Tidetown (27 page)

‘We thought we would need to use one of my men to help navigate. But now you will take his place and I have one more man by my side to fight for the cause. But until you arrived we had no destination in mind. Then you came and I had my dream. And it all seems so clear, so right.'

He looks to me to see if I know what his words are implying. The expression on my face tells him I do not. Then he reaches inside the canvas bag he has been carrying. Pulling out a rolled up parchment he unfurls it and spreads it on his lap. It is another map, with finer detail than those Mattheus had been showing me.

‘We are here,' he says pointing to a circle on the coast, ‘and your destination is some five days north-west … here.' His finger stops at an unnamed point on a headland beyond the boundary of Mattheus' maps. Aimu pauses and looks at me again to see if I comprehend what this means.

‘Tidetown, Oscar,' he says emphatically, tapping his finger on the spot. ‘I want you to take our friends to the monastery. A place where we know they can be safe. Where they will be welcomed and treated well, with respect.'

As he speaks I look more closely at the map. Yes, I see it now. The shape of the coastline. The bay and the Island of Good Hope. Unwittingly, a smile comes to my face.

‘All the things you told me of the Brothers. Their generosity, their openness. It all fits: the dream, you being here. Can you see?'

‘Yes. Yes. I do see.' Even though, with the lighthouse illuminating the distant horizon, I am unsure in this moment where it all may lead. I look up to the stars, seeing them so differently this night. From cabin boy to first mate. A voyage out; a voyage in.

ELEVEN

‘Whatever there is of God and goodness in the universe, it must work itself out and express itself through us.'
– Albert Einstein

‘Brother Alphonso's writing was always so hopeful, so enlightening,' says Mrs April as she struggles against the elements, walking up the beach with Brother Saviour.

There's a strong offshore wind and the waves are sitting up high to greet and mock it. The surf crashes low on the sands then retreats so quickly you would hardly notice it making land. The noise is deafening and the two have to shout to be heard above the elements.

‘Yes,' says Brother Saviour, ‘even when days seemed so black and times desperate he would find a way to turn the negative into a positive.'

‘There was a great chess player,' replies Mrs April, ‘who said that however much you might think you are defeated, there's always a move. You just have to find it.'

‘We must think what our next move is. What we can do for the people of Tidetown who are suffering so?'

They walk on in silence, enjoying this elemental moment of raging sea, roaring wind and the beginnings of rain in the air against their faces. When they reach the end of the bay they stop and look out to the horizon, the wind at their backs. At her feet Mrs April sees a small crab scuttling along the surface, kicking up tiny flurries of sand in its wake.

‘If Brother Alphonso was with us now,' she says, watching the crab cleaning its claws, ‘he would admonish us to do the loving thing. He would say spirituality is an action. Find the action, just like the chess grandmaster would tell us to find the move.'

‘And what, my good friend, do you suggest that action, that act of spirituality, might be in this case?' asks Brother Saviour, enjoying the view, watching the chaos and beauty of the sea.

Mrs April follows his gaze, seeking inspiration from the energy of the day. The wind blows a furrow through the thick blanketing cloud, a sliver of blue sky appears and the sun sends a bolt of orange and pink rays to bounce off the water's surface and spiral along the horizon.

‘It will come to us,' she concludes, ‘like poetry and magic and colourful ribbons.'

‘And the chess move,' jokes the Brother.

When she looks down the crab has disappeared, busy under the sand, tunnelling off to his next destination.

Zakora sits at the back of the chapel. He knows this is a holy place. He can feel the quiet, healing energy exuding from the rough stone walls. Walls that have absorbed decade upon decade of peaceful meditation and supplication: for the health and wellbeing of others, for those in peril at sea, for harvests languishing in the fields, for mothers grieving lost sons. In the dark before dawn, the monks have gathered here to pray for the sick and the dying and for deliverance from the malevolence and ravages of the plague.

The monks chant in unison, heads bowed, incense filling the air. Zakora repeats in his mind the incantations of the old
sangoma
, purposeful in his intent to join the Brothers in their selfless endeavours. He thinks of the secret herbs and tubers from the soil of his homeland, wishing they were close at hand so he could unleash their healing powers.

At the
Tidetown Chronicle
, the editor Nathaniel Mars is setting the type for the latest edition. His headline article outlines the decree from the Provincial Government that condemns Tidetown, along with six other towns, to be quarantined. No travel in or out will be allowed without official authorisation. Tidetown, along with its immediate environs, will become an island unto itself and must find its own solution. Nathaniel adds the finishing lines to his popular editorial: “We have always been a proudly inward-looking and self-sufficient town, now we will be more reliant on our own inner resources than ever before”. He goes on to describe how provisions and mail will be supplied by a boat that will anchor outside the harbour and be winched onto a designated tugboat, with strict instructions that no human contact transpire. Nathaniel, alone in his offices, holds up the first copy as it rolls off the press. He brings it close to his face to smell the fresh ink that has inspired him since his early days as a cub reporter. ‘Ah,' he sighs, breathing in the pungent scent, remembering the first time he saw his name in print. It was this same newspaper, but not on the front page (that would take many years to come to pass). That story was on the inside back page and recounted Miss Kirk's success at the county begonia competition. Nathaniel had lovingly cut out the story and glued it into the scrapbook that he kept meticulously for a year, until his stories became so regular that the novelty and excitement wore off.

He takes one more sniff of the drying ink and then holds the paper at arm's length to reveal the 40 point banner headline:

PLAGUE MAKES PRISONERS OF US ALL

He looks down at his hands, covered in black spots from his night's work at the rollers and typeset. He takes a wet flannel from his desk and rubs away at the ink, watching it dilute and fade on his skin, relieved that for another night no telltale mark is left behind.

The monks are in the chapel diligently repeating their prayers for the sick and dying; those same prayers that have, for centuries, been sent to the heavens to protect mortal souls on earth. Zakora sits on the steps, his head in his hands, wondering what more he can do.

Mrs April passes by at the far end of the passageway and notices the crouching figure. She puts down the pile of books she was taking to the depository and walks over to him, the beautiful, calming sounds from the chapel increasing with her every step.

She puts her hand on Zakora's shoulder.

‘Are you alright, Zakora?'

He looks up, shaking his head.

‘No, no, I feel so helpless, Mrs April. I have been taught so much by the
sangoma
. I know the power of the
amadlozi
, but the ground is not right here for me, the soil, the plants. I feel I have nothing to offer. My ancestors cannot call me to action.'

‘Well here's a coincidence,' says Mrs April, squatting down to eye level. ‘The ancestors may well have intervened. Brother Saviour and I were just this morning talking about how you would be the ideal person to help us with the children who are coming to stay.'

‘The children?'

‘Yes, from the town. This morning the abbot received a request from the council to make a home for them here. Until this terrible pestilence passes. Of course, he said “Yes”; that sanctuary was open to all. So we need teachers. You, Zakora, would be ideal. You can open their eyes. Teach them wondrous things from lands they can only dream of. Show them that there are lives and ways of seeing the world beyond these shores.'

In the chapel morning prayers are over and the monks leave the building to begin the chores of the day. Zakora and Mrs April head off down the passageway to the library, deep in conversation as how best to turn the monastery and its environs, the forests and the beach, into a wondrous classroom.

Perch and Carp are sitting on the verandah of their croft. Both wear heavy grey overcoats, buttoned to the neck against the bitterly cold night.

‘Sister, our children are protected from this blight,' says Perch, her words appearing as a spiralling mist in the icy air.

‘It must have meaning,' says Carp, hoping for strength, fighting back her doubts about their cause, her breath mingling with that of her twin.

‘Signifying our purpose and destiny,' adds Perch.

‘Yes, of purpose and of deed.'

‘Let us recite,' says Perch, as together they kneel and bow their heads in prayer.

‘Blessed Archangel Gabriel, we beseech thee, intercede for us at the throne of divine mercy in our time of need …'

Carp, kneeling next to her sister, opens one eye. She feels nothing. No connection. No commitment.

Through the wood, over Birch Hill, across the brook and down the dip of Parson's Meadow, the four children of Mr and Mrs Goodman stand on the threshold of their parents' bedroom. The fearful noises that racked the night have abated, and calm and silence prevail. The older sister, Oonagh, walks up to the bed where the two bodies lie deadly still. She touches her mother's hand. It is cold. She pulls the sheet over the contorted faces of the couple then turns to her siblings, knowing full well that she is now head of the household and must find them a future.