Tidetown (42 page)

‘Life is full of events, as you have experienced,' says Brother Saviour. ‘But that is all they are. Plagues, wars, governments. But meaning and purpose will always endure. And the spirit of the human heart. So we will continue in our work, doing all that we can.'

Earlier, when I spoke of the plight of my companions, it was Mrs April who grew excited at the prospect of exotic neighbours. It was she who instantly put forward a plan, calculating the need and the space, the food and the linen. “And, of course”, she said, “you must hurry back to them, bring them provisions. And then hurry them here”. Then Mrs April saw the smile on Brother Saviour's face and she laughed out loud. ‘Of course, with the abbot's blessing.' ‘Naturally,' added Brother Saviour, ‘with the abbot's blessing.' He turned to me. ‘As you know full well, we offer sanctuary to any and all in need. That is our way and always will be so. Your companions will be welcome, though it seems we may burst at the seams.' And then he laughed heartily at his own joke, adding, ‘it seems, madam, I know not seams!'

‘Yes,' adds Mrs April, ‘we have many new residents. You will meet them all when you return. Zakora and Brother Paul, two exceptional men who you will love, are camping out with some of the children until tomorrow afternoon. But Brother Moses is here.'

‘Indeed,' says the abbot, ‘I suggest he travels with you back to your camp.'

Standing in the doorway, quietly waiting to be noticed, are three young boys. They wear wide-rimmed felt hats and peculiarly fashioned glasses that hide their eyes.

‘Ah,' says Mrs April. ‘Humble, Pious and Gentle. How neglectful of me. I will be along presently.'

Mrs April looks at me as if to say:
I wonder what you think of that? Three strange boys in masquerade
. She has a playful expression on her face. For sure, she has aged, but only the way we all age. She is still so youthful of spirit, so full of verve.

‘You have more than surprised me this day, young Oscar. I will reserve a special surprise for you,' she says, as the boys turn tail and head off down the corridor.

And so the afternoon turns to evening. I spend some with my good friend Brother Moses in the library, talking over the days that have past as if we had never parted. Then we go to the storeroom to gather up provisions and load them onto the cart for an early departure in the morning.

Later on, walking through the cloisters to the cell where I will sleep, Mrs April turns to me.

‘I always knew you would come back to us,' she says, squeezing my fingers as if to make sure I am real and solid and here. ‘When you were ready. When you had travelled far enough.'

I pull the blanket up to my chin. Stigir, curled at the end of the bed, sleeps contentedly. I can tell by the gentleness of his snoring. I feel the power and comfort of these walls: ancient, noble, steadfast. Closing my eyes breathing the air, what comes to me is the thought and touch of my Father. And that he would be proud of what I have become. And my Mother, my Mother: her love wins out, in spite of it all, as I welcome sleep and dreams and the morning yet to come.

‘Just like old times, Oscar,' says Brother Moses, as we sit together on the cart, with sacks of vegetables, loaves of freshly baked bread and flagons of pure spring water stored carefully behind us. ‘Only you are even more taller than me than ever before!' he grins tapping his head then mine to gauge the difference.

The dawn has barely set in as the fine old horse pulls us up the hill to the path that will take us along the coast, bypassing the woods and heathland that Stigir and I traversed. My little dog sits between us, alert to the bird calls and the sounds of the waking animals. We travel in silence as the day stretches into being. The early morning sun shimmers off the leaves as we trundle by, the rhythmic sound of the heavy wooden wheels marking our progress.

‘Well then,' says Brother Moses, some little while later, ‘what have travels through time and space taught you?'

He looks my way, with that expression of his that is always seeking insight, truth, meaning. I remember the advice he once gave me to speak to anyone, everyone, because if you do not you'll never know what they might have to say. He says no more, leaves me to think, lets silence sit in the air. So many thoughts, such a jumble of images, come to my mind. They come and then flicker and fade. Seascapes; warscapes; snippets of conversation: from Aimu, from Abdul-Latif, from Enrico and Carmel; sensations and feelings and emotions that are beyond words yet equally as powerful. I try to bring it all to mind, to form some meaning.

‘That wherever I go I will take myself with me?' I all but ask of myself in answer.

‘Hmm …' he says, pulling on the reins to slow the horse as we approach a descent on the path. ‘A fine lesson indeed.'

As they see us appear on the path that runs along the creek to the inlet, they begin to gather by the campfire that has been kept burning since I left. I see Deni with Assussy by his side and a gaggle of small children encircling them, all waving in our direction.

Upon entering the camp our cart is surrounded by boys and girls running along beside us. Stigir leaps from his spot between us, and runs and barks along with the children, eager to be both welcomed and welcomer.

‘A joyous reception,' says Brother Moses, as he guides the horse to a stop. I leave Brother Moses to supervise the unloading of the provisions and walk over to where Deni is waiting.

‘Greetings, my friend,' he says, with an outstretched hand.

‘Hello, Deni. I bring greetings to you too,' I reply, ‘and news to warm all our hearts!'

Soon there is a celebration under way, with berries and roots harvested from the forest and a wild boar roasting on the fire. As the day progresses there is singing and dancing as all realise that this is indeed a journey's end. Gathering the ship's crew together we decide to get everyone settled on board this night and to set sail on the following day's afternoon tide. Before dark sets in Brother Moses is back on the cart to retrace his steps to the monastery. As he disappears over the ridge we begin the task of launching the lifeboat to ferry the passengers to the ship anchored just offshore.

‘You need to carry your totem with you,' says Deni, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a beautiful tattoo of a lion on his forearm. ‘It is to be our gift to you for your kindness, and out of respect for your tiger.'

I watch as the young woman takes the instruments from an embroidered canvas bag. As she delicately places the finely pointed chisels in a row, the idea of the tattoo settles on me as right and natural. Deni observes my demeanour. His eyes tell me he is happy and at ease.

‘The implements are special to us, sacred. We have kept them safe when so much was to be left behind,' he says. ‘They are shaped from the bones of a crowned hawk-eagle, one that has died and been found in the undergrowth of our highland forests. The pigments come from burnt timbers of the araucaria tree.'

We watch as Beatrice mixes the soot with an oily substance that she spoons from a small glass jar.

‘The fat from a pygmy goat,' explains Deni.

It was as we watched Brother Moses and the others unload the provisions that Deni told me of the young woman's dream. It occurred after she'd heard me tell the story of the tiger, on the night when I'd first taken command of the ship. She had never seen one in her life, but in the dream the image was so vivid. When she woke she drew what she saw. Deni had the picture in his hand and we looked at it under the bright light of the full moon. I was amazed. The picture was that of my blue tiger, the very image that had traversed my own dreams since childhood.

Now, back on the ship readying to set sail to Tidetown, I lie on the bed in the cabin. Beatrice is sketching the picture on my right arm; creating the outlines for the incisions and scarring that will bring my tiger to me.

The first cut is a kiss, marking the beginning of a lifelong partnership.

Time passes, hazily, as she goes about her work with beautiful precision. Deni has long since left the room. Through his translation, Beatrice's gentle, poetic voice told me it would be eight hours from beginning to end and that I might find the pain too much to endure, that I might prefer shorter sessions. ‘No,' I said, ‘it has to be now. At once, like a dream, like a dance.'

With sweat running down my brow, a nauseous, drowsy sensation wafting over me, hot and cold, cold and hot, I feel the sharp edge of the bone slicing my skin, the pigment seeping into the wounds. A mild delirium takes over, a dreamy altered state. She continues, bent over me in concentration, shaping, colouring, bringing life to form. I see her hair, her eyes, her shoulder, her elbow. Her fingers. I sense the tear and pull of skin opening, the absorption of the pigment. I feel my body, in shock, resisting each cut. But my spirit is welcoming.

Then some time later, I feel a tapping on my shoulder and then look up to see Beatrice's smiling face. She raises her upturned hands in a gesture that tells me it is done. She takes a hand mirror from her bag and there in the reflection … I can hardly believe it … is my blue tiger. His expression is of power, confidence, majesty, as he walks proudly out of a forest of curves and swirls that Beatrice has crafted as decoration. She rubs oil into the image, bringing it even more vitally alive in sheen and shimmer. I lie back on the bed, exhausted and complete.