Tidetown (9 page)

‘Angelica the Messenger,' smiles Angelica, whispering to herself as she walks back along the passageway to the front gates. ‘She spoke my name.'

Three days later Angelica receives a letter with a postmark from the prison. As always it is stamped with the declaration ‘APPROVED BY GOVERNOR'S CENSOR'.

She loves the way the twins have addressed her as ‘Angelica the Messenger'.

Dear Angelica the Messenger
,

It was nice to see you today and to have such an interesting conversation. We hope to see you again soon and, as we agreed, much more in the future to come. Please tell the Mayor we share the same special day as him, 7th January, and know he would hope all the good things for us and his precious daughter that he'd crave for himself
.

In Truth, Perch & Carp Fishcutter
.

‘Papa,' she says, walking into her father's study. He is sitting behind a huge mahogany table. Piled high in front of him are council reports, requests for building permits (his speciality and the source of much personal wealth and prestige) and volumes of proceedings of past meetings and committee minutes that he enjoys for leisure-time reading. He looks up, aware that whenever his daughter seeks him out she is after something.

‘Yes, my dear, what is it?'

‘I know your birthday is in June and your wedding to Mama was December, so why is the seventh of January special to you?'

‘January seventh?' he says, scratching his head. Then something clicks in his mind. He shuffles through the pile of papers nearest to him and pulls out a memo he received a week or so ago. He scans it, raises an eyebrow and then places it at the bottom of the pile.

‘Nothing comes to mind, why do you ask?'

Angelica thinks a minute then hands him the letter from the twins. As he takes it from her and reads its contents, a solemn expression spreads over his face.

‘Alright,' he says, folding and passing the letter back to her, ‘let me probe this further. By the way, Angelica, what had you agreed with the twins about the future? They write that you agreed to something. About the future.'

Angelica gives the little-girl-lost, little-girl-fey twirl that always worked wonders when she was a young child. But seeing this same pirouette in his overweight teenager, her father can only but wonder what kind of young woman his daughter is becoming.

‘That we will be sisters … always,' she says, pulling at her curls and batting her eyelashes.

It is much later the same night. Her father has gone to the West Wing, as Angelica knows (though he thinks she does not), to canoodle with the merry widow. She opens the study door, the candle she carries lighting the room. She is in luck: the papers on the desk have not been filed away. Going straight to the pile she'd committed to memory, she pulls up the bottom paper. Holding it to the flickering light of the candle she reads aloud.

January 7th is the 100th anniversary of our Province's Proclamation of Judicial Rights for all citizens. In recognition of this auspicious occasion, each of our towns may nominate two prisoners, those who have exhibited remorse and exemplary behaviour while in custody, for early release into the care of guardians in the community
.

The dictate is signed with a flourish by the Provincial Supreme General and stamped with the red wax seal of the Judicial Commission. Angelica reads it one more time, places it back under the pile of papers and climbs the grand staircase to her bedroom. Snuggling under the covers, she smiles to herself, imagining the day when she can share her life with her new sisters.

Once initiated, Zakora committed wholeheartedly to his vocation as a
sangoma
. It was the height of summer and he had been to the harbour town of Benoit to visit his aunt, who was feverish and had called for him. He had prepared special herbs and a broth for her to take before she lay down to sleep. They prayed together, then he smeared the blood from a sacrificed chicken on her brow and bade the ancestors to look over her. Presently, she fell into a restful sleep. The night was cool after a long dry day and Zakora decided to take a walk by the water's edge. Unbeknownst to him a group of sailors were on the prowl, under instruction not to return to their ship empty-handed. He heard a scuttle of footsteps behind him, turned to see a smiling toothless face, then felt the full force of a cudgel on the side of his head. Next thing he knew (slowly awakening through the sickening pain) was the sound of the huge ship sailing out of the harbour. He looked around in the half-light to see other men, shackled like him, lost in their own fear and grief, hunger and thirst. The ship headed out for the open seas, leaving behind the coastline and its small port of adobe brick houses and the land that Zakora feared he would never see again.

This morning, on this island so far away from his homeland, Zakora is sitting among the rocks by the water's edge, chanting his prayers, asking the ancestors of this land to reveal themselves to him. He remembers the old
sangoma
teaching him that ancestral spirits can materialise in many ways. They can be the personal ancestors of the
sangoma
, or of the person he is trying to help. They can also be the spirits of ancestors linked to a place or a community. ‘All spirits,' the old
sangoma
had said one night, just before they lay down to sleep in the
ndumba
, ‘have the power to connect the
sangoma
to the spirits that are working to cause affliction.' As always, Zakora had listened intently, eager to learn all he could from this wise old man. That night the flames from the fire had lit up the old
sangoma's
eyes as he spoke.

‘Beware. Be on guard. Helping and harming spirits will use the human body, especially the afflicted one's body, as a battle ground for their own conflicts. By using
ngoma
, you as the
sangoma
must work tirelessly, at no worry of personal cost, to create harmony between these warring spirits. Your actions, your putting into practice all that you learn, by being steadfast in faith, will result in the lifting of the pain and suffering of those who come to you for help and succour.'

Deep in thought and memory, Zakora becomes aware that Brother Paul is standing beside him. His upturned palms and questioning face indicate that he wonders what preoccupies his new-found friend.

‘Ah,' says Zakora, ‘the sound and smell of the sea made me think of home. The sea on all our shores. And I was remembering something of what the old
sangoma
taught me.'

Brother Paul puts his hand on Zakora's shoulder and then sits down beside him. They both look out at the waves, rising and falling, glittering and shifting.

A small crab scuttles by, its claws clicking on the pebbles as it makes its way to the water's edge. Zakora picks it up by its shell, its legs and claws flailing in all directions. Holding it at eye level he examines its exquisite form.

‘My task, my calling, is to be a channel from this world to the next. The old
sangoma
taught me how to be a mediator between the human world and that of the spirits. There are many means to achieve this. He spoke of creatures that move between different worlds and how they can be used as a medium. This crab will be my familiar. He moves between the world of the land and the sea.'

Brother Paul looks on amazed; his eyes lighten in enjoyment at all these revelations. He touches the lips of his friend with the tips of his fingers and then pinches his own ears between finger and thumb.

‘You want me to tell you something?' asks Zakora.

Bother Paul points at Zakora, nodding enthusiastically.

‘My story?' he asks, interpreting the actions and prompts of his friend.

Brother Paul nods again, gathering the loose cloth of his habit around his body, then sits close to Zakora, making himself comfortable in anticipation.

So Zakora settles down next to him, putting the crab back on the sand.

‘Well,' says Zakora the
sangoma
, as the crab hurries away, disappearing into a crevice in the rocks, ‘it really began with a terrible headache. But you would know nothing unless I tell you all the little details.'

Brother Paul listens with full attention, a fullness of empathy and compassion, as Zakora tells a story that ends with another headache, the press-gang, and the ship breaking up on the rocks.

‘… and,' he concludes, ‘when the storm came and I was thrown into the seas I knew there was meaning. I knew the ancestors were watching over me and there was a plan for me that I was yet to know. So when I was washed up on these shores and the first person I saw was you, this strange shape, this apparition in a hooded cape, I knew a purpose was unfolding. Not one that I know even now, but a purpose, a meaning nonetheless.'

Brother Paul puts his hand on his friend's shoulder, knowing him better, quietly appreciating the subtle parallels in their histories.

‘And you, my good new friend,' says Zakora, ‘you who have no tongue to speak with, you too must have a story of wonder to tell.'

Brother Paul smiles from ear to ear, stands up on his tiptoes, stretches his arms to the sky and then begins the dance and mime of his one and only life, tracing his history, his lifeline, as he moves through the sand.

If his dance were words, if the movements of his hands were exclamation marks, if the look in his eyes intimated pain and ecstasy, then this is the story Brother Paul tells as he twists and turns, the sand rising from his footprints in gentle applause and encouragement.

I don't know many words. I speak with my eyes, my mouth. The flare of nostrils. My teeth. Bared or not. I show you with my body
.
The way I stand and shift. Tableau. Pose
.

The Ringmaster cut out my tongue when I was a small boy, shortly after he bought me from the Beadle at the orphanage. All us ragamuffin boys were lined up against the wall in the courtyard. The Ringmaster, he picked me up like a puppy dog. By the scruff of the neck and held me to the light: the brassier, so called. I remember the words
.

‘This one will do. How much, Beadle?'

‘Twenty crowns.'

‘Twenty crowns,' spat the Ringmaster, shaking me to see if I might fall apart
.

‘And a bottle of port,' replied the Beadle, his one good eye as wide open as can be
.

‘Fifteen and two bottles.'

‘Eighteen and one.'

‘Done,' shrieked the Beadle, thumping his fist to his chest
.

The other words I remember are these
.

‘I've cut out your tongue. You'll have no need of it. No need to talk. From now on your life will be a mime.'

No real matter. I'd barely spoken a word in my five long years at the orphanage. Listened, yes. To the Beadle, screaming and grunting at the cook, so called. Nothing for me to say. Better not for fear of beating and the coal cellar
.

Then the blood and swollen mess in my mouth, smothering the words I might ever want to say, sometime, to someone
.

They whitened my face and made me my first black-and-white chequered costume
.

The Old Harlequin, so-called, taught me harshly
.

‘Hold the pose,' he barked
.

And he would watch for the slightest movement. Of arm, or leg, or blink. His short whip would crack, hitting my neck, my legs, even my face
.

For hours I would stand. Motionless, speechless. A mummy with no shrouding. With my body as still as a statue my mind would fly to where other children played. I'd seen them, by the riverbank, in the town square. My teeth would search for my tongue, while my mind would sing songs and hymns, words I heard from the church the time the circus camped in the grounds of the vicarage
.

All creatures that on earth do dwell,

Praise to the Lord for he is good.

And my thinking and singing kept me still, unaware of the Old Harlequin, my mirror image, my older self, his chalky face, his blood-red smile (no, the snigger of a blood-red smile), standing behind me, his whip ever at the ready
.