Tidetown (37 page)

‘Angelica, come back now,' shouts Perch, ‘I am ready to give you instructions. There is no time to waste. Call Simone to a meeting.'

This is what Angelica was dreading, prompting a message she had hoped she would not be forced to deliver.

‘She won't be coming,' she says under her breath, head bowed.

‘Who? Who won't be coming?'

‘Simone's parents found out about our meetings and said if they hear any more about it she will be locked indoors and her subscription to the pony club withdrawn.'

‘The pony club!' shrieks Perch. ‘And Simone? What does she say?'

‘She wants to win at the gymkhana more than be a Special One.'

‘Judas! Judas! Judas!' shouts Perch, kicking imaginary foes from her path as she stomps around the room. Then she grabs Angelica by the arm, hard enough to make her squeak.

‘Then it is just you and I. You and I. That's the message.'

Rains have swelled the river to a torrent. Waiting on the bridge, the Trader is mesmerised by the power and volume of water colliding over the rocks, carrying whole trees in its wake, tossing and upending them as if they were kindling. In spite of the noise and rush of the river, he senses the unmistakable aura and presence of Perch well before he sees her. She taints and teases the air. When he turns, she is standing on the bridge. The black hood of her cape hides her face.

‘I have been told,' says Perch, ‘that you can provide me with the men I need. Men skilled in the art of combat who will execute my plans.'

The man, dressed in a ragged bearskin coat, feels a tingle at the back of his neck.
Is it fear?
he wonders, he who fears no one and nothing.

‘I can get you whatever you desire, so long as you are prepared to match your desire with the price I expect.'

Down below on the banks of the river a mother otter is fighting for the lives of her pups. The tumultuous flow has washed away her nest and already four of her pups have disappeared into the rapids. Putting her life before all else, she fights with all her strength to save the remaining two. When the last twigs of her nest are dislodged and the pups are sucked into the swell and swept away, she stands on the muddy bank waiting for her instinct to tell her what to do next.

The Trader watches as Perch heads back down the path, the rain falling heavily once more. He weighs the bag of gold coins in his hand, pleased with the bargain he has struck, amazed at the calculation and cold-bloodedness of his newest paymistress.

FIFTEEN

‘I do not fear … It was for this that I was born.'
– Joan of Arc

Carp hurries along the passageway to the chapel. She surprises herself with her eagerness to be there in time for the monks to assemble before the morning service begins. She's come to love the incense, the ritual. She walks deep in thought. Most of all she can hear Perch's voice inside her head, questioning her, admonishing her.
You desert me
, it says,
for why? for who?
It's then she hears footsteps behind her. She turns, then gasps: in surprise, in quiet elation.

‘Hello,' says Spider. ‘I wondered if you would be here.'

She feels her heart beating, her neck and face reddening. Then she hears the sound of prayer, smells sweet incense.

‘The chapel,' she says as she turns away from him, ‘the service.'

He watches her as she dashes off, her footsteps resounding on the flagstones.

Happily ensconced in the monastery, the twenty-six Rodwell boys spend much of their time together, bonded as they are by their special shared experience. They are learning to be children again, some for the first time, freed from the shackles of fear and drudgery. Mrs April watches them tumble among the sand dunes, laughing and jostling as they run into the surf, no matter the cold. All except for the three brothers, who sit apart in a seagrass pit of their own making. She walks over to them, noticing their sad expressions, the hints of tears, and the way they recoil and huddle close together when they see her.

‘Why so sad?' she asks, squatting down to their level.

The youngest wipes his eyes, the older coughs, the eldest digs his hands into the sand.

‘Cat got your tongues?' says Mrs April to break the silence.

‘We were talking about our little sister,' whispers the youngest.

‘Shut up! Shut up!' screams the eldest, leaping on his brother and pushing him into a bush.

‘Not to tell. Never to tell, we said,' shouts the older.

Carp and Spider are walking along the edge of the sand with Zakora. The tide is out and an army of tiny crabs have emerged from their holes to hunt for food. The scurrying, scampering sound rattles in sharp bursts.‘It is no mistake to say the eye is a window,' says Zakora. ‘It sees nothing itself. The eye does not see. All we see is interpreted. By our memories. Our experiences. Our histories and the way we understand the world.'

He turns to Carp and Spider.

‘When I look at this scene I see what my ancestors taught me to see. I see connection with other creatures. Messengers from one realm to another. One time to another. My faith tells me that all animals pray.'

He pauses to take in the scene, deeply breathing in the cool, sea-kissed air.

‘What do you see, I wonder?' he asks his companions, leaving the question in the air, as he heads back to the steps leading up to the monastery.

There on the lawn are Pious, Humble and Gentle, sitting as they so often do, together yet away from the other children. A day or so earlier Mrs April had told Zakora of the conversation she'd had with them.

‘Three fine young boys,' says he, striding across the lawn to greet them. Sitting down beside them he takes some broken biscuits from his pocket. ‘I was saving these for later, but I figure I might like to share them with you. Here,' he offers the sweet biscuits in his outstretched hands. ‘Sharing is best. I was always taught you get back what you give out.'

The brothers enjoy the treat, comfortable in the company of this man who smiles and tells stories.

In the afternoon Carp and Spider follow Zakora and fifteen children into the woods, clambering over fallen branches and tree roots.

‘Are these trees always sad?' asks Rufus.

Zakora looks at the tree, trying to see it through the eyes of the eight-year-old. Spider surveys its spindly, loose-hanging branches. When he was a slave on Rubin's farm he would fantasise about hanging himself, about bringing the misery to a close. He would look up at tree branches and wonder if they would take his weight, imagining himself dangling by one of the braided ropes he used to tether the horses with at night, the knot he had taught himself, squeezing the pain and breath out of his sorry life. How different he feels today, with a semblance of hope and purpose. The willow tree before him he sees as a thing of beauty; the woodland he senses as a place of peace and serenity.

And there is Carp, hanging back from the others, waiting for him to catch up.

‘Zakora,' shouts Spider, ‘I want to walk a bit longer with Carp. Is that alright?'

‘Of course, of course,' he waves from the front of the group, ‘plenty of time for everything.'

Spider clasps Carp's hand in his before she can find a reason to object and leads her gently off the path and down the slope into the meadow.

Spider and Carp are looking up to the hayloft's wooden roof and the irregular, ill-fitting planks that let the light come in. Particles of dust run up and down the shafts of light, obeying some law of physics unknown to them.

‘Life … it's like that,' says Carp, waving her hand through the sunbeam, causing the dust to leap and swirl.

‘Like what?' asks Spider, shuffling as close to her as he dares.

‘Just delicate, just dusty, moving here and there,' she adds, watching the particles bobble around.

‘There can be order,' says Spider. ‘You can make some sense of it all.'

‘Can you? Do you?' pleads Carp, looking into the eyes of her new friend.

‘I do,' he says. ‘I've been learning from Zakora. When he tells us about his world. How he learnt from his elders. How they told him how to be in the world.'

Carp sits up, eager to hear.

‘He told us it could be quite simple,' he says. ‘That's what the elders told him. As simple as doing the next right thing. In any situation, do the right and loving thing. That makes sense. That brings purpose.'

‘My sister …' says Carp hesitantly, then pausing, suddenly aware of a confidence, a trust, about to be broken.

‘Your sister, what?'

‘Well … she always says that we know better. We know more than the adults, more than anyone's elders. That we have the knowledge and the truth.'

Spider's eyes bulge.

‘And just how old is your sister?'

‘The same age as me. Nineteen. We're twins.'

She looks at him to see if he is joking.

‘You are both so young. Know so little. How can you think you know more than those who have come before? Just like Zakora and his elders.'