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.Madeira, In the Afternoon, June 28, 1816When we weren t playing, Cait could scarcely be found.Apart from being the sole woman, she was also the youngestof us.Whether it was this or something innate in her, sheresisted most of our attempts to be protective.Likewise, sheresisted her own grace.If Shane sneered, she d sneer higher.If Spider held a drink, she d drink two.She wore her hairtossed high above her brow, sweeping up from her neck.Shewore scales of bravado.She jawed at cat calls from thecrowds.She had every bit the rowdy countenance that wouldcharacterize many of us in the band, but there was alsomystery to her; a quiet depth that we had yet to fathom.Sincewe d left Rochefort, if she spoke at all, it would be to astranger who wore robust glasses and a black hat.He stayedin a private cabin, but would ascend to the gundeck when weplayed.There, he d lean against the wall, away from the46crowds, and listen, expressionless behind his glasses.Whenwe d finish playing, Cait would lay her bass on the floor andstep over to him.She d feather her eyes at her feet, emittingtiny grins, lifting her shoulders gently. He s Uncle Brian,she said to James when he asked. Uncle? After a children s character.Minute, uninhabited island-plots of Madeira reached up fromthe ocean.We rode swiftly along them as they proliferatedwest into greater and greater hills.Soon the rich slopes of themain island appeared before the bow.Calls rose from therigging and passengers ran across the deck to the rails.Therewere celebrations, unveiling teeth and songs.It was the firstland we d encountered in ten days.On the quarterdeck, theNavigator stood with the Captain, smiling and rubbing at hisback.The Governor and his wife embraced.The officersformed a small ring, their backs away from the approachingisland.A barrel of brandy was brought to the deck andtapped.The sun too seemed favorable for the occasion,peaking pale yellow and orange between the illuminatedclouds.We descended to the gundeck with Bogle to collect ourthings. You cannot go, a soldier pleaded while he placed ahand on Philip s and then Andrew s back.Philip latched hisguitar case and took a drink from the soldier s cup.He pattedthe soldier s shoulder and walked away.Shane would be sorry to leave Ryan.Spider bid goodbye tothe navvys, whose language he d learned to circumvent with47the wide kindness in his eyes.Triumphantly they hugged him,asking him to play a last whistle tune.Bogle cast his canvaspack onto his back.He crouched low and disappeared out ofthe gundeck, his immense boots clomping up the stairs.ToSpider s fragile, parting tune, we each followed, leavingbehind an empty crowd empty with no music.There s a distinction made for good audiences; ones that offeras much as they re given.They re the audiences that canrelate so wholly to the music that they become it.Thedefeated soldiers, sailors, navvys, and peasants each held thestories in our songs.As they obeyed their commanders,sheltered by their unguided will, any of them could slip intothe waves and, in an instant, be forgotten.Songs endurethough, the songs that we play, the songs that relay theirstories, the songs that the greatest audiences know.Cait hadn t collected her things.She stood at the rail, somedistance away from the crowds.Amid the celebration andfarewells, she watched Madeira sweeping past.She followedthe white and orange ranches that spotted the hills.She cranedher neck up to the chestnut rock of Pico Ruivo, the serratedhorns of its upper ridge cutting into the sky.Uncle Brianwalked to her, but she brushed him away.He opened hisarms, pleading with her, and she turned away, looking back atthe island.The foliage was clear now, rising out of the oceanand arching around the structures of Funchal.Uncle Brianstomped away and descended the stairs.The wind pushedstrands of Cait s hair while she watched the expanse of theisland come into complete view [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]