Tidetown, page 18
The captain proceeds to outline a list of rules: passengers are only allowed on deck for two hours in the morning and evening at the discretion of the crew; strict rations of food and water will be distributed at certain designated times; children are to be firmly controlled; any sickness is to be reported to the quartermaster; any misdemeanours will be summarily punished. The crowd listens as Deni translates, barely shifting from where they sit, clearly used to rules and regulations from strangers, clinging on to the hope of a new beginning at some voyage’s end.
As Deni translates the last of the orders the captain surveys the faces of his charges, paying especial attention to the women. A single sparkle appears in his eyes as he hones in on one young woman dressed in a long purple robe.
‘I need a maid for cabin duty. You, in the purple dress. You will do.’ Then he turns and retreats to his quarters, leaving Deni the task of informing Assussy of her new duties.
Stigir runs around the deck chasing the shadows of the seagulls that circle above us. The trade wind fills the sails and pushes the boat onwards, hurrying us ever closer to our destination. Is returning a new beginning of itself? Does it bring forward what was left behind? Shadows on the deck. The shape of a wave. The taste of the wind. And the thoughts that come and go, then recur when least expected. My father once said he would come back to haunt me after he died. He’d never have remembered saying it. He’d been drinking for days and was in that peculiar space between forgetfulness and rage. And so he was right. He’s with me every day. A haunting in the memory, of sorts. But I have long since laid the ghost to rest, welcoming him in his visitations.
This sea is so vast. It has always been here. Toing and froing. Heaving and sighing. Pushing from shoreline to shoreline, cliff face to cliff face. Broken shards of moonlight disturbed by the prow and progress of our ship. Heading somewhere else, like so many before. Journeying with intent. Up on the bridge, navigating by the night sky, I fancy it is my father’s hand at the helm, steering a steadfast course. Offering me protection against the hidden ravages of sea and squall. Instilling his decades of seafaring into the task before me. One ancient mariner guiding the ship home, bringing it safe and sound to harbour.
It is not only what he says, but the way he says it. The words he chooses and the images they bring to my mind.
‘Take heed of your spirit, Oscar,’ Deni said last evening as we stood together looking out at moonlight bouncing off the ribs of the sea.
Today the seas are rough and we are below deck with two of the young children. He is speaking to them in their own language. By the dreamy, entranced look on their faces I fancy Deni must be telling them a story. He fashions his hands into the shape of a bird’s wings, linking his thumbs then fanning his fingers in flight. They both shriek with laughter then roll on the bed with the motion and sway of the boat.
‘What was the story?’ I ask.
‘Ah, I was telling them one of our oldest legends. Of the mean-spirited falcon and his cousin the crow who showed nothing but generosity and kindness.’
This man has such an ancient-looking face, deeply lined and weathered, yet his eyes sparkle so brightly and kindly.
‘You always seem to be telling stories. I’ve noticed that. Not just to the children, but to the grown-ups as well. At night, when the young ones are sleeping.’
‘You are an observant young man. Many might think my role is to interpret, to translate, to be the funnel and voice of my fellows. But, as you have seen, I am much more than that. I come from a long line of storytellers and soothsayers. Before our world was turned upside down by the pernicious rule of the sultan, I was held in high esteem, respected and afforded many privileges as the custodian of my people’s customs and culture. I was tutored in the folklore and ancient tales of this proud people. Stories that had been passed down, retold, reloved by one generation after another. I studied hard and learnt many languages. Now, even though our future is in doubt, our past is not.’
Even in the confines of the boat, in the face of the deprivations he has shared alongside his people, it becomes clear to me that he still retains a presence, a special place among his peers.
As he tells me something of himself, while the two young children (their people’s future) whisper to each other as they snuggle in the bed, I fancy I see so much more in the contours of his face. History, pride, lineage. Gentility, wisdom, strength.
‘And like the crow in the story, generosity of spirit, kindness of heart, willingness of action are at the core of our culture. It is what we try to instil in our young people. So they too will pass on something of value. Something of truth.’
There’s the squall of a storm on the seas outside. In the captain’s cabin the furniture shifts with the tilt and sway of the ship. He holds his bottle of rum firm on the desk as he brings the tankard to his lips. Sitting across from him is his cousin, Cain Bates, the ship’s helmsman and the captain’s conspirator-in-chief. In the corner, by the big four-poster bed, Assussy is clearing away the captain’s clothes which have been dropped in a heap.
‘Clean,’ shouts the captain to her, waving his hands in her direction. ‘She doesn’t understand a word I say, even when I shout. But she seems to know what to do. Time will tell if she will do all that is needed for me,’ he adds with a snigger.
The two men have a map of the ocean spread out in front of them and Cain stabs his finger at a circle marked out in red ink.
‘We’ll be there in two days by my reckoning,’ he says.
‘So long as the storm gets no worse,’ says the captain, swilling from his tankard, then topping it up from the bottle, spilling half of what he fills.
‘And what’s the price?’ asks Cain, rubbing the bristles on his chin.
‘… that’s for me to know,’ mumbles the captain, casting a long hard glare at his mate.
‘What do you mean?’ says Cain, raising his voice, suspecting skulduggery.
‘I mean I’m the captain and you are in my pay.’
‘And we had an arrangement,’ shouts Cain. ‘A third is my cut for broaching the deal.’
Assussy looks up from folding the breeches, as the men come face to face across the table.
‘And, cousin Cain, I thank you for that and you will be rewarded.’
‘A third or nothing!’ screams Cain, banging his fist on the table.
‘Then you can take nothing,’ says the captain, ready as always to draw his cutlass.
Cain begins to holler and swear in the dialect of his hometown, one in which (unbeknownst to him) Assussy is fluent. The captain responds in the same dialect and Assussy goes about her business, giving the men no indication that she understands the words they speak. This is how she becomes aware of what is being plotted. She knows she must pass on the information. And quickly.
As soon as her chores are over and she has once again managed to escape the drunken advances of the captain, she heads straight to Deni.
‘… and then he began shouting in language and I knew what he was saying,’ she spurts in a babble, so eager is she to let Deni know what has transpired.
‘Sit down, sister,’ he says, handing her a glass of water. ‘Take your time, take it easy.’
‘Well, he said we were all lumps of meat and he wanted his pound of our flesh. He kept saying “a third … you promised a third”. And then he said something like, “When you hand the meat over I want to be there to see how much they pay you. You won’t cheat me”. Then the captain smiled and said more in the tongue I do not understand. And the other man calmed down and stopped speaking in our dialect and again I couldn’t understand what they were saying.’
Deni is deep in thought, taking in all that Assussy has said.
‘And what were they doing? While they were talking.’
‘They were drinking and pointing at the big map the captain keeps on his table.’
The next morning Assussy is pulling the soiled sheets from the captain’s bed. She knows he will enter the room soon, to try to trap her. She sings a song from home. A song of love and longing and innocence. Assussy hears his footsteps and instinctively she grips the key she holds in her hand. He stands in the doorway, large and looming. The smile she greets him with surprises the captain, as do the words she utters, words she has been taught to recite. Words to entice.
‘Lie down, sir, and I will bring you a drink.’
‘So you do know some words,’ he says, rubbing the back of his hand across her cheek, then sitting on the bed and pulling off his knee-high leather boots.
‘Bring rum and meat … and you,’ he sniggers.
She smiles once more before leaving the room, closing the heavy wooden door behind her and turning the key in the lock. As she walks back along the corridor she can hear him beating his fists on the locked door, cursing and swearing and damning her to hell.
‘So it all worked out as we planned,’ says Deni, with Assussy at his side, as she holds aloft the key to the captain’s cabin.
Cain Bates stands on the deck of the ship, looking shocked and worried, his hands tied behind his back.
‘So, Mr Bates,’ I shout so everyone can hear, ‘you will be given the chance to tell us what you and the captain are plotting.’
His toothless grin tells me persuasion is in order.
‘Onto the plank!’
The grin recedes as the hapless helmsman is hauled onto the plank that protrudes from the side of the ship with only air between its end and the shark-filled sea below.
‘You know what happens now,’ I say. ‘You tell us what we suspect or else we feed you to our fishy friends and then put the captain in your place and give him the same choice.’
The other crew members, hired hands from the port, stand close by, aware that the power balance has shifted, keen to be on the side in the ascendancy.
At the prod of my sword Cain Bates is edged to the end of the plank. Below, enticed by fresh pig’s blood, four large sharks thrash and circle.
‘Listen. I’ll speak!’ he squeals.
‘No stalling,’ I say. ‘No lies. I will know if you are lying.’
‘Pirates from the islands,’ he says, teetering on the edge. ‘We’re to sell the refugees to them.’
‘When?’ I demand, jabbing him in the back.
‘Soon … tomorrow … the next day. When they get here … the coordinates on the map …’ he gabbers, fear in his eyes, the sounds of gnashing teeth and thrashing tailfins coming up from below.
As Cain Bates predicted we arrive at the coordinates two days after he saved himself from the sharks. We drop anchor and wait, eyes and telescopes scouring the horizon. Released from the prison of his own cabin, the captain sits forlornly at one end of the lifeboat that bobs around in the waves below the prow of the ship. It is tied to the anchor chain, ready to be freed once the pirate boat comes into sight. Cain Bates is his sole companion, sitting as far from his master as is possible in so small a vessel.
On our ship, the crewmen, now resigned to my direct control, prepare the cannon for action. We all work together to ready the ship for a brisk escape. Some of the children scurry up the mast to tighten the sails; the women stay below preparing food and securing the cargo. The men are on deck awaiting what might befall. Hours pass. And then, as the sun reaches its highest point in the sky, we see the ship approach. Through the telescope I make out the telltale signs of stateless insignia and the motley crew on board.
‘Release the lifeboat!’ I shout, and the captain and Cain Bates begin to row towards the oncoming pirate ship.
We watch as the big vessel comes ever closer, with the lifeboat and its two reluctant occupants bobbing up and down in the waves between us.
‘Hold fire,’ I say, gauging the distances, mindful of my training with the rebels.
As the pirate ship turns broadside, two hundred yards away, I order the cannon to be fired.
There’s a flash of flame, a blast in the air, and the heavy metal ball hurtles through space.
‘A direct hit!’ I shout out as I see a gaping hole appear in the side of the ship.
Soon lifeboats are being hurried overboard from the damaged craft, and sailors are leaping from the listing vessel.
‘Anchor up, full speed ahead.’
The wind whips up in our favour and in no time we are racing away from the scene.
Through my telescope I see that the lifeboat with Mr Bates and the captain is joined by three other lifeboats. About a league in the distance is a trawler heading in the direction of the flotilla, clearly responding to the time-honoured duty of saving those in peril on the sea.
The stars are out tonight, guiding our way. A calmness pervades now that the captain and his henchman are gone. I am in command of the ship and the crew are doing my bidding. The breeze is balmy and the sea is still. We are all on deck enjoying the sense of peace and the kindness of the elements.
‘As I told you, storytelling is a huge part of our culture,’ says Deni. ‘Tonight we will tell the children the tale of the white lion. So they can pass the story on to their children.’
Small bowls of rice are handed around, flavoured with a relish from the lovingly preserved highland herbs that the women had brought aboard. The children are gathered around. Deni stands in front of them and begins to speak, whispering asides to me in the words I can understand.
‘Children, this is a story about our people. One I was told by the elders, whose own elders told it to them. You know that our totem animal is the white lion, the messenger of the gods. His job is to protect the peace and prosperity of us all. Shall I tell you how it all began?’
The children nod eagerly, always ready for a story in the telling.
‘Well, many years ago Letsatsi was born into a pride of lions. All the others had the usual tawny colouring, but he was different. His white coat set him apart from the rest of his pride and he was pushed away. Lost and alone in the wilderness he was hunted down by a pack of hyenas that chased him up a tree. As the hyenas bayed for his blood, a young outcast, a man called Gisani, came by. Gisani risked his life for Letsatsi and scared the hyenas away. Letsatsi continued on his travels, but was always persecuted for being different, for being white. One day, forlorn and beaten, he returned to his pride, But still they did not accept him. His older cousins terrorised and tormented him, forcing him to survive as best he could on the scraps of their kills. He left once more and again was forced to face alone the dangers of the African bush. Although still young, he journeyed far from the land of his birth. Finally, he met Nkulu, a tawny-coloured lion. They became allies and Nkulu shared his kills and taught Letsatsi to hunt. Letsatsi learnt to survive on his own, proving himself by stalking and then bringing down a stampeding wildebeest. And so he grew strong and confident. He survived all his tribulations and found his place in the world, sending out a message from the gods of the value of each and every being. And so our totem, the white lion, teaches us to be proud of the people we are, of our beliefs and our stories, of our culture and our colour, whatever the world may think.’
The children sit quietly, each living out the story in their mind’s eye, each knowing something more about where they’ve come from and where they are going. Deni looks from face to face, then turns to me.
‘Do you have totem animals in your culture, Oscar?’ asks Deni.
I think about it. The obvious answer is no. But I know there’s also a yes to be found.
‘My special animal is a tiger. It has been for years. It’s like a guardian. A protector.’
Deni’s face lights up. ‘Then you must now tell us a story,’ he says, raising his voice, gesturing the children to pay attention. ‘Listen everyone, Oscar’s totem is a tiger, like ours is the white lion. And he’ll tell us a story, won’t you, Oscar?’
‘How can I not,’ I say, searching my mind: my library of stories. The children settle in anticipation. Some of the parents have joined the party and they too are eager to hear what this foreigner has to say.
‘So,’ I begin, ‘there was a bear and a tiger who desired to become humans. They were told by the gods that if they could endure the darkness of a cave for one hundred days, eating nothing more than mugwort and cloves of garlic, then they would be transformed into humans.’
I wait while Deni interprets in a tongue so lyrical, so easy on the ear that it seems to have been made for storytelling.
‘They entered the cave together. It was dark and cold and uninviting. Neither animal feared the harshness of the task, but the tiger sorely missed the wide blue skies and the forests where he roamed so freely. The bear, well used to long winters of sleep, settled down on the ground, ready to rest, ready to preserve his energy. The tiger lay awake, the dim vision of the cave’s entrance far away along a dark tunnel. Days passed and the bear slept. Yet the tiger reasoned that the world and its wonders were more important than the mystery of being a man. He was a tiger, noble and certain of his place in the world, and that was enough. He left behind the food for the bear and made his way along the tunnel and disappeared into the misty morning of the forest.’
As Deni translates I can see the children are enjoying the story, imagining themselves in the dark, dank cave. Smelling the air, tasting the mossy ground.
‘So the hundred days passed and the bear succeeded in his quest. The gods transformed him into a beautiful woman who later bore a son Tan’gun. Hwanung, the son of the god of creation, was merciful upon the tiger and recognised the strength and valour of his decision. So the tiger was allowed by the gods to remain on earth as a guardian and protector: just as he is to this day. Just as he is to me.’
When Deni finishes telling the last part of the story, one small boy puts his hand up.
‘Ah, we have a question,’ says Deni kindly.
The boy speaks rapidly, excitedly. When he finishes, almost breathless, Deni translates his words for me.
‘This young boy thanks you for your story. He says you are one of us because you too have an animal to guide you. But he says there are no tigers in his homeland and he has never seen a tiger. He wants to know what they look like.’
