Tidetown, page 26
It’s one of those bright clear days that revitalises the soul. The air is crisp, the skies are cloudless and the wind is still. For days the monks and the children have been scrubbing and cleaning, preparing delicious food and festooning the arches of the cloisters and the trees in the gardens with brightly coloured bunting. Marquees have been set up on the lawn and chairs laid out in rows in preparation for the drama to be performed: the centrepiece of the afternoon.
Nathaniel Mars has arrived early to photograph and chronicle the occasion. He sits on a bench with Mrs April and Brother Saviour, scribbling away in his pad as they recount Brother Alphonso’s dream of community and what they hope for the day.
‘Times are hard and there has been so much heartache and suffering among our people,’ says Brother Saviour. ‘We felt, and this is so much of the spirit of the founding abbot, that if we bring the people together then we can begin to regrow our community. Our sense of oneness.’
‘Professor Knowles said much the same to me when I met him in his office,’ says Nathaniel, as he busily cleans the lens of his camera with a silk cloth. ‘He is really looking forward to the event. I asked him if there was any concern of infection. He said none of the adults who are coming have shown any signs of plague. Indeed, the professor told me the doctors are confident that Tidetown is clean.’
‘Sadly,’ replies Brother Saviour, crossing himself, ‘we all know what dreadful measures were enforced to cleanse our town.’
‘Hmmm …’ adds Nathaniel as he squints through the camera lens for any specks of dirt.
On the other side of the lawn Zakora and Brother Paul walk by: one as a polar bear, the other as a penguin.
‘And for the children to have fun together,’ enthuses Mrs April. ‘To play. To perform.’
‘And the play?’ asks Nathaniel.
‘Ah, yes. The play,’ replies Mrs April. ‘The story within the story.’
Over by the gate leading to the main courtyard the crowd is beginning to gather. Men and women who have known each other since childhood find it hard to look each other in the eye. Each surveys the growing audience, noting who is here and who is not. All keenly sense the guilt of survival; each knows this day may be no more than a reprieve.
Then there’s a shriek and a rush from the far hall, as the children run across the lawns to be reunited with their parents. Hugs and tears and little groups form, as sadness and doubt are subsumed by joy and hope.
Perch has slept for two days, mumbling in and out of delirium and raging fever. Sometimes her angel is standing silently with his face to the wall; other times he whispers in her ear, his breath a relief against the searing heat of her skin. One time, was it last night or a night long ago? she thinks, he stood above me, his wings outstretched in a majestic pose, his hands together in supplication. He sang in a language beyond understanding, with a purity of voice and a resonance of tone that calmed my mind and soothed my racing heart. Now she opens her eyes. Her vision is clear and her fever has abated. Gingerly she touches with the tips of her fingers the weeping sores that now cover her face. They are tender and raw. Looking to the corner of the room where the shadows hide, she fancies she sees a movement, the trace of a presence.
To the outsider the fete in the grounds of the monastery is an idyll. As the shadows lengthen and the air cools, couples wander arm in arm, children playing around them. The brightly adorned stalls offer a variety of foods and drinks: cakes and cordials, pies and soups. In one corner of the cloisters a monk is reciting poetry; in another, Zakora, the sangoma, is telling stories of faraway places to a group of children and their parents seated on the ground. All is of peace, all is of tranquility: the townsfolk and the religious community in harmony and understanding, just as Brother Alphonso had wished it all those centuries ago.
Later in the afternoon Mrs April and Brother Saviour begin gathering the crowd to the main marquee.
‘The play will commence in five minutes,’ they say as they move here and there.
Professor Wells heads to the front row, eager to witness his grandson’s acting debut. Soon all the seats are full, the audience looking around in eager anticipation.
Brother Paul in his black and white penguin hood and cape, and Zakora, hidden behind his polar bear headgear, both stare out of their eyeholes at the children, themselves hidden behind their own penguin and polar bear masks. Carp and Spider stand at either side, ready to help any of the children who miss a cue or take a wrong turn. All are mesmerised by the magic lantern that Mrs April, dressed in a white smock, shines on the canvas behind the actors. The first scene is of a snow-laden landscape, cold and uninviting. It sweeps across the backdrop, showing a blizzard, a storm. Then the carousel of the magic lantern shifts and the canvas illuminates a night sky. The audience coos and marvels. The penguins move away from the polar bears to take up their position at the opposite side of the tent.
Once all are settled, Mrs April, the narrator, begins to tell the story.
‘One special starry night, the polar bears of the Arctic and the penguins of Antarctica had the same idea.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to be somewhere hot for a change!”
“But,” said the Chief Polar Bear, “how will we get there?”
“And,” said Penguin Number One, “we only know the cold.”
Yet, putting their doubts to one side, all the polar bears and all the penguins, at opposite ends of the world, set about making plans for the Great Adventure.
The polar bears held a meeting and agreed to set off on bikes.
At the penguins’ meeting the decision was to make a huge raft.
Many days came and went, while the polar bears busied themselves learning to cycle and the penguins practised launching their raft.’
The audience laugh as one as Zakora and Brother Paul lead the children to act out their roles: the penguins rowing on an imaginary sea, the polar bears straddling invisible bikes and peddling for all they’re worth.
‘When the polar bears got to the edge of the Cold Place, they realised their bikes would not take them over the ocean. Meanwhile, the penguins, having left their Colder Place behind, were making excellent progress. It wasn’t so very long before the polar bears came up with a solution, based on an old postcard the Chief Polar Bear had seen of the Clifton Suspension Bridge.
And they were soon back on track.
On Christmas Day, when both the polar bears and the penguins were more used to log fires and woolly hats, they each landed at opposite ends of the Hot Place.’
The magic lantern clicks again and the backdrop turns to a blood-red sky.
‘After finishing off the Christmas pud, the polar bears set off for the Very Hot Bit.
And so did the penguins. When the polar bears met the penguins they were scared of each other, because they had never met before. They thought of having a fight. But there were no snowballs to throw. So they shook paw and flipper and became friends.’
The audience laugh again at the actors’ overdramatic attempts at fisticuffs and then their effusive shows of affection as they hug and kiss and pat each other on the back.
‘Next morning, the Very Hot Bit Folk came to say hello. They were very friendly, but hard to see on account of all the protective gear they wore against the sun.’
Pious, Humble and Gentle, in broad-brimmed hats and sunglasses, move back and forward across the stage.
‘Unsurprisingly, it was extraordinarily hot in the Very Hot Bit and the polar bears and the penguins got to know each other very well, as they all tried to stay out of the midday sun.
They talked of this and that and all became the best of friends. Soon after, on the very hottest day of a very hot year, the Very Hot Bit Folk held their Extremely Sunny Ceremony and sang their Secret Ceremony Song.
Extremely sunny,
Extremely sunny.
Time to unravel
The Very Hot Bit Bunny.
Extremely sunny,
Extremely sunny.
The polar bears and the penguins did their best to join in, even though they were unsure as to what exactly was going on. Next day the polar bears showed the Very Hot Bit Folk one of their oldest customs, even though it was not the twenty-third of March and there were no icebergs in sight.’
On cue, led by Zakora, the polar bear children perform the acrobatic Twenty-Third of March Dance, much to the pleasure of the audience.
‘Not to be outdone, the penguins showed off their famous Sliding Ceremony. No one seemed to mind the absence of ice and sea.’
Like circus clowns, the penguins slide around the tent, narrowly avoiding tumbling and crashing into the seated rows of the audience.
‘As time passed, everyone mingled and got along just fine. The polar bears tinkered with their bikes and pumped up the tyres. And the penguins repaired their raft and made minor improvements. The Very Hot Bit Folk did what they did best: climbing trees and collecting coconuts for eating and drinking.’
The three brothers mimic climbing the palm trees, toss imaginary coconuts to the ground, and then sit in a huddle to enjoy the spoils.
‘The Very Hot Bit Folk taught the penguins to climb trees. The polar bears joined in. Then the polar bears showed the penguins and the Very Hot Bit Folk how to ride bikes. When market day came around, everyone cycled to the town, carrying the coconuts in sacks on their backs.
“Have you got anything else to sell?” asked a little Not Quite So Very Hot Place boy. “It would be nice to eat something different.”
Penguin Number One had caught a fish that morning and was keeping it under his flipper to dry.
“A fish,” he said. “I have a fish to sell.”’
On cue, Brother Paul mouths the words. And in so doing a sudden memory of longing and loss courses through his being. A sense of something familiar, yet something of another time. He sees, through his eyeholes, Mrs April waiting. He remembers, then parts his hands to show the size of the fish.
‘“Whoopee,” said the boy, who paid a shiny coin for the fish and wolfed it down.
This gave the penguins, the polar bears and the Very Hot Bit Folk an idea. So the next day they all cycled off to the Big Lake Where There Are No Deadly Snakes Nearby, and the penguins taught the polar bears and the Very Hot Bit Folk to fish from the raft. So they all lived happily together, collecting coconuts, fishing and going to the market. Sometimes they all went on bike rides hither and thither. One day, a little while later, the Chief Honcho Very Hot Bit Folk With The Best Hat had a new idea.
“Wouldn’t it be fun to go somewhere cold for a change?”
Some of the Very Hot Bit Folk agreed and they set about building a hot air balloon. Everyone helped in the preparations. Soon enough, all was ready and the intrepid explorers climbed into the basket of the balloon (not forgetting a good supply of coconuts and dried fish).
“Would you like to come with us?” said the Chief Honcho Very Hot Bit Folk With The Best Hat to the penguins and the polar bears.
“Not us,” they replied in unison, waving them off, “we’ve come to like it here in the Very Hot Bit.”’
With their backs to the audience, Brother Paul and Zakora link arms and wave to the image of a red balloon projected onto the tent by the magic lantern.
‘“Bye then,” said the travellers from the hot air balloon.
“Everyone has to move on sometimes,” said the Chief Honcho Very Hot Bit Folk With The Best Hat.
“Cheerio, toodle pip. Bye for now.”
And the penguins and the polar bears lived happily ever after. The end.’
At first the audience stays quiet, still beguiled by the story, the magic of the shifting scenes of the lantern slides, and the mesmeric mime of the actors. Then, as if a sudden force has nudged them, they all break out into a whoop of cheering and clapping.
Brother Paul and Zakora, along with all the children, take their bows and are joined by a reluctant Mrs April, who in turn cajoles Carp and Spider to take a curtain call. The applause is loud and long and hearty. Behind their masks each child smiles happily as they pick out their parents and relatives through the tunnel vision of the eyeholes.
Brother Saviour moves to the front of the crowd.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he says, beckoning the crowd to a reluctant silence. ‘Please remain seated. We have one last special treat for you all.’
He waves to the children, who all run off in the direction of the kitchen.
‘While the children go to collect this special gift I will call on Professor Wells to come to the stage to say a few words.’
The professor straightens his jacket then makes his way to the front of the crowd. Accomplished as he is at public speaking, he swallows hard as he takes stock of the audience before him and the topic he must address.
‘Dear friends,’ he says, finding strength in his voice. ‘This has been a perfect afternoon. An affirmation of our resilience in the face of great personal and collective tragedy. We all know the dreadful decisions imposed upon us to contain this horrific plague, and we all know that nothing could be done for those who succumbed to its ravages. I will not describe the events of recent months, for you are all too well aware of what has passed. Yet, we are the ones who have survived thus far, who have not been smitten. As you are aware our own trusted medical advisors have assured us that it is safe for us to mix with our children on an occasion such as this. All in attendance have a clean bill of health. But we cannot assume this will remain the case. We must take action. We must now look to the future for ourselves and our children. Today’s event is a new beginning. A fresh start in the life of our community.’
Across the lawn, still wearing their penguin and polar bear masks, the children walk carefully, eager not to spill the drink or the single-stemmed rose that each child carries on a small wicker tray.
‘The Brothers have made a splendid drink for us to enjoy. It comes from the fruit and berries of their gardens and orchards. I will ask you to join me in a toast.’
The children busily hand out the drinks until all hold glasses in readiness.
‘This toast,’ says Professor Wells, ‘is to all those good souls of Tidetown, those with us today and those who have gone to another place. The toast is also to the Brothers at the monastery, not only for their hospitality today, but for a task they accomplished for which we owe them an immeasurable debt.’
Much earlier on this day, after morning prayers, Brother Saviour spoke to the monks and explained to them that he and he alone was party to the plan that ensured the vaccine would arrive safely in Tidetown. What Brother Paul and Brother Mark thought were bottles of olive oil that they had bought at the market, did, in fact, contain the vaccine. Unbeknown to them, the letter they delivered to Dr Knowles at the Provincial Medical Office had instructed the swap. The phials stolen by the Trader and his men contained a harmless solution of mixed herbs. Professor Wells had wanted to take no chances and so enrolled Brother Saviour in his scheme. No one else knew, not even Judge Omega. That his party was ambushed was the greatest of tragedies, but also a clear justification for the subterfuge.
‘To put it plainly,’ continues Professor Wells, ‘the drink you hold in your hand, and one that the children, for good measure, imbibed at lunch, has a very secret ingredient. Not a rare herb from the monastery greenhouse. No. Instead it is the vaccine that will protect us from this deadly virus that has plagued our recent past.’
There are gasps and guffaws, excited, ecstatic laughter from the crowd as the professor lifts his glass.
‘To your very good health!’
Each and every one drinks to the last drop the delicious elixir of fresh berries and fruits, and the diluted vaccine to protect body and soul.
‘And now,’ says Brother Saviour, ‘let us take the roses you have been given. We will walk in procession to the cliff tops and drop them into the sea to remember our fallen loved ones and friends of our town.’
The monks, the adults and the penguin and polar bear children stand in single file on the edge of the cliff, roses in hand. They all notice the boat heading towards the harbour, but their minds and thoughts are on their kinfolk who have succumbed to the pestilence. After quiet reflection, Brother Saviour is the first to let his rose fall into the sea, followed by Professor Wells.
‘For Maria,’ he says. ‘Death’s vigour will wane. We looked into the abyss and we survived.’
Then others drop a rose into the void, reciting the names of loved ones who have perished in this time of huge sadness.
When all have done, the roses carried hither and thither by the ripple and wash of the tide, they turn away from the cliff to walk back to the monastery. And there, standing on the path, is Perch, a wild look in her eyes, her face a mass of weeping sores. She is dressed from head to foot in a long black dress with a hooded purple velvet cloak tied around her shoulders.‘The Archangel calls!’ shouts Perch to the wind. ‘He awaits. He is close by. Closer than a breath. This is your last chance,’ she yells, running down the path.
The crowd recoils as one, stepping back and closer together. Perch sees Carp amongst them. Her eyes beseech her sister to join her, to stand by her.
‘Sister …’ she says, she pleads.
Carp can feel Spider’s fingers gripping her hand tightly, as if offering assurance. Carp averts her eyes and then bows her head. She has nothing left to give to her twin.
I train my telescope onto land and I can see the faint outline of the houses in the harbour. The pier and quayside come into sight.
