Tidetown by Robert Power Page B

up the responsibilities of the day and the joys and chores of office. Behind him he hears the shutters of the bedroom being opened and the shriek of his daughter, chastising the maid for her intrusion.
    â€˜Ah, Angelica,’ he sighs, ‘my one and only princess, my angel.’
    Looking out of the landing window across the dale, he remembers, as he does almost every morning of his life, that fateful Sunday afternoon that left his Angelica motherless. It had been after lunch (of roast duck and quail eggs) just as the port was served that the argument erupted. A trivial matter to begin with: of Angelica’s demands for new satin drapes. He said, ‘The child has had enough.’ His wife said, ‘Nothing is too much for our only child.’ His wife worked up a frenzy, ran from the room, across the hall, up and down stairs slamming doors and smashing pots and vases against walls and then stormed out of the house.
    From where he sat he could see and hear that she had taken her favourite horse from the stable and was galloping across the huge ornamental lawn, churning up the carefully laid turf, whipping the beast into a frenzy. Horse and rider leapt the gates and disappeared into the woods that rose up to the escarpment and the meadows beyond. It was not until dark that the mayor became worried and organised a search party. First light had set in before she was found down by the old dam. The horse was still alive, though barely. His wife was a crumpled heap trapped beneath the huge bulk of the animal that, exhausted and near to collapse, she had forced to jump a hedge that skirted the dam. The poor horse had crashed and tumbled, shattering a leg and splitting an artery in the effort, pinning its rider under its heavy girth. The woman’s back was broken. For an hour she lay in agony, her face close to the huge brown eye of her stallion. Once, the horse tried to raise itself, in a death rattle or lunge at life, only to fall heavier upon the lady, crushing and splitting more organs and bones, ensuring her gradual demise. The horrible mess of woman and horse was prised apart, one to the knacker’s yard, the other to the family vault in the ancient graveyard of St Andrew of the Hill.

    When Zakora first travels in to Tidetown from the monastery he has no idea what to expect. He is sitting alongside Brother Xavier as they head along Main Street on the cart, the old horse neighing ahead of them, recognising the sights and sounds and the promise of rest and fresh hay. They are delivering four barrels of the monks’ highly regarded stout to The Sailor’s Arms. As they make their way through the lanes leading down to the harbour and the inn, those on the pavements stop what they are doing to observe the strange sight of the monk and his new companion.
    The postmaster’s wife had heard of an exotic ebony-skinned survivor from the wreck, but no one in town had set eyes upon him. A slave, some surmised. A witchdoctor, others guessed. And here he is, in their midst. This is a town where foreign lands and alien ways are told as stories, only rarely to be presented in the flesh. One or two strangers have drifted in on the tide and made the port their home. But none so striking, none so different. In the main, the families of Tidetown can trace their roots through the thick-blooded veins of generations past. The merchants and seamen, the farmers and shopkeepers. It is this belief in continuity and certainty that binds them; this that holds them firm.
    Zakora, sensing the suspicion, the animosity, keeps his head high, his eyes fixed to the fore, as they wind their way to the inn.
    Once the barrels are unloaded, Zakora and Brother Xavier are invited into The Sailor’s Arms for refreshments.
    â€˜So here he is,’ says Midshipman Hawkins, turning from the warmth of the fire, ‘the mysterious African who survived the treachery of our rip and reef. Come sit by the fire and tell us the