Tidetown (24 page)

‘The Archangel, the Archangel,' chant the crowd, as they have been schooled to do at the mention of his name.

‘Our new order shall be called the Remnantics, as described in the holy book and as revealed to us by the Archangel.'

‘The Archangel, the Archangel,' comes the reply.

‘We who are gathered here, and those that follow our ways, will be the only ones to come through the fire of the mighty battle. We two will be your leaders. Our satin sash of purple and gold signifies the royal strain of the Remnant: the princes, chosen to rule with the messiah at his second coming.'

The crowd raise their arms in obedient adoration of these two Remnant among them. Angelica and Simone have rehearsed them well.

‘We have been instructed to create Special Ones, picked by the Archangel Gabriel in mysterious ways, then divined to us. Here before you are Angelica and Simone. They will be beside us to carry out our instructions and directions to you. You will respect and honour them in the same way you respect and honour the Remnant.'

‘Respect and honour the Special Ones,' shouts Perch.

‘Respect and honour the Special Ones,' repeats the crowd of children.

Perch and Carp fix their gaze on the crowd. Angelica looks over to Simone, puffing out her chest, raising high her head.

‘These are strange and wondrous times,' says Perch. ‘We, the Remnantics, are set aside, are selected to pick up the fiery torch, to bring light and order to this world of chaos. But we in turn are threatened. In our family homes are swine before whom no pearls should be cast. Those who side with Satan.'

Perch looks out into the shadows of the crowd, satisfied by the sounds and shifts that her words are well received. Her sister bows her head, as if confused, as if unsure. From above comes the sound of wings fluttering by.

‘We need to listen carefully, attentively, to everything that is said in each and every household,' commands Perch. ‘Every word. It is your duty, my brethren, my brothers and sisters, to watch out for evil, to report deception. No matter who. Mother, father, sister, brother. We must root out evil, cut out the canker. No matter how painful, no matter how close is the source.'

‘What must we do?' calls out Angelica, caught up in the moment.

‘We must inform the Special Ones,' chants Simone. ‘And they will take the necessary action.'

‘Those that talk against us, those that act against us, those that plot against us. Those that are against us are with Satan,' declares Perch.

Then Perch and Carp recede into the shadows as Angelica and Simone move among the sparse crowd with the reward of cake and lemonade.

As the assembly disperses, Perch and Carp, Angelica and Simone, sit together around the table in the small parlour at the front of their house. The fire, stoked with fresh logs, sizzles and hisses, the damp moss protesting against the heat. Angelica and Simone sit upright and attentive, never comfortable in the presence of their superiors, less so in such close proximity. They watch, slightly unnerved, as Perch places her hand on the empty table and splays open her fingers. Carp does the same with the other hand, as if a seance is about to commence. She stays silent. It is Perch who speaks.

‘Angelica has overheard her father telling one of his officers that the children should be sent away. Is that true, Angelica?'

‘Yes,' says Angelica enthusiastically, ‘I listened at the door, like you said, when father had meetings. It was the Director of Education. My father, the mayor, that is, told him that the town council has decided to send the children to the monastery. “In everyone's interest”, he said. Then they moved to the window and I couldn't hear so well.'

‘A plan to contain this plague?' asks Carp.

‘We have our own plan,' says Perch, clenching her fists. ‘And, Angelica, you will make it happen.'

The remaining moss on the uppermost log in the hearth squeaks and frizzles as it shrivels and burns in the intense heat of the fire.

At the water pump down by the harbour in Tidetown the talk is not about the price of fish or the latest rumour of infidelity. Nor is there laughter or guffawing. The voices are as whispered and muted as the mist that muffles the air. There is only one topic on the minds and tongues of the women as they stand in line with their heavy metal buckets.

‘My cousin in Templestowe says there's not one family left that does not have a corpse waiting to be buried,' says Elissa Courtney, tying her headscarf tighter under her chin in the hope of some greater protection.

‘What's more,' whispers Ethel, her sister-in-law and second cousin, ‘the postmaster told me there are riots in Bray on account of the authorities stockpiling the vaccines.'

‘I heard that too,' says Elissa, shuffling one space ahead in the queue, ears eagerly alert to any news from beyond Tidetown. ‘The coachman was staying at the inn and I overheard him telling the vintner that the provincial guards have been called in to protect the gates to the apothecary.'

‘Desperate times, Elissa.'

‘Desperate people, Ethel.'

TEN

‘As I walk'd through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on a certain place … and as I slept, I dreamed a Dream.'
– John Bunyan

When we get to the town square of St Julianne it is midday and the heat from the sun is fierce. A few market stalls are still in place, their owners grateful of the shade from the canvas awnings.

‘There'll be work for us here,' I say to Pangi, walking towards one of the stalls. Later, when he asks how I chose which one to approach, I will say it was because the man standing nearby only had one eye and looked odd enough to be interesting.

‘Excuse me, sir, my friend and I need work.'

‘Now what would I need of help from two perfect strangers?' says he, as he heaves onto the back of his cart, with a grunt and a puff, a sack filled to the brim with sweet smelling spices.

‘We're young and strong and fit,' I say, helping the man with his load, ‘and we'll ask for little.'

‘How little is little?'

‘Bed and food and transport to the coast.'

The man looks at we two, sizing us up, assessing our worth.

‘Let me see you shift all these sacks.'

I wave to Pangi and quickly we get to work. One-Eye looks on, arms folded, nodding appreciatively.

‘I see,' he says when the load is stacked. ‘Then if you're happy with the stars for your roof, you can sleep in the cart with Moko. Your food will be whatever we gather and glean on the road. And if we get to the coast, then you'll get to the coast. I could do with some company. But if you rob me I'll slit your throats. With one sweep of the blade. Both at once.'

As if curious of his new companions, Moko stirs from his nap and peers over the edge of the cart.

‘Ah, Moko, my dear friend,' says One-Eye, as he tosses a peanut to the small macaque monkey. ‘I rescued this little scoundrel from the chains and persecution of the organ grinder, a terrible man, as he lay drunk as always in the main square of the hillside town of Campatora.' Moko shrieks a welcome, then executes a perfect backflip and disappears back into the cart.

‘You will call me Abdul-Latif,' says One-Eye, as he settles Moko. ‘It means Servant of the All-Gentle,' then turning to us with a withering one-eyed look, adds, ‘My god is surely all gentle, but do not be mistaken, I am not. At least not always.'

Then he winks and laughs, and so begins our sojourn with the spice merchant and his acrobatic monkey.

‘No need to be jealous, Mouse,' says Pangi as he places his tiny pet on a window ledge of the ruined farmstead where we spend the night. Moko stands on his hind legs on a bale of straw as Pangi entices him with a slice of apple. The monkey pirouettes on one leg then reaches high as Pangi keeps the fruit just out of his grasp.

‘That's the way, Moko, twist and turn, twist and turn.'

Above where I sleep Mouse investigates the tiny world of the windowsill with its grubs and cobwebs. Pangi works with Moko to harness his natural skills and flamboyance. By the time the sun has set, Moko has mastered a cartwheel and a handstand to add to his signature backflip.

‘Here,' says Pangi, producing a ripe mango from his sack, ‘for Moko.'

On the ledge, Mouse twitches his whiskers at the smell of the fruit as Moko bites deep into the juicy flesh.

Throughout the spring we travel from town to village to hamlet, setting up and taking down our stall, selling herbs and potions, with the anxious hopeful eyes of the sick and troubled waiting expectantly in line. We hear news of the troubles and of rebel victories and setbacks. But we are always careful to show no more than passing interest, mindful of spies and worse, waiting for a slip of the tongue or a smile to appear. One night, as we make camp, Abdul-Latif asks me about my life. I tell him about my father and his ship sinking in the storm, and of the time I spent at sea, and of my little dog that I have left at the port. He listens carefully as we stack the fire and prepare the vegetables to be cooked in the big pot. After we eat, as darkness sets in, Abdul-Latif comes and sits beside me. We are alone as Pangi is down by the river washing the pots and plates, giving Mouse some free time to wander around the roots of the trees.

‘All our stories prepare us, in peculiar ways, for the next moment in life, the next challenge to face,' says Abdul-Latif, the flames from the fire illuminating his words. ‘Your story is your own. Be proud of it. Tell it in all its colours, all its shapes and shadows, the bright and the dark. So many sides, so many ways to tell the lives that mould us.'

Lying in the barn that a farmer has offered us as shelter for the night, I think of what Abdul-Latif said and of the events and moments that have brought me to this place, this time, this fraction of a life. This is the scene, the visage, that lightens me to sleep and to dream.

There's a storm at sea. I am tied to the mast. The sea is a wild horse, the boat a frightened foal. I look up. There is my father hammering a wooden sign to the mast. ‘What does it say, Father?' I am free from the ropes. Free from the tie of the mast. Now standing on the deck. It is night. There is my Father. Next to me. He turns and speaks
.

‘You remind me of my son, of myself.'

He points to the sign on the board he's hammered to the mast. No words. A symbol. A cipher. A sense of self. He turns to me again
.

‘All I know is that I am not you.'

‘But you are my father,' I say
.

‘You can ask me one question before the water comes to take me away.'

‘What is it to be a man?' I ask
.

‘To know pain, to know joy, to take all in equal measure and expect nothing.'

I can hear the wave. We both can
.

‘To stand firm,' he says, ‘and to break the chain.'

We both look out into the dark. The sight is that of a mountainous wave making the dark of the night darker still. The sound is that of oblivion gathering pace. As I dream the dream my father dreamt for me
.