Now, her brain adjusting, she recognizes that other movements are more of these shapes – low, long, gliding at speed across the current, melting into Kisiri’s shadow.
Her skin prickles. ‘What is it?’
‘Hori – canoes, many, many . . . I am counting thirty.’
‘Canoes! Whose?’
For answer, he grips her arm to silence her, and she follows his gaze, beyond Kisiri, beyond the mangrove swamps, to the raw red glow that is seeping up through the night darkness from the land like a bilious sunset bleeding into the sky.
‘Somewhere is burning,’ he says.
His heart is thumping. All evening he’s waited to talk to her without Eshe or Koffi. They’d turn everything to a joke and make his mouth clamp shut.
Now she is there, beside him.
And now, just as the old, old tales of Fumo and Zawati, the canoes are here! And the fire of a distant city burning.
But five hundred years have passed since Fumo! Now is the new band playing on the radio and the street boy Collins drumming with Lumbwi and Jack to their song. Now is a ship like a giant palace of lights on the horizon and a plane humming behind the clouds, leaving Ulima. Not canoes escaping in the night from a city’s flames!
Moonlight has strengthened: he can see two lines of the dark strokes, each distinct and bold on the glint of the water. They stretch from the mangrove swamps across the deep channel to Kisiri.
As it is always told. And the fire-glow in the sky – from the city on the distant islands of the north, destroyed by the men of the great ships – the massacre that Bwana Fumo and Mwana Zawati fled?
Foolish to think it! There is no city now on the northern islands. Only in the story does it live.
Foolish to think of Fumo!
He turns to Ally. Her gaze is following the dark shapes across the water.
‘They’ve disappeared, Leli. The boats – look, they’re gone!’
The sea is empty now, truly empty.
And the glow is gone – as swiftly as it came. The moon is submerging in clots of thick cloud.
‘Like the strange light on the island, Leli!’ Ally whispers. ‘Isn’t it? That glow over everything?’
Ben hears, demands, ‘What strange light on the island?’
‘We will ask Mzee Kitwana to say,’ is the only answer Leli gives.
Which he knows is no answer at all.
Eleven
She threw her sleeping bag aside, the tent pinned wide to let in air, the night muggy with a damp, cloying stickiness. She could hear Jack moving about outside, his shadow against the glimmer of the dying campfire growing and shrinking on the canvas. Everyone else had drifted home, muttering about rain. All, that is, except Ben and the Boat Crew, curled up together beside the tent and fast asleep even before Jack and Ally stretched a tarpaulin over them as shelter from any downpour.
For a while she lay watching armies of transparent crabs scuttling like tiny ghosts across the sand. Her mind somersaulted and looped through everything. The way those canoes were there, then gone. The way the logical reason for the fiery light was a lightshow at the hotel or somewhere like that, or a bonfire. But she knew it wasn’t. No one else saw it. How Leli had not really said anything at all, nothing that made sense, and then gone home, still in that closed-off mood of his. It left her with a peculiar sense of loss again, of the fragility of things, as if a door might close and never re-open, as if she should have stopped him going.
But she’d said nothing, and he’d not even said goodbye, or anything about meeting her again.
Lying here now, there was an edgy moaning in the wind, whipping her unease to a new sharpness.
Jack moved into view at the water’s edge, his back to her, looking, or listening, for something. She gave in to her restlessness, and went out.
‘Hear that, Ally?’ he said, without turning.
She concentrated through the hiss of the surf and found the pulse of an engine. It grew rapidly louder – almost on them, though she couldn’t see it. Swiftly Jack moved to kick sand over the embers of the fire.
‘Why’d you do that? Maybe it’s just night fishing,’ she said, alarmed.
‘Maybe. But in a large boat Huru says you’d go out beyond the reef – it’s the season for big fish like marlin, or kingfish or billfish, he said, and also further out you wouldn’t risk hitting coral banks. So why are they so close in?’
‘Maybe they don’t know.’
‘But deep sea fishing’s partly what tourists come for – and they’d be out with guides. Carole said.’ After a minute more listening, ‘Anyway, don’t use a torch, Ally. We don’t want them to see us here.’
‘Maybe they have already, and don’t care.’
‘But it’s like that boat going all along, close in, the other night, like they’re checking things out. Like smuggling or something – I dunno, doesn’t feel right.’
‘It’s getting further away now,’ she pointed out. The engine note was accelerating.
‘It is the big boat of the big hotel man,’ came Collins’ voice from the darkness.
‘Can’t tell that from here,’ Jack said doubtfully.
‘Dedan does engines extra good, he tells.’ Collins emerged from under the tarpaulin.
Crawling out behind him, Dedan mumbled sleepily, ‘Island now.’ He rubbed his eyes, turned his head, listening. ‘Going.’ The engine was a moan, getting fainter.
‘Tomorrow we see it in Tundani, I can tell you,’ said Collins. ‘For sure, for sure!’
‘Well, Shanza people’ll hear it, and if they haven’t, let’s tell them, hey?’ Jack said decisively. ‘Tell you what, Collins, do me a favour? If you see this boat in Tundani, have a really close look at it – exactly what it’s like, and what it’s called, and who’s in it, and what they’re doing. And come and tell us, so we can all keep an eye out. OK?’
Collins considered this soberly. Then he pulled one of his incomprehensible faces, winked, gave a thumbs-up, nudged Dedan towards the tarpaulin, and both disappeared underneath.
Jack linked arms with Ally. ‘What’s all this night stuff about, d’you reckon? That’s what gets me, Ally, even with my rock-steady nerves.’ He grinned at her, but underneath the joke, she could see he meant it.
*
I remember falling by the western gate, my sight blurred, skin burning. Arms lifted me, Goma’s voice in my ear.
‘Leave me, Goma, I die!’ I said, but she held me firmer against her body as if her life would strengthen mine, calling for Diogo. They helped me to the shaded angle of the wall. Goma wiped my face with her cloth moistened in water, gave me drink, spoke in her language with Diogo.
‘We have barred the gate against attack,’ Diogo told me. ‘You cannot open it.’
Did I try? I remember only that eight more died last night and I can do nothing!
I begged him, ‘Disobey Fernando, take command, Diogo! You are the soldier. Courage deserts me! My ignorance shames—’
‘My young friend, listen! Your father was next in rank to Fernando, but already dead when Fernando died. It falls now to we of Portugal still alive. Fernando appointed you. We others – I, Thomas, Paulo – are foot soldiers. We hold our discipline, we pledge our duty to you, we honour Fernando’s wishes, and his wisdom.’
‘Not wisdom! You cannot trust me!’
‘Fernando knows we live – or die – together. Fernando, Theresa, your father, many other brave friends . . . are still with us.’ His eyes held unshed tears. ‘We will live to honour them. Hear me! Portuguese and slave are strong together against those who would slaughter us. Every man and woman here, Native and Portuguese! Together, all of us. And we will do it.’
For the first time, I fell asleep at Watch. In a nightmare I dreamed of Tomas dying. I woke, and Tomas, who was well not two hours since, is without warning in the grip of fever.
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Yet Paulo, who seemed to become ill, has rallied; he is weak, but the fever touched him only briefly. Tiny Jorge is becoming ill, and Neema tends him. Goma has taken the other children to the far side of the court and bars the door to others entering, to try to keep them safe.
I must cling to Hope! I have not dreamed the deaths of any of the children, nor Diogo’s or Paulo’s or Neema’s or Winda’s or Goma’s or mine, or any others still with us.
Only Tomas.
He died within four hours. In some terrible way do I have true vision of what will come? Is it my soul, or my body, that travels these paths?
I fought to mask my terror, to shoulder my duties and find the courage of a true commander of this fort! I summoned strength deep in my shuddering muscles, and climbed with Diogo to the western bastion.
‘Starvation feeds this fever,’ Diogo told me. ‘Before all else, we must try again to seek food. We must find some way.’ He fell silent, thinking, and I could call up no wisdom, held icy, wordless, with my fear.
After a minute, Diogo spoke again. ‘There is one of our number, a Native, Saaduma. I trust him as a brother – though he has no reason to love us. He had a ship plying this coast with cargos of mangrove wood before our dead captain, Dom Alvaro, seized and enslaved it to this fort. All the crew, save Saaduma, are now dead. But Saaduma has brought us a plan: we distract the enemy with marching from bastion to bastion at nightfall. He, by rope, will descend the walls above the sea cliff and down into the sheltered pool below – there he will fish and return before dawn.’
I see it is our only hope. Eleven nights ago three men left the fort by the hidden northern gate to try and trap some small animal for food and gather firewood. We heard their screams, and have not seen them since. Our enemy has help from Native troops much skilled in stealth and poisoned arrows, and a terrible hatred for all men of this deadly fort, and I cannot blame them.
We do as Saaduma urged: turn and turn about we march along the western battlements and make such noise! Let the enemy keep their eyes on us! Let them not see Saaduma descend to the rocks below!
We count the passing hours. I am most terribly afraid for him, for us all. Paulo bows his head in prayer. Winda pauses again and again above the parapet and stares into the dark below. No signal from Saaduma on the rope to say that he has climbed from the fishing pool again and we can haul him to safety.
Our besiegers’ fires blaze across the water; the wind is westerly and we hear their voices. For days now they have done little but camp on the mainland shore before the forest and the town.
We wait for Saaduma’s signal. We trace the flickering movements for any trail across the dividing water that shows our enemies come towards our shores.
Why have they not come for us already? They believe we are all nearly dead. What holds them back? They already have the force to take us: two large frigates drawn up near their camp. Five smaller ships traverse the channels between this island and the mainland. Ten of their dhows are here: surely more will arrive from their country in the north when the monsoon turns.
I watch the distant shadows of the ships, and as they move on the waters, I begin to feel the strangest certainty. As if Her spirit nears, as if courage flames anew, as if blood courses through my limbs again. My father’s voice is in my ear: a great clarity comes over me.
I find myself speaking aloud to Diogo. ‘They could attack at any hour, even tonight, Diogo. We must hold them back by seeming three times our real number!’
He turned sharply to look at me. Then he smiled and nodded. Without further word, we went to gather everyone strong enough to mount a show of arms along the battlements facing the enemy camp.
There are but five men able and Winda. Goma and Neema stay with the children.
At once Winda seized the fallen flag and brandished it high. She began a steady march, we found the rhythm and marched with her and there was no need for I or Diogo, or any other to lay out the plan and give orders.
We circled, split to other battlements, rejoined, on and on through the night, one taking rest, turn and turn about.
It gave such heart to all of us! Now I take up pen and ink again, my paper resting on the wall, my body upright as if I am at Watch. Paulo stands near, but secretly he leans against the wall and tries to snatch sleep, directing me to do the same.
The four others truly patrol, watching. In an hour Paulo and I will take their place, and give them rest.
‘Why, at such a time, this need to write?’ Paulo asked this even as his eyes glazed in sleep. ‘I see your father in you, with his journals and letters! Writing, writing, writing.’
I have no answer. In life my father urged me to keep a journal. ‘So will you draw wisdom from your past, enrich your future.’
I did not listen to him then. Now perhaps he sees the words pour from my pen.
They bind me to Life, to Hope, I think. I pray She hears them. Yet dread blurs the pages in front of me, for is it only my father’s lost spirit who sees, and can do nothing?
Surely Her spirit surely burns anew! As the first sun on a cold dawn, She fired my bones and I looked across the strip of sea that divides us from our enemy, to their fires flickering below the forest. It is the forest of my dreams. Hope is there. I prayed She hears my pleas again. I prayed She calls me to Her, calls all our lives to Her life, every one of us, and we are saved, and in answer, sudden shouts came from the court below. Our faith in Saaduma is rewarded! Twelve fish he brings us, and a squid wrestled from the deep, still wound about him, dry wood and seaweed gathered from the upper rocks, that Paulo and Winda seized with cries of joy and carried off to prepare a cooking fire.
Enough to feed the children, a morsel to each of us, and a portion for the small ones again tomorrow! We clasped Saaduma’s hands, clapped him on the shoulder, fell to embracing him, again, again, until he begged release!
He insists he will fish again tonight. And we will march along the walls and defy the vultures!
fifth day
warriors
Twelve
Leli scanned the shore impatiently. The rain had stopped: a sheen of raindrops glistened everywhere and the air steamed mistily golden in the early sun. Everyone was out, shaking and spreading the nets and baskets to dry. But only gulls hunting fish scraps peopled the storyteller’s usual rock-seat.
Fumo and Zawati’s tale must speak for me. Ally must understand the strange ideas – the ones he could not write to his brother Shaaban, the ones he wanted only to share with her. Only Mzee Kitwana can tell Ally! Then I can tell her of the dreams, and she will see, she will know.
Though if anyone looked him in the eye and said, see what, know what? he also knew he could not answer.
He spotted his mother with Eshe’s mother. Both looking at Ally. She was watching Huru teach Ben to take the canoe across the currents in the bay, snaking and spinning the boat as he showed his skills and Ben tried to match them. When Leli arrived at the camp this morning to fetch Ally, he’d seen how she was light-hearted, as if some special happiness warmed her at seeing him. It had spread over him too, chasing away the gloom at his mother’s waspish complaint as he left his house: ‘You go to see this English girl!’
He refused to be stung!
Ally waved at Jack sitting on the high ridge of Ras Chui, commanding a long view of both sides of the rock. There was still that watchfulness in the brother. This morning Leli’d found Jack standing in the rain to watch fishermen preparing to leave Shanza on the tide. Ally’s brother was taut, closed-faced. A cold feeling had gone through Leli.
Have I caused offence? Can this brother stop Ally being my friend? Will he stop her coming with me to hear the storyteller?
The coldness became something hot and fierce, it was in him still, a preparation for battle, against mothers and brothers and anyone else—
But Jack said, ‘We heard engines near Kisiri last night
,’ and Leli understood: tourist boats did pass by sometimes – it was not suspicious. But Jack’s unease was a thread in the same cloth as his own dreams of Fumo, the strangeness of Kisiri he’d seen with Ally, the canoes in the darkness that only he and she saw.
He caught sight of the storyteller now. He was emerging between the houses with Mzee Shaibu. Both were gesturing at the village, the mangroves, out into the deep channel. Discussing, Leli guessed, strangers in cars and boats, road makers and bulldozers closing the school again today.
In a good mood the storyteller would relish recounting a tale to Ally. An audience pleased him. If his leg was hurting he would be irritable and put them off till another time and – Leli could not say why, but knew – it would somehow be too late.
He seized Ally’s arm to hurry her, and with relief saw Mzee Kitwana cheerily signal a greeting with his walking stick.
‘My son of the night! Hujambo, Leli! Habari za asubuhi? It is well with you this fine morning? It is well with your English friend? Sit! Sit!’ Mzee Kitwana chased off the gulls and settled himself on the rock, prodding the space beside him. ‘You come for Fumo and Zawati? You have time?’ He chortled. ‘Many months you have not listened to my stories, Leli! Must I hurry now? Nothing to delay your journey to busy places with your brother Shaaban?’
‘Mzee Kitwana, I tell my friend Ally that you have the honour to tell the story at Sherehe and it is an honour to hear you,’ Leli replied, cautiously. The old man’s moods were dangerous – one minute merry, the next fierce like a raging goat.
‘Hah! You are a flatterer!’ Mzee Kitwana waggled a hand at him. But he drew breath as if sobering himself. He said to Ally, ‘Once people came from far, perhaps it was from your England. They asked my father to tell the story. They wanted to put it in a book. I have never seen this book. But one gave me the story written in English on paper. This happened when I was a young man, and the paper has become old with me. But I have it here,’ he tapped his head. ‘I do not know how many years have gone. How many years do I have, Leli?’ he challenged, spotting his distraction at the sight of his mother marching towards Mzee Shaibu.
Song Beneath the Tides Page 10