Tidetown (29 page)

There's an excitement in the town square. All boys and girls between five and fifteen years old have gathered under the big clock. Carp, who the mayor agreed could replace Angelica as chief chaperone, holds the clipboard with the list of names. The children of the butcher, the lawyer, the farrier and the grocer. All mingled together, devoid of status, bound in a common plight. Their parents, many from their sickbeds, all finally accepted that the town's children must be safeguarded in the oasis of the monastery. Infants either stay with their parents, or are entrusted to relatives in the hinterland beyond the boundaries of the provincial government's decree. All are ready, chilled with anticipation, hugging their bags of favourite toys and sweets, as the horses and coaches arrive to take them across the causeway to their new home. Meantime, most parents are too weak, too sick, too engaged with their own mortality, to pine or fret or wonder what fate might befall their offspring as the coaches clatter and rumble out of the town square and down towards the beachhead.

TWELVE

‘I seek a place that can never be destroyed, one that is pure, and that fadeth not away … and safe there, to be given, at the time appointed, to them that seek it with all their heart.'
– John Bunyan

All is set before me. What this ship has to offer the navigator. No sextant, pelorus or ring dial. Instead there's an ancient astrolabe, some blunt pencils, callipers, a compass, charts and maps. I lay them out before me as a surgeon of the seas. These will be my helpers, but I must bring to mind all I have learnt of the stars and the sun, the winds and the tides. I take the knife from my pocket, flip open the blade and begin to sharpen one of the pencils, the shavings taking the shape of a wave unfurling. A school of dolphins has followed us since daybreak. No scraps to tempt them along. Just the joy and fun of being. Leaping an arc into the air. Skimming the surface. Chasing the boat as it slides through the waves.

We are clear of land and the captain orders all the passengers and crew on deck. He has a rough, soulless look about him, as if his life has been a burden. I urge myself to like this man, but he projects a harsh energy: one, no doubt, honed and leavened by hardship, violence and too many indescribable sights. I have already seen enough of the sea to know what it can do to a man, and the captain is sea-shaken enough to have saltwater bubbling through his veins. The crew is sparse: just the boilerman, the helmsman, his nephew (who doubles up as cook and quartermaster) and me as navigator. Stigir, planted as ever between my legs, is in his customary role as ship's dog (and cat if needs be). We stand alongside the captain on the poop deck, looking down on the passengers squatting in clumps below. They look tired and desolate, as wearied by their lives as the captain is tarnished by his. He surveys the scene then begins to speak.

‘This is my ship. You are my cargo and my job is to deliver you to a destination.' He looks over to Deni, the self-appointed translator. ‘Tell them,' he says, then folds his arms. Deni speaks in a lyrical language, with a softness of tone that belies the harshness of the message. I wonder if he has added some poetry of his own.

The captain proceeds to outline a list of rules: passengers are only allowed on deck for two hours in the morning and evening at the discretion of the crew; strict rations of food and water will be distributed at certain designated times; children are to be firmly controlled; any sickness is to be reported to the quartermaster; any misdemeanours will be summarily punished. The crowd listens as Deni translates, barely shifting from where they sit, clearly used to rules and regulations from strangers, clinging on to the hope of a new beginning at some voyage's end.

As Deni translates the last of the orders the captain surveys the faces of his charges, paying especial attention to the women. A single sparkle appears in his eyes as he hones in on one young woman dressed in a long purple robe.

‘I need a maid for cabin duty. You, in the purple dress. You will do.' Then he turns and retreats to his quarters, leaving Deni the task of informing Assussy of her new duties.

Stigir runs around the deck chasing the shadows of the seagulls that circle above us. The trade wind fills the sails and pushes the boat onwards, hurrying us ever closer to our destination. Is returning a new beginning of itself? Does it bring forward what was left behind? Shadows on the deck. The shape of a wave. The taste of the wind. And the thoughts that come and go, then recur when least expected. My father once said he would come back to haunt me after he died. He'd never have remembered saying it. He'd been drinking for days and was in that peculiar space between forgetfulness and rage. And so he was right. He's with me every day. A haunting in the memory, of sorts. But I have long since laid the ghost to rest, welcoming him in his visitations.

This sea is so vast. It has always been here. Toing and froing. Heaving and sighing. Pushing from shoreline to shoreline, cliff face to cliff face. Broken shards of moonlight disturbed by the prow and progress of our ship. Heading somewhere else, like so many before. Journeying with intent. Up on the bridge, navigating by the night sky, I fancy it is my father's hand at the helm, steering a steadfast course. Offering me protection against the hidden ravages of sea and squall. Instilling his decades of seafaring into the task before me. One ancient mariner guiding the ship home, bringing it safe and sound to harbour.

It is not only what he says, but the way he says it. The words he chooses and the images they bring to my mind.

‘Take heed of your spirit, Oscar,' Deni said last evening as we stood together looking out at moonlight bouncing off the ribs of the sea.

Today the seas are rough and we are below deck with two of the young children. He is speaking to them in their own language. By the dreamy, entranced look on their faces I fancy Deni must be telling them a story. He fashions his hands into the shape of a bird's wings, linking his thumbs then fanning his fingers in flight. They both shriek with laughter then roll on the bed with the motion and sway of the boat.

‘What was the story?' I ask.

‘Ah, I was telling them one of our oldest legends. Of the mean-spirited falcon and his cousin the crow who showed nothing but generosity and kindness.'

This man has such an ancient-looking face, deeply lined and weathered, yet his eyes sparkle so brightly and kindly.

‘You always seem to be telling stories. I've noticed that. Not just to the children, but to the grown-ups as well. At night, when the young ones are sleeping.'

‘You are an observant young man. Many might think my role is to interpret, to translate, to be the funnel and voice of my fellows. But, as you have seen, I am much more than that. I come from a long line of storytellers and soothsayers. Before our world was turned upside down by the pernicious rule of the sultan, I was held in high esteem, respected and afforded many privileges as the custodian of my people's customs and culture. I was tutored in the folklore and ancient tales of this proud people. Stories that had been passed down, retold, reloved by one generation after another. I studied hard and learnt many languages. Now, even though our future is in doubt, our past is not.'

Even in the confines of the boat, in the face of the deprivations he has shared alongside his people, it becomes clear to me that he still retains a presence, a special place among his peers.

As he tells me something of himself, while the two young children (their people's future) whisper to each other as they snuggle in the bed, I fancy I see so much more in the contours of his face. History, pride, lineage. Gentility, wisdom, strength.

‘And like the crow in the story, generosity of spirit, kindness of heart, willingness of action are at the core of our culture. It is what we try to instil in our young people. So they too will pass on something of value. Something of truth.'

There's the squall of a storm on the seas outside. In the captain's cabin the furniture shifts with the tilt and sway of the ship. He holds his bottle of rum firm on the desk as he brings the tankard to his lips. Sitting across from him is his cousin, Cain Bates, the ship's helmsman and the captain's conspirator-in-chief. In the corner, by the big four-poster bed, Assussy is clearing away the captain's clothes which have been dropped in a heap.

‘Clean,' shouts the captain to her, waving his hands in her direction. ‘She doesn't understand a word I say, even when I shout. But she seems to know what to do. Time will tell if she will do all that is needed for me,' he adds with a snigger.

The two men have a map of the ocean spread out in front of them and Cain stabs his finger at a circle marked out in red ink.

‘We'll be there in two days by my reckoning,' he says.

‘So long as the storm gets no worse,' says the captain, swilling from his tankard, then topping it up from the bottle, spilling half of what he fills.

‘And what's the price?' asks Cain, rubbing the bristles on his chin.

‘… that's for me to know,' mumbles the captain, casting a long hard glare at his mate.

‘What do you mean?' says Cain, raising his voice, suspecting skulduggery.

‘I mean I'm the captain and you are in my pay.'

‘And we had an arrangement,' shouts Cain. ‘A third is my cut for broaching the deal.'

Assussy looks up from folding the breeches, as the men come face to face across the table.

‘And, cousin Cain, I thank you for that and you will be rewarded.'

‘A third or nothing!' screams Cain, banging his fist on the table.

‘Then you can take nothing,' says the captain, ready as always to draw his cutlass.

Cain begins to holler and swear in the dialect of his hometown, one in which (unbeknownst to him) Assussy is fluent. The captain responds in the same dialect and Assussy goes about her business, giving the men no indication that she understands the words they speak. This is how she becomes aware of what is being plotted. She knows she must pass on the information. And quickly.

As soon as her chores are over and she has once again managed to escape the drunken advances of the captain, she heads straight to Deni.

‘… and then he began shouting in language and I knew what he was saying,' she spurts in a babble, so eager is she to let Deni know what has transpired.

‘Sit down, sister,' he says, handing her a glass of water. ‘Take your time, take it easy.'

‘Well, he said we were all lumps of meat and he wanted his pound of our flesh. He kept saying “a third … you promised a third”. And then he said something like, “When you hand the meat over I want to be there to see how much they pay you. You won't cheat me”. Then the captain smiled and said more in the tongue I do not understand. And the other man calmed down and stopped speaking in our dialect and again I couldn't understand what they were saying.'

Deni is deep in thought, taking in all that Assussy has said.

‘And what were they doing? While they were talking.'

‘They were drinking and pointing at the big map the captain keeps on his table.'