Tidetown (26 page)

‘Thanks, I would like that,' he says, stroking Mouse on the back. ‘I'd like it very much.' Sheepishly he looks at me. ‘Will you be alright, Oscar?'

‘Yes, for sure. Yes I will be more than alright. I have my friends here. And I do understand what you mean.' I say. ‘Of course, I understand. I wish you well. More than well.'

I take my bundle from the cart as the troupe lines up to bid me farewell.

‘So we are to say goodbye to you,' says Abdul-Latif, well accustomed to the transitory nature of his life and its companions. ‘Here, take this,' he says, handing me a medallion. ‘It will remind you of your time as an itinerant merchant.'

I turn the coin over in my hand. It is clearly old and well used. Although there is no date, I sense this is money from another era. On one side is the head of a turbaned leader, on the other is a lion battling a dragon. How many hands have held this coin?

‘It is to signify the importance of passing on what we have to others,' says Abdul-Latif. ‘Our knowledge, our experience, our strength, our hope. Our sense of being together. This coin will not make your fortune, money never will, but it will remind you of your time with us.'

I take my bag, holding the few clothes I call my own, and watch my friends as they wave and then disappear around the bend in the road. I turn and walk up the winding street to Carmel's house. With each footstep my heart beats in anticipation. As I get closer there comes a wonderfully familiar sound of a woof, and there is Stigir, his tail wagging furiously as he runs to greet me. Carmel saunters out to the courtyard to see what has attracted his attention. She has flour on her hands from the bread she is baking. She runs to hug me and I can smell the strong yeasty smell on her clothes.

‘You are here! You are safe! You are alive!' says Carmel, as Stigir jumps up on my legs trying to get between us, to claim me for his own. ‘Come inside, come inside, quickly,' she insists, urging me forward towards the doorway, looking earnestly from side to side. ‘We must be careful. No one is to be trusted. This way. In here. There is someone inside who you must see!'

Coming from the bright sunshine it takes me a moment to adjust to the darker room. But then I see him in the corner. It is Aimu!

‘So,' he says, extending his arms in greeting, ‘… a miracle … we are both still walking the earth.'

He hugs me in his huge strong arms.

‘Sit down and we will regale each other with tales of derringdo and survival against the odds.'

Stigir jumps up and lays his head on my lap as if he too wants to hear the stories.

‘Well then,' says Aimu, offering me a plate of figs and a glass of melon juice, ‘the last time I saw you were sitting atop the cannon with Enrico waiting for the call to advance.'

I tell him my story. Of the battle hardly begun before it was lost. Of the carnage and my wandering. Of Pangi and our time and travels with Abdul-Latif and then the serendipity of arriving here.

‘Yes,' says Aimu, pausing as he gathers his thoughts. ‘The losses were heavy. Terrible. We fought on in the forest all that afternoon. The sultan's soldiers left when they knew they had us beaten, when they tired of chasing us through the undergrowth. Next day we collected the bodies of our fallen comrades, listing each and every one of those brave souls. Each was afforded a sacred burial. I could see you were not on the roll, so I hoped to God you had escaped. And here you are!'

Later on I lie in bed in an attic room with Stigir at my feet. A cool breeze wafts in through the open window. It smells of the sea and the cypress trees as it whistles through the crooked lanes and alleyways of this special town. I think of what Aimu said as we were eating our meal. He spoke of the rebellion in the balance; of the sultan's army regrouping, on the move from the north, aiming to crush the rebel stronghold of Cote D'Alkott and its surrounds. ‘We are wary of spies in our midst, so we move with caution,' he said. ‘But we know there will be a siege and we are preparing for it. Soon our women and children will be evacuated to the hills.' I told him I wanted to be part of what might transpire, to stand firm with him and to confront evil. He put his hand on my shoulder and counselled me to go to bed. As we parted for the night he said, ‘We must all learn what we are responsible for and what we are not.'

With that notion fluttering in my mind, accompanied by the gentle hiss and kiss of the breeze, I fall into silken sleep.

Next morning I follow Aimu down to the quayside, past the line of ships being loaded and unloaded, the cacophony of the merchants haggling with the fishermen and the sundry littleness of the day coming to life. On awakening Aimu told me he had a recurring dream of an enslaved African beckoning him from a cold northern shore. The man in the dream was battered and bruised, but when he stood and raised his arms, the sea crashing around him, his chains were broken and his hands were free.

‘This morning I woke with that image,' said Aimu, ‘and I knew what the dream meant, what the man was telling me to do. Follow me this day, young Oscar and it will all become apparent.'

He says no more as we as make our way to the furthest point of the harbour, where no ships are docked and the water laps apologetically against the worn and crumbling stones of the old seawall. The buildings have been long neglected, with not even the sniff of a ghost or the squawk of a gull to enliven the scene. Aimu beckons me to stop. Looking around to be sure we have not been followed, he slides open the big wooden door of what appears to be a deserted storehouse. Inside we climb a rickety stairwell that takes us to the uppermost floor. It is dark, but Aimu knows his way, leading me from eave to eave, ducking under huge rafters that hold up the sagging roof. At the far corner we come to another door. Aimu knocks five times, waits, and then knocks twice more. There's a shuffling of feet, the sound of locks being unbolted, and the door swings open.

‘Here, young Oscar,' says Aimu, ‘this is what you will be responsible for. This will be your role in our struggle.'

When I look inside I see a ragged group of men, women and children of all ages. Maybe fifty in number, maybe more. All are dressed in ethnic clothes of bright purples and yellows, the women are veiled and the men have long beards and turbans. They look at Aimu and I with expressions that hint at hardship and fracture, loss and longing.

‘These are refugees from the highlands,' says Aimu. ‘They are all that are left of their people. The sultan's men have used the cloak of the rebellion to exterminate those who are not viewed worthy of this land. Those that cling on to the old beliefs, those who will not sacrifice their ancestral ways to the will of the sultan. We cannot send them to the hills with our own women and children. They will be massacred if they are found.'

I see a yearning in their eyes and a hope that, as young as I am, I might be their salvation; that I might be the answer.

‘We have a boat readied. A captain in our pay,' says Aimu, as we move among the refugees and their bundled possessions scattered on the floor. ‘He is not a man of principle, but a man of business. These people will be his cargo and he will deliver them as if they were coal or sacks of rice.'

One man steps forward and offers me his hand. I grasp it eagerly, feeling the warmth of his palm.

‘Ah …' says Aimu, ‘this fine man is Deni. He has lived an extraordinary life. He is wise, well-read and speaks more languages than I can list.'

Deni nods his head graciously. He is a slim man of early middle-age, who exudes a quiet and assured presence.

‘We are most grateful for the help you can offer us,' he says, turning to his kinfolk. ‘We are much in need, with precious few resources of our own.' He pauses and then adds with a smile. ‘Except, that is, for our pride, our courage and our dreams.'

‘And me?' I ask, of Deni and of Aimu. ‘How can I help?'

‘Ah,' says Aimu. ‘We have another place to visit this day. And then you will see.'

‘The cartographer lives in the lighthouse,' says Aimu, mysteriously, as we walk to the spit at the end of the quay. ‘As a younger man he dreamt of mapping unchartered lands, of traversing oceans and deep ravines. But his father, the lighthouse keeper, suffered a terrible accident. The older man was cleaning the big searchlight when the handrail he was standing on collapsed and he plummeted to the rocks below. Falling through the air he had the foresight to put out his arms and legs like a cat. Many bones were shattered, but his head and vital organs were protected. Since that fateful day, for some twenty-eight years, he has been bedridden, staring out of the lighthouse window to the horizon. Mattheus, his son, who was but seventeen at the time of the accident, is now a middle-aged man, the next lighthouse keeper in a family line stretching back six generations. They are old and good friends of mine. And firm and resolute friends of the cause.'

We climb the metal spiral staircase to the living quarters, which are flooded with light from the circle of windows enclosing the space. On a day bed in the middle of the room lies the old man, his head propped up on a mountain of pillows, smoking from a long curled pipe and looking out to sea. His son looks up from the table and greets us.

‘Hello, Aimu,' he says enthusiastically. ‘And this must be the new first mate.'

‘First mate?' I say looking at Aimu, who winks at me. ‘I will leave you with Mattheus,' he says, ‘and I will sit with his father and tell him of our fight against the evil forces that pollute our beautiful land.'

‘You will be my surrogate adventurer,' says Mattheus, waving me over to a desk on which stands a huge globe, assorted maps, a compass, a wooden protractor and other measuring instruments.

‘I see you are admiring my friends,' he says with great pride. ‘Let me introduce you to sextant, chronometer and pelorus.' He points to each in turn, running his hands over their surfaces with reverence.

‘I will teach you to use these and also to read these maps,' he says excitedly, pulling one from the pile that shows a wide expanse of sea and distant shores. ‘When night falls I will show you how to navigate by the stars. And in three days you will sail with our stateless brothers and sisters to their new home.'

Mattheus is a patient and enthusiastic teacher. He soon gauges the extent of my knowledge (gleaned from my life on the waves, rather than from books or the classroom). One by one he schools me in the utility and function of his splendid instruments. We pour over the maps that he spreads on the wooden floor. He points to treacherous reefs and thirsty currents. He describes the push and pull of the tides, and the winds that will funnel from the north and the east. With a fingertip tracing the coastline he hovers over welcoming bays that will be havens in the face of storms. All the while, as the dusk flows in from the horizon, Aimu and the old man converse, their voices rising and falling, their gestures shifting from the impassioned to the resigned.

Many hours later, my head full of new knowledge of coordinates and tides, constellations and the trade winds, Aimu leads me to a bench by the quayside. We watch the beacon from the lighthouse sweep across the water's surface, illuminating the breakers as they rise and fall: a crisp white fringe appearing, then disappearing.