Tidetown (40 page)

I recognise the face as someone I know. In turn, she looks at me impassively. Then, despite the years that have past and the shadows in the porch, I realise that she is one of the Fishcutter twins.

‘Perch?'

‘Yes, it is I. Just as you are Oscar Flowers,' she replies, with no sense of surprise in her voice. Then she pauses and closes her eyes as if waiting for inspiration. She is thinner than I remember her. Her cheeks are sunken and her skin is sallow and grey. Yet she still exudes some rare and peculiar quality that has always set her apart, has always pulled others towards to her.

‘So it is divined that we meet again,' she says suddenly, wide-eyed. ‘That you be given another chance.'

‘Another chance at what?' Although I have an inkling of what she means.

She stands back, receding into the half-light, revealing a long dark corridor.

‘Come in.'

I look back into the garden to see the faint outline of Stigir under the bush. He hunkers down with clearly no intention of leaving the safety of the foliage. Perch leads me along the corridor and opens a door. The light from many candles illuminate the room. It's as if a house fire is waiting to ignite and consume the darkness all around.

‘Light,' she says, as if reading my mind, ‘to brighten our way through these pitiful times.'

‘Carp?' I ask, realising there is no sign of her twin.

She turns to me. Her eyes show nothing of feeling, nothing of connection.

‘I no longer have a sister. She is gone.' She points to the far wall. ‘Here is what I have. What my sister has turned away from. Lost to me. Lost to the real Truth.'

‘The real truth?' I mutter, looking up at the icon hanging from the wall. It is fashioned from twigs and branches, intertwined with feathers and shreds of animal skins, giving me the impression of a life lost, a spirit departed.

Then Perch gasps and when I turn she is on her knees, hands splayed before her on the ground.

‘He is here!' she says, lifting her head, staring into the far corner of the room. ‘Blessed are we. In splendour. The Archangel is amongst us.'

I see nothing, but watch Perch as she prostrates herself on the ground, groaning and breathing ever more deeply.

‘He will share the Truth with you, too, Oscar. You are chosen!'

But I have known for a long time that this woman has no more power over me, as she sways from side to side, as she utters wordless sounds from the depths of her being.

‘There is no one real truth,' I say. ‘And I have not been chosen.'

She stands up, spitting in my face as her guttural sounds turn to words.

‘Then you are damned.' Her eyes are wild and strangely alive. ‘I will not cast pearls before you.' She stands so close I can smell the bile on her breath. Then words come to me, unexpectedly.

‘You … we … killed your father for nothing. There can be no certainty. No one truth.'

And I turn and walk back along the passageway, not looking over my shoulder, though I sense she is not following me. Outside, Stigir is waiting where I left him. He runs to me and licks my ankle. As we leave the garden and rejoin the path I look back to the house. Though all is still in darkness I get the sense of a figure running from room to room, crying out.

We walk on, my dog and I, and soon we are up on the ridge and away from the house with its bizarre icon and assuredness of truth. We travel on singing songs and reciting poems, until tiredness has its way. Fresh water comes in the form of a babbling brook. ‘“Beside the springs of Dove”, Stigir.' Then we settle down to sleep under the shelter of an overhanging rock. Stigir circles then lies down, snuggling up close to me. I can feel the warmth of his body against my side. His eyes are still open, watching me. One time Abdul-Latif told me that in his religion it is believed that animals pray, just as people do, but in a much purer and more instinctive way. His holy book talks of the simple, pure relationship between animals and god. Looking at Stigir, contented in his being, it seems all so likely.

I awake with a shiver. It is still dark. Cold water is dripping onto me from the rocks above. Stigir stirs and snuffles and I shuffle him closer to me. He breathes gently, snores lightly, and soon I fall back to sleep.

It is morning, the birds are noisy in the trees and Stigir's cold, wet nose presses against my cheek. We both shake ourselves alert. Stigir arcs his back and pushes his front legs forward, yawning widely, his tongue protruding, tasting the air. Up above a brightly coloured rainbow arches across the sky. ‘No more floods then. Stigir. Is that what you prayed for?'

Joshua hears him before he sees him, following as he does the strains of the old song the mayor is singing. He peers between the dusty racks of vintage ports, precious burgundy and barrels of fine malt whiskey. It is dark in the wine cellar, but the singing, faint as it is, is clear and melodious.

‘… and the man that I worked for was a richer man than me, though they say that hisself and his wife they don't agree.'

And there is the mayor, slumped in a corner, oblivious to the cobwebs tangled in his hair, two empty bottles by his side, another, half-full, in his hand.

‘… they had pictures, pianos, paintings on the wall …'

The mayor looks up at Joshua who squats down beside him.

‘I gave them everything,' he slurs, the vintage claret slopping around in the bottle as he gesticulates to emphasise his point. ‘And they turn away from me as if it all meant nothing. All means nothing at all. Did I not do enough?' he pleads, rocking forward, the shudder of a sob in his throat. ‘What has happened, Joshua Barnum? To our place? Our place in the world? What will become of us all?'

Joshua takes the mayor, heavy and drunk as he is, by the elbow and encourages him to stand.

‘Come on, sir, it'll all bode better upstairs, away from the gloom and sorrow,' he says, easing the bottle from the mayor's grip, pulling the cobwebs from his hair. The mayor puffs and blows, then stands up straight, adjusts his clothes, the mayoral chain shifting into position around his neck. Joshua closes one eye, and, with great pomp, moves one side of the chain a fraction to the left.

‘There,' he says, admiring his handiwork, ‘the badge of office centred and in place. All is well in Tidetown. Order restored. Let he who will, he who dares, deem to tell us it is ever otherwise.'

Then, in a procession of two, a stutter and a stumble and a burp along the way, the mayor and his deputy walk up the rickety steps from the cellar, ready to present themselves to life above stairs.

The fog is clearing from the moors to reveal a crisp blue day. Word has come of the whales passing by and Brother Saviour has had his binoculars fixed on the horizon since first light. Now is the moment for which he has waited patiently.

‘There they blow,' he shouts as he spies the spouts of water and the undulating forms of the magnificent creatures moving through the seas.

‘Zakora, call the children, call the children.'

When Zakora gets to the dining hall the children are clearing away their breakfast dishes.

‘Come quickly,' he says, ‘they're here. The whales. The whales. Follow me,' he shouts, waving them forward, his excitement and enthusiasm urging them on. One by one the children stop what they are doing and follow him outside, eager not to miss the spectacle. They skip and whoop across the lawn and gardens, eyes transfixed on the line of the cliffs and the bay below and beyond.

‘There …, there!' calls out Brother Saviour, pointing to the pod of whales ploughing through the deep blue water.

Soon all the children are gathered on the edge of the cliff, mesmerised by the sight before them.

‘Look,' squeals Barnaby, ‘it has a tail the size of a house!'

‘That one's jumping!' shrieks Louise.

The children sit watching a procession that has passed these shores (mostly unobserved) for millennia. The adults bring fruit and bread and cheese to eat and sketching pads for the children to record the scene. And so the morning passes with the children and adults alike in awe at the magnificence passing before their eyes. By late afternoon the last of the whales disappear around the headland, journeying south to warmer seas and plenteous supplies of food. The children turn to head back to the monastery, quiet and contemplative, absorbed in the thoughts and images in their minds.

It is past midnight and all is still. The Trader has left, the final payment of gold coins clinking in the leather pouch strapped to his belt. Four small phials of the precious vaccine are lined up on the large wooden table that dominates the parlour. She caresses each, sensing the control and power imbued in their possession. Perch talks aloud to herself, half imagining that it is her sister's voice she hears, finishing her sentences, answering her questions.

‘So what next to do? Ah, the children, safe and sound. And the parents and the farmers and the forsaken, swept away by plague and pestilence.'

She walks around the table, entranced by the display, the amber liquid refracting the candlelight from the window ledge.

‘The colour of the sunlight on the tips of your wings,' she says, the image of her master appearing in her mind's eye. She has a momentary temptation to smash the bottles, to see the liquid pour away, trickling under the door and sinking into the earth beyond. No one to be saved.

‘What power do you hold? You?' she says picking up one of the bottles and holding it close to her face. ‘Who are you? We, who hold wisdom, who hold the keys to the kingdom.'

She looks around the room, awaiting a sign, a signal from her master, listening intently, bright of eye and sharp of hearing.

‘Remain alert, ever alert. What do we hear? Him. What can we see? Him. And the choir. The singing … “All creatures that on earth do dwell …”'

She reaches for one of the phials, prises open the cork, brings the bottle to her lips, then lets the liquid trickle down her throat. Perch closes her eyes, the bitter-sweet taste fresh in her mouth.

‘Praise to you,' she chants as she walks along the dingy passageway to the Sacristy. One by one she lights the candles from the single flame that is kept ever alight beside the altar. Looking up to the icon on the wall she bows her head then falls to her knees in prayer. It is then, arms outstretched in supplication, that she sees the telltale black spots on the back of her hands. She lies still, scratching at the blemishes that refuse to disappear.

‘What to do? What to do?' she calls out, circling the room, licking the spots, rubbing them with her thumbs and fingers.

She looks up to the icon, for an answer, for a sign. She closes her eyes and prays in silence. When she opens them the spots on her hands are still there. Breathing deeply to compose herself she walks back to the parlour. There she uncorks one of the phials and drinks a mouthful of the liquid. It is bitter to the taste, but she gratefully imbibes it. Then she drinks the second, the third and the fourth. Exhausted and delirious she falls back onto the bed and into a deep sleep.