Tidetown by Robert Power Page A

her to carry out the orders as originally designated.
    When she turned her back to leave the cell, the governor was sure she could hear a cackle, a whistle, a strange indefinable sound, but one that was an echo of both victory and malice.

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    â€˜A man there was, though some did count him mad, the more he cast away the more he had.’ – John Bunyan
    On deck, anchor up, the sails fulsome again, our ship cutting through the waves like a clipper, I stand next to Aimu who is looking intently out to sea.
    â€˜Tomorrow we will make land and our next port of call is my home town, Oscar,’ he says, as if waiting for it to suddenly appear on the horizon. ‘I have not been back in twenty years. Not once. When I left those shores I was the age you are now,’ he says, looking down at me, remembering something of himself.
    â€˜What will it be like?’ I ask him. ‘Going home, I mean.’
    He thinks for a minute. I love the tattoo he has on one side of his face. Its three lines curl like a wave, running from his temple to his neck. I asked him about it once and he said each stroke reminded him of the way his mother stroked his face the morning he set sail. He could still feel the gentle touch of her fingertips on his skin.
    By the expression on his face, he seems to be searching for possibilities.
    â€˜When I think of it, going home, I imagine the day I left. As if nothing has moved on. My mother and father on the riverbank, my brothers and sisters waving and crying and laughing. I picture them still standing there. All these years later, still waiting.’
    There is no sign of land on the distant horizon, just a shimmer of a line between sea and sky.
    â€˜But I know it can’t be like that. Too much has changed. I’ve heard talk of pain and suffering,’ he says. ‘Letters from my sister. A few words here, a few words there. There is more power in telling little than in telling all.’ He sighs and looks out to the distance. ‘Nothing is ever as we remember it.’
    Hours later, as I fall asleep, I try to bring to mind what was. To see if it reappears as I remember it.

    I’m woken by excited voices, whistles and cheers. Looking out of the tiny porthole I can see a flotilla of small craft surrounding the boat. Dark-skinned people are shouting out, holding up fruits and live chickens, brightly coloured cloth and statues carved from wood and stone. Beyond the boats and the clear turquoise water the shoreline rises from white-sand beaches to a small cluster of houses on a hilltop. I pull on my clothes and rush up the stairs to the deck. There’s Aimu leaning over the gun rail, looking to left and right.
    â€˜Cousin Elenoa,’ he shouts, waving frantically. ‘Horatio! Olinda!’
    One by one, the hawkers in the boat spot their kinsman and wave back, laughing and shouting.
    â€˜Is it you? … Aimu? … You’ve come back,’ yells one.
    â€˜Our fine strong man,’ says another, an older woman with greying hair, who holds up a silver fish that shimmers and reflects the early morning sunlight.
    â€˜Uncle Aimu, how we need you,’ shouts a tall stout man, sitting on top of a pile of lobster pots on the deck of a small fishing boat. ‘God has sent you back to us.’
    Hearing this last call Aimu shields his eyes from the sun rays bouncing off the horizon.
    â€˜Is that really you?’ he mutters under his breath, recognising the young man in the fishing boat. ‘Nephew Valence?’
    The last Aimu had heard of Valence was the last time he’d heard anything from Cote D’Alkott. It was in a letter from Valence’s mother, Carmel, Aimu’s sister. She wrote that Valence, then only fifteen, had been spotted at one of Captain Ottega’s rallies by the secret police and was arrested as a rebel. It was only the family connection with the president’s wife that had saved Valence from a life sentence or worse. Four