Tidetown (38 page)

He looks at her with such incredulity that Carp falls silent. She glances from side to side, but for once she can find no answer.

They lie together. Spider sees a tear trickling down her cheek. He wipes it away with the tips of his fingers. She does not resist his touch.

‘Remember when Zakora asked us what we saw,' she whispers. ‘On the beach. He was so sure. I looked, but what did I see … through my eyes?'

Spider takes Carp's hand in his. She holds on tight, feeling the strength of him through his grip.

They kiss and embrace with a passion and a tenderness, the dry straw prickling through their clothes.

‘They said yes.' Brother Moses is sitting with Mrs April, the rain pitter-pattering on the stained glass of the library window. ‘Not straight away. They needed a little convincing. But I told them the other children needed them. That the play needed them. Zakora had told them much the same. We both said they were perfect for the parts.'

‘What great news.' Mrs April examines the spine of an old hymnal, assessing the damage, imagining the repair. ‘I'm sure it'll be good for them. Acting is such a release. Such a place to be.'

‘I think it was the costumes and the dark glasses that appealed to them. And the mystery behind the characters that won them over.'

‘So now we have the full set,' says Mrs April, clapping her hands, ‘the penguins, the polar bears and our three Very Hot Bit Folk. What fun it will all be!'

The Long Hall is transformed. The children are huddled around the line of trestle tables that runs the length of the narrow room. At each table a group is busying themselves with their designated task. Under the direction of Carp, those at the first table are making the wire mesh masks of penguins and polar bears. At the next, the children laugh along with Spider as they tear paper into long strips for
papier mache
. Beside them an older group glue the paper onto the wire frames in layers. On the fourth table the chalky white, gluey masks are left to dry, eyelessly staring up at the huge oak rafters of the cavernous ceiling. Once the masks have dried out, the children on the fifth table, paints and brushes at the ready, give them the eyes and beak of a penguin. On the larger masks the polar bears come alive with huge staring eyes and round shiny black noses. On the furthest table, brightly lit by the stained-glass window above, Pious, Humble and Gentle make hats from felt and shape sunglasses from old beer bottle bottoms and wire coat hangers.

Mrs April looks on with Zakora and Brother Paul.

‘There's fun and laughter in this room,' she says.

‘How children should be,' says Zakora.

Brother Paul happily takes in the scene, relishing the hustle and bustle, recalling the excitement of his early days in the circus.

It has been agreed that Zakora and Brother Paul will join the drama to help and guide the children: one will be the leader of the penguins; the other will be chief polar bear. Mrs April will narrate the story.

‘It occurred to me as I was falling asleep last night,' says Zakora, ‘that on account of me being so black it is only right that I be the chief polar bear. On account of he being so white!'

His friend claps his hands in agreement.

‘And, my dear Brother Paul, your powder-white face and black beauty spot make you the perfect Penguin,' continues Zakora.

The two decide to move outside to enjoy the air. Brother Paul concentrates on the snowy-white plaster he is moulding onto the wire mesh frame for his penguin head. Zakora busily sews the velvet material that will be his hood and mask. The two friends sit on an old bench in the herb garden, the early morning smells of rosemary and mint tripping along the breeze. A sudden gust rustles the privet hedge and Zakora looks up from his work, awakened to the sound of the leaves. Out beyond the lawns and orchards of the monastery, the meadow dips down to the bay. He can see a milky blue strip of ocean and the semblance of waves breaking on the reef, and, silent in the distance, flecks of a flock of seagulls hovering in the hope of a bite.

‘This is good …' he says, breathing it all in: the soft sun, the view, the rosemary and mint, the wind lifting the leaves of the hedge. ‘… and a polar bear head.'

His companion smiles, not needing to look up, intent on his chore.

Through the window of the Long Hall Mrs April can see them on the bench, a most unlikely couple engaged in a quite peculiar task. She gathers up the tray of orange juice and toast for morning tea and heads out the open door and across the lawn to nourish the troupe of two ahead of the first rehearsal.

‘This weather has hampered our progress,' says the judge. ‘On my past journeys we made it to this crossroads well before dark.'

Outside the sleet has turned to hail. The road leading into Grundy's Wood is thick with mud from the deluge of the early afternoon. The driver urges the horses onwards, flicking the reins to make clear his intent. Behind the coach the hussars draw close together to secure the best tracks in the middle of the path. As they press forward and enter the wood the road becomes muddier and the light fades. The canopy closes overhead; the branches of the mighty hardwoods are thick with broad green leaves. Icy-cold water drips onto the caps of the hussars as their horses pick their way behind the slow-moving coach.

When the first arrow sighs through the air, Corporal Lorenzo Ardilles is talking to his friend Fabio, excited and proud at the impending birth of the child he and his wife have prayed and longed for. As Fabio turns and smiles, steadying his horse in the mud, the arrow slices into his neck, causing him to emit a piercing whistle before he falls to the side, one foot still caught in a stirrup. Before any of his comrades can react they are showered with a deluge of arrows from the branches above. One by one these men, who only a night-time ago sat together and sang and laughed, fall from their horses. Face down in the earth, Corporal Ardilles, his eyes wide open, will never see his one and only son, who will grow tall and become a poet and a statesman. On realising what has befallen them, with an arrow deeply embedded in his shoulder, the driver lashes the reins and urges the horses onwards. Up ahead a fallen tree, laid as a trap by the ambushers, halts any progress. The lead horse slips and staggers, his harness snaps and the coach clatters to a stop.

All this while, sword drawn, the colonel has stayed inside the coach, determined to fight to the death in protection of the judge and the cargo. Now all is eerily quiet, save for the groans of the mortally wounded hussars, bristling with arrows, barely clinging to life.

‘Don't move,' says the colonel to the judge as he throws open the door. It flaps on its hinges. All else is silent. Then he sees three figures emerge from the undergrowth. All are robed in black with scarves covering their faces. Two are dressed in peasant clothes; the third wears a bearskin coat, with the dead beast's head hanging to the side as if peeking over the man's shoulder. Each of the three trains a musket directly at the colonel's head. They walk forward in line, silently surveying the carnage, well pleased with the results of their handiwork. Four other men, bows slung over their shoulders, arrows stored in their quivers, drop down from the trees to join their comrades. Gauging the situation from the window, the judge steps from the carriage and stands next to the colonel. Looking up, he sees the driver slumped forward, his back speared by arrows, a strange smile on his face. The remaining tethered horses scrape their hooves on the ground, then chomp happily on the fresh ferns on the forest floor.

Four of the masked men, without saying a word, tie the hands of the colonel and the judge, then push them to their knees before gagging and blindfolding them. The others, led by the Trader, search the coach for booty. Soon enough they find the metal case containing the precious cargo.

Carefully, they lift it from the carriage. The Trader gestures for four of the men to follow him as he heads off into the forest with the case on his shoulder and the shackled prisoners in tow. The remaining bandits stay behind to strip the soldiers of valuables and weapons and to round up the horses.

With plague and fatal illness come decay and neglect. Fields are not ploughed, cows are not milked, rubbish is not cleared, the seas are not fished, taxes are not collected and sewage is not cleansed. Families stay behind closed doors, fearful of what lurks in alleyways and gutters, wondering if the dreaded sickness will visit them next. Neighbour suspects neighbour: of masked symptoms, of untruths, of deception.

In the grounds of the monastery, as if existing in another land, the children are busy rehearsing the play, each behind a mask of penguin or polar bear. All except the three brothers, whose hats and sunglasses set them aside from the others. Carp and Spider sit on the steps by the doorway, content in each other's company, happy in their roles as guardians of the younger children. Mrs April orchestrates proceedings: poetically reading the script out loud, passionately directing the action. The children move in waves, the penguins behind Brother Paul, the polar bears following Zakora's lead.