Tidetown (25 page)

Moko and Pangi grow to be inseparable. Whenever Pangi comes into view there's Moko eager to learn more tricks, happy at the end of each day to flip, twist and tumble at the behest of his mentor. For his part, Pangi is a gentle coach, encouraging Moko to explore his natural talents and his joy in play.

It is near to noon and we have been on the road since daybreak. We come to a fork in the road with a bridge above a swift-flowing stream. Abdul-Latif pulls on the reins and brings the horse to a stop.

‘Let's rest a while and let the horse drink,' he says.

Down by the riverbank washing clothes, three small girls watch the arrivals, particularly intrigued by the monkey on the shoulder of the brown-skinned boy. Like a gymnast, a showman, Moko leaps from Pangi's arm, executes a triple backflip and a cartwheel, then walks along the parapet of the bridge on one hand. The girls whoop with delight. Pangi claps with glee. As he leads the horse to the water I see Abdul-Latif looking back, closely observing Pangi and Moko.

‘Keep it up, Pangi,' he shouts. ‘I see an act in the making and come spring I'll find more for you to do than unloading sacks and gathering firewood.'

There are four of us curled up together for warmth: a mini orchestra of breathing. Pangi's arm is draped across my shoulder, Mouse is asleep in the crook of his neck, and Moko is snuggled in the coils of his own tail which twitches and tickles my nose. As I shift to get comfortable the rice in the sack beneath me crackles and yields. Pangi snuffles and Moko sighs and a strange sense of comfort and ease wafts over me. Up above the night sky is aflame, here below I am lulled back to sleep, secure in the midst of my peculiar new-found family.

The days lengthen, the sun warms, and new shoots push their way through fresh soil, replenished by autumn leaves and melted snow. Our cart rattles into a small hamlet nestled between two hills. Stopping outside a small shack, Abdul-Latif tells us to wait while he goes inside. Pangi and I lean back on the sacks and bags and soak up the morning sunshine. From inside the shack I can hear muffled conversation and the sound of laughter. Shortly after, Abdul-Latif appears at the door carrying a canvas bag in each hand.

‘Come along, don't be shy,' he says to whoever is behind him, ‘these are good boys.'

He throws the bags onto the back of the cart and stands waiting, hands on hips.

‘Laiba, angel of heaven,' he implores, ‘we are waiting for you.'

Then the curtain parts in the doorway and a young woman appears. She is tall and lithe and dressed in a simple blue dress that reaches to the floor. Her face and hair are wrapped in a scarf, with only her eyes showing. She bows her head as Abdul-Latif helps her up onto the cart.

‘This is Oscar, you can sit up front next to him,' he says, pointing at me, ‘and that's Pangi up the back, the one who'd still be snoring if he wasn't awake.'

Pangi waves hello and I see her eyes smile. Beautiful dark brown eyes with long black eyelashes. She sees me looking at her and then turns away. I give Abdul-Latif an inquiring look as he takes up the reins. He winks at me with his good eye, then flicks the reins to encourage the horse forward.

‘All in good time,' he says to no one in particular as we head off up the hill, ‘all in good time.'

The road leads through a wooded glade and down into a creek, from where we travel upwards to a rugged hillside. From time to time, acting as if I'm moving with the flow of the cart, I turn my head to steal a glance at her. Laiba, angel of heaven, Abdul-Latif called her. She sits close to me. When the cart jolts I can feel her leg against mine, through her clothes. She doesn't move away. She says nothing, her head bowed, her face wrapped in the scarf.

We are both young at this.

The morning drifts away as we make our way slowly and bumpily along the ridge. Abdul-Latif starts to sing, a soft melodic song in a language, a dialect, I do not understand. Then I hear Laiba humming, softly, beautifully. No one knows, no one need know, but something in the sound they make together comforts me.

‘There!' says Laiba, breaking the spell, pointing to a gap between the trees. ‘Turn there,' she insists.

Abdul-Latif nods, pulling on the reins so that the old horse, slobbering and puffing, yanks the cart off the track and towards the opening. As we pass through the arch of the trees a small hut appears. There, standing outside, as if he's been waiting all along, is a huge mountain of a man. As we get closer I can see his shaven head is covered in a mazy mixture of scars and tattoos, and his face shows the bumps and contours of a violent life. We pull alongside and Abdul-Latif hands me the reins then jumps down to greet his friend. They hug enthusiastically, slapping each other on the back.

‘Ah, Petar, my stone, a rock among men,' cries Abdul-Latif. ‘As you see, Laiba is with us already and I have two fine assistants.'

Petar smiles at us, showing a mouth mostly devoid of teeth.

‘This will be our merry band this season,' says Abdul-Latif, climbing back onto the cart. ‘Times are difficult. The others are spread far and wide, but we will put on a show, come war or peace. We always put on a show.'

‘A show?' I ask, as Petar jumps onto the sacks in the back, jolting the cart, bouncing Pangi from one side to the other.

‘Most of the year I sell spices and potions,' says Abdul-Latif. ‘But in the summer, if the planets are well aligned, I am the master of ceremonies for our travelling show. Once there were twenty of us and five caravans, now it is just Petar, Laiba and me. We make do.'

‘And us?' I ask.

‘Don't worry, young Oscar, there'll be plenty for you two boys to do. And Moko,' he adds, winking at Pangi.

As we pull away once more I wonder what Laiba's skill is. Petar I imagine as the strong man, but Laiba behind her veil? What talent does she keep hidden?

This night we make camp in a grain barn on a rocky outcrop overlooking a verdant plain. The stars are all out and the ground is dry. We get a good fire going and then Abdul-Latif beckons us to gather around. We sit together on the blankets and rugs that have been laid on the ground, the fire warming our bodies and lighting up the scene.

‘It is a night to celebrate,' he says. ‘Summer is upon us and tomorrow we arrive at Cote D'Alkott. We have a tent at the town's feast day of St Michael.'

‘Cote D'Alkott!' I shriek, ‘that is the town!'

‘Which town?' asks Abdul-Latif.

‘The port … the town,' I reply. ‘Then I'll know what has happened … to Aimu and the others. And there I'll find a ship and be back on the sea.'

As we settle for the night I gaze out through the small window up to the night sky and think of Tidetown, imagining Mrs April and Brother Saviour looking up at the same constellations. I conjure all that is familiar: the view of Beckett's Beach from Grundy's Wood, the smell of the fishing nets drying on the harbour wall, the cold stony feel of the statue of Billy Bones in the town square, and the sounds of the monks singing in the Founder's Chapel at the monastery on the Island of Good Hope. Something is drawing me back. Home. To where I began. I settle down next to Pangi on top of piled-up sacks of oats and barley. Fond thoughts of flying kites and clear blue skies soothe me to a sleep, welcoming dreams of transcending space and merging time.

I wake to a milky light seeping through the wooden slats of the wall. Pangi sleeps beside me, the rhythmic sound of his breathing and the rise and fall of the coarse blankets signifying his presence. Outside I can hear Petar and Abdul-Latif packing the cart and hitching up the horse for the journey. I lie listening to the sounds of the morning, acutely aware of my excitement mingled with fear of what I might discover when we get to the port.

When we arrive at the harbour at Cote D'Alkott the marketplace is alive with activity. The crowds move among the stalls offering exotic wares, recently unloaded from the ships anchored in the bay. Pangi has been quiet all morning. Last night I told him he could come with me if he wanted. We could find a ship, I had said, and be adventurers together. He had smiled at the prospect and we had lulled ourselves to sleep telling amazing stories of how our lives would unfurl. But now he looks worried, unsure of himself. As we climb down from the cart he turns to me.

‘Oscar. You are my friend. A real friend and you always will be. You've been so kind to me and you've taught me so much.'

He's blushing, and maybe I am too. This softness, this truthfulness. He looks me in the eye and I nod to show him I know what it is he is saying.

‘But I can't travel on with you,' he says, his voice growing in confidence. ‘I want to stay here. I want to be here where I belong. This is my home. There is where I must stay.'

‘Home … yes, I know,' I say, ruffling his hair to break the moment, ‘I understand. I do.'

Abdul-Latif is close by, tethering the horse.

‘Pangi,' he says, ‘you know you can come along with us. You and Mouse. And with Moko too. I've seen you with that monkey. There's an act there, you are two of a kind. You can be part of the show and stay with us. We will be your family until you find one of your own.'