncle, is waiting for us on the verandah of his magnificent house. It stands in splendid isolation, the clear blue sky sharply outlining its fine rooftop and towers and the brilliant white of its walls. As we get closer I can see that this tall figure of a man, dressed in a long flowing djellaba and headscarf, is older than his striking physique at first suggests. He has a lush grey beard and deeply lined skin. His olive complexion is dappled dark by the years and weather, and his deep brown eyes convey both wisdom and gentleness.

‘Welcome,
As-Salaamu Alaikum
,' he says, as we make our way up the stairs to him.

Inside, his house is cool and inviting, with small windows offering enticing views of the blue sky while holding the heat of the sun at bay. We are led into a hexagonal-shaped room with a wonderfully coloured tiled floor, a panoramic mosaic circling the walls. With an elegant hand gesture and a bow Omar bids us to sit on one of the antique sofas. Drinks and figs are waiting on an intricately carved table beside it.

‘Eat, drink,' he entreats us. He smiles and nods at me and then he and Aimu talk over family matters: who is where and who has done what, who has died and who has been born. As they talk I study the beautiful mosaic that runs around the room. The scene shows a royal hunting party setting off from a palace on horseback. I scan the room to find the prey. And there, peeking over the shoulder of Aimu, is a fully grown lion on a ridge, surveying his domain. I hope the hunters never get to him.

I watch the expressions on the faces of the two men as I chew on a fig. Aimu frowns and his uncle raises his open palms to the skies at the mention of the sultan. Then the older man turns to me.

‘More of this talk of politics later. But for now, nephew Aimu, tell me about your young companion.'

‘Dear uncle,' replies Aimu, ‘this bright young man is Oscar. He joined our ship as a boy and has grown to be a man beyond his years. He learns quicker than a falcon and is as fearless as a leopard. He may seem to be little beyond a boy, but there is no one I would rather have by my side. He came aboard as a stranger … today I present him to you as my youngest of brothers.'

His words make me tingle and the look of pride he gives me sends a shimmer of peace and ease through my body.

‘That is rare praise,' says Omar, ‘from such a man as Aimu, a man whose judgement is valid and valued. Young nephew Oscar, you are always welcome here and my family is your family.'

I feel myself blush and look down to the floor, hoping it is seen as humility and not embarrassment.

‘How all things change, Aimu,' says Omar, ‘over time. If you look around our town, if you look into the crowd, you will see they cower. Their eyes are downcast. Power has gone to the sultan's head. I remember him well when he was a young man. He built gardens for us all to enjoy. But no more. His wife and family have them all. He has given the shops of the merchants to soldiers faithful to him, and farmlands too in the lands yonder. They leave the crops to rot in the fields as peasants starve in the countryside. Our children eat grass and insects while the sultan's wives and sons dine on pheasants with fine wines.'

Aimu looks shocked.

‘We all worried that he was not to be fully trusted,' continues Omar, ‘but this is much worse. Someone said he has a growth in his brain. That it has affected his mind, has changed his way of seeing the world. This came from your cousin who was at the temple with the general's personal physician. But I say, if it is a growth then it is the knuckle of the devil that is pressing on his brain. And his wife is an emissary from hell. She, who came from the fields, who knows the pain and suffering of the poor, who now holds court in her golden palace. A palace built on the bones and cries of the slave labourers, whipped to death to complete it in time for her thirtieth birthday. She waits for the silks and cheetahs, gold and jewels to be brought to her from the sheiks who pay their dues or risk the wrath of the sultan. Yes, Aimu, times have changed while you have been away.'

Omar El Prins pauses, looks to the window and the sky outside. ‘And worst of all …'

‘There is more than this?' Aimu looks alarmed, his eyes saddened.

‘Yes, there is. Over the last year the sultan has become a slave trader, selling our people, our young men, our would-be brides, to the plantation owners from the west.'

‘This I cannot believe,' says Aimu, the rise in his voice echoing his disturbance. ‘His own people?'

‘Yes, a steady stream. Any he sees as a threat, as defiant, run the risk of the slave market. Our villagers hide the young in the hills when his soldiers come near. But there are spies and informers and the soldiers know where to look.'

I can see the tension take hold of Aimu. It's the way he gets when pirates threaten, when a storm and big waves sweep in, when he knows action needs to be taken. Something in the feeling of his body in the room, his presence, reminds me of my father and the message I think he is trying to send me in my dreams.

Later, as we leave Omar's house, the moon a refracted sliver on the inky black waves of the bay, Aimu falls silent. We retrace our steps back down the winding streets and lanes to his sister's house and I can tell his uncle's words are pressing heavily upon him. When we enter the house all are asleep. There is a candle lit in the passageway, casting our shadows onto the wall leading upstairs. Aimu puts his hand on my shoulder.

‘Oscar, I will not be returning to the ship,' he says, the flame from the candle lighting up his face. ‘I cannot leave my family and my home at a time such as this. I must join my nephew Valence and fight for our freedom. To fight against evil and those who wish to enslave our noble people. Do you understand?'

And I remember what I was once told by Brother Moses, at the monastery on the Island of Good Hope. “All men must search for meaning in their lives, not happiness, not gain”, he had said. It is plain to me that this is Aimu's purpose and meaning. I nod. I do understand.

I find it hard to sleep. Aimu snores and grunts loudly in the bed next to mine. But it is not the noise that keeps me awake. It is the thoughts peppering my mind that stir me. If Aimu were to wake I would tell him. But he sleeps on.

It is morning and I must have slept, as I am alone. I can smell porridge being cooked and hear the voices of Carmel and Aimu. After washing my face from the jug of water left by the window ledge, I walk along the short corridor to the kitchen.

‘It is right, what you do,' I hear Carmel saying, ‘you will hold your head high in our family.'

When I enter the room Carmel turns to me and smiles.

‘Boys always come just as the oatmeal is poured into the bowl.'

Stigir jumps up to greet me, licking my leg in hello, his tail flowing from side to side.

‘Come, join me at the table,' says Aimu. ‘Soon I will leave on the journey to meet my nephew Valence and the rebels in the hills.'

‘I want to come too,' I say, my night-time resolution fresh in my mind.

Carmel looks to her brother for a response, at the same time filling the bowls with porridge, the smell of cinnamon sprinkling the air.

‘Give the boy his breakfast,' says Aimu, ignoring my request, ‘he needs more flesh on his bones.'

‘I want to be with you, to do the right thing,' I say, not giving up.

‘What is the right thing?' asks Aimu as he pours fresh honey onto his porridge.

‘That which I know to be right in my heart,' I say, echoing the words of Brother Saviour from the monastery.

Aimu eats some porridge and taps his spoon against the bowl. The look in his eyes makes me think he is picturing himself at my age. Maybe he's remembering how fearless, how determined he was when he set out on his own quest towards manhood. He carries on eating in a silence that I sense should not be broken. When his bowl is empty he stands and arches his back.

‘Then you must accompany me,' he says, a broad smile stretching across his face, ‘and we will both do what is right in our hearts.'

Stigir stares up at me. I think he gets an idea of what is taking place. Carmel sees it too.

‘We have become good friends. He is good at chasing mice,' she says laughing, stroking Stigir under his chin. ‘Maybe he wants to be a cat. He can stay here with me. We will be great company for each other. Until you get back.'

Stigir pricks up his ears, then sniffs around the floor as if already on mouse patrol.

The wood that backs onto the courtyard of Carmel's house is a place where Aimu and all the boys and girls of the town played out their childhoods. They picked fruit from the low-hanging boughs, climbed to the highest branches and had their games of chase and hide and seek.

After breakfast Aimu leaves Carmel's house to walk among the trees, shaded from the rising sun, retracing boyhood memories. There are sounds and smells, snippets of thoughts, sights and fragments of times gone by that hold him in a moment's trance. He finds himself facing his favourite of all trees: an ancient cedar standing tall and rightly proud. He places the palms of both hands against the rough bark of the tree, stretching to feel the texture through his fingertips. He closes his eyes, and, just like when he was a small boy, he feels the energy from the tree vibrate and course through his skin. Still touching the tree he stretches his arms full length above his head, resting his cheek on the cool bark of the trunk, sensing its sap, its essence. He feels a strength and resilience in his body, a renewal. He looks up and the tree is brightly lit by the sun. He smiles contently.

The following night, in his dream, Aimu is standing by the old cedar. It is the only tree in the forest and all around is an endless sea. The waves break soundlessly and Aimu looks out to see what is coming over the horizon. He shields his eyes from the sun which is big and low in the sky. He can just make out the shimmering outline of a small sailing craft, getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger. A rope is thrown by a man, becloaked and hooded, who sits to the fore of the craft. The rope wraps itself around the tree and the craft comes to rest. The man casts off his gown and stands erect and bare-chested. Aimu smiles, acknowledging this man as a distant brother. The man turns to show Aimu the scars of slavery on his back: purple ridges against his black skin. There is a rattling sound as the man shakes some small objects in his hands. ‘I bring you your future, from what I have learned from the shores of the past,' he says opening up his hands, casting the stones and the shell on the glassy surface of the sea. They do not sink, but roll and clatter across the top of the water. As they come to rest a crab appears from their midst, scuttling sideways.