The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  I could not speak, but it was just as well. A bell rang out and Mr. Thomas Crichton, performing a polite bow, turned to go.

  “Why, Miss Stevenson,” said the writer, appearing as if from nowhere to take his seat beside me. His eyes were fixed on the retreating back of the young mariner, and a curious expression transformed his face. “A sailor’s life is governed by bells, I find, more’s the pity,” he stated rather wistfully before turning his attention to me. “Are ye all right, lass?” A bemused sort of concern seemed to overtake his sprightly features. “Perhaps ye should go below and take a wee rest, aye? Why, bless me, but your cheeks are as red as a rose in bloom!”

  • • •

  My voyage on the yacht with the men from the Northern Lighthouse Board was as full of wonder and excitement as any journey I could have ever imagined. The Scottish coast was wild, majestic and magnificent. The waters were gentle and the weather mild. I was surfeit with interesting conversation, good food and fresh air. My new friend Mr. Scott was entertaining, delightful and cunning, while my father kept busy being important and industrious. He still had plenty of time to govern me, as a good father governs a dutiful daughter, but his days were long and tiresome, making him a sound sleeper at night. Mr. Crichton assisted the captain for a good part of the day, conducting the business of sailing by relaying the captain’s orders for the adjustment of sail, taking soundings, going over charts and taking a turn at the wheel. He was kept very busy, but always had a warm smile and kind word for me. Sometimes he would find time to join Mr. Scott and me as we sat on deck discussing books, authors and works we admired. It was during one of these discussions that Mr. Scott inquired where it was that Mr. Crichton got off to, disappearing just after supper?

  “Why, I sleep, sir,” he replied very matter-of-factly.

  “Sure if all the running about and climbing ye do, combined with this fresh sea air, works like a soporific on your constitution! Why, bless you, Mr. Crichton. There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep to set a man up!”

  Mr. Crichton smiled kindly at the writer, giving the man a dazzling white-toothed grin. “I don’t sleep because I want to, sir. I sleep on account I’ve the middle watch.”

  “Middle watch? Whatever is that, Mr. Crichton, and why would it cause one to drop off directly after supper?”

  Here Mr. Crichton chuckled at the writer’s candid questioning. “Forgive me, Mr. Scott, but having the middle watch simply means I’ve command of the ship between the hours of midnight and four in the morning. If I don’t catch some sleep whilst I can, it makes for a long, long night.” And as he said these last words his eyes met mine.

  “How … how do ye stay awake?” I asked, processing this new bit of information.

  “Any way I can, Miss Stevenson, any way I can.”

  • • •

  As fate would have it, it was always half-past midnight that I found it hardest to sleep. I tried to tell myself that this punctual insomnia was not brought about because of the knowledge that Mr. Crichton was on deck … alone. But instead I was nearly convinced it was due to my overactive imagination. I would lie awake for hours in my little bunk, conjuring up images of what sea creatures might be lurking beneath the ship, a mere two-inch plank separating me from the Leviathan. I’d strain to hear cries from the ship’s crew—or perhaps, perhaps I was listening for a deep, melodic voice giving an order somewhere above me. Either way, sleep had a way of evading me.

  The first time I actually sought solace on deck, beneath the star-filled sky, was just after our stop at Cape Wrath. It was there the gentlemen toured for the first time the lighthouse. Cape Wrath was one of the most remote locations, with a history of maritime disaster. After inspecting the grounds and light-room, the keepers, Mr. Willy Campbell and Mr. Alasdair Duffy, told us of the local population. According to Mr. Campbell the region had suffered greatly during the last century’s clearances, forcing many a farmer off the land to make way for the sheep industry. The poor dirt-farming locals and kelp harvesters had made a healthy practice of supplementing their meager incomes with the spoils washed up from the many wrecks that occurred yearly. The lighthouse, with its intruding bright yellow beam, was the first step in preserving these ships, yet the locals hadn’t taken its presence very kindly. It interfered with their livelihood, Mr. Campbell had told the Board, dead men be damned!

  It was his description of these creatures, the human scavengers picking through the bloated, lifeless bodies that washed ashore, that haunted me. I could scarcely get them and their grubby, kelp-stained hands out of my head as I tried to sleep on my tiny, undulating bunk, and so, I decided that a stroll on deck was the very thing to soothe my nightmares. No one heard me slip from my cabin; no one saw me as I melded into the dark passageway, swaddled in a black boat-cloak. And certainly no one would have ever dreamed that the daughter of Edinburgh’s brightest civil engineer would blacken her father’s name by consorting in the dark of night with a poor sailor, right under his very nose. I don’t know what I was thinking that first night I went on deck, but I did know that if anybody could quell my nightmares it would be Thomas Crichton.

  I saw him standing at the helm, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the binnacle lamp as he bent to study the compass. He looked more the golden-haired god than ever before; strands of his sun-bleached hair had escaped his queue and now framed his chiseled face. The breath caught in my throat, and so, unable to speak, I just stood and watched him for a moment. He seemed to sense my presence. Before I ever took a step forward or spoke a word, he turned to me. It took his eyes a while to focus in the blackness beyond the lamp, for he squinted and fought to discern who the dark shadow was. But then, I believe he already knew, for he said very softly, “Miss Stevenson?”

  “Aye, ’tis me,” I replied in a like voice, and stepped from the darkness into the soft light cast by the binnacle lamp.

  “Whatever are ye doing here, lass, out of bed?” he inquired, though there was no hint of surprise in his voice. He softly excused himself from the man at the wheel, and came forward. We were not alone. There were a few other sailors on deck, but they all seemed to have a polite, though tacit, understanding of the special relationship I shared with Mr. Crichton. None came forward but he.

  “I can’t sleep,” I began to explain.

  “Neither can I. And if on the off chance I did, Captain MacCrea would string me up by my thumbs, he would!” This caused me to giggle slightly, while he merely smiled.

  “Mr. Crichton, please forgive me,” I said, attempting to rein in my racing nerves while straining to absorb every minute essence of him. He was very close to me, so close I could smell his earthy muskiness. He smelled of the sun, and the sea, and the wild westerly wind. There was just a tang of sweet watered rum on his breath, and I was sorry to think that I wanted a taste of him. I longed for a taste of him. Dear God, but I was a hopeless wanton! “I should not be here,” I uttered by way of apology, my distress at being so close to him rising by the second. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Aye, but ye should be here,” he whispered. I could taste his sweet breath. “Ye should, Miss Stevenson, for there’s nothing like the star-filled sky to soothe one’s mind. Look,” he said, gesturing to the billion sparkles of light overhead. “Have ye ever seen anything so grand?” It was a rare uncommon night. It was a night where dreams are made and then realized. “Come,” he commanded. “I shall give ye a better view.”

  “Mr. Crichton, I really should not,” I protested as he took hold of my hand and began leading me forward. We were heading toward the bow of the ship, away from the helm; away from people.

  He turned to me and smiled. “Please, call me Thomas.”

  “I … I really should not,” I protested again, letting him lead me like a needy little lapdog.

  “Aye, but ye should,” he insisted, “though only when we’re alone. And may I beg the same favor from ye?” He paused and turned to look at me. “May I, Miss Stevenson, call ye Sara?”
<
br />   Stunned by this intimate request, all I could do was nod, while secretly wishing I could hear my name on his lips a million times more. In response to my consent he flashed a resolve-melting smile, causing me to blurt rather suddenly, “But are we … are we to be alone very often, Thomas?”

  “Only if ye wish it. And I must be honest, Sara, I have wished for this moment ever since I saw ye that day in the garden.”

  “You wished I’d have a nightmare and come on deck?”

  “Never!” he averred, taking my face between his warm hands. “I would never wish for an angel to have a distressing thought. And ye, Sara, are an angel. You are my angel.” His words were as sincere as the solemn look on his face. “I only wished that ye would find some way to come to me, without the watchful eye of your father, or the kindly presence of Mr. Scott, to intervene. I wanted to see ye alone so that I might tell ye that ever since that day I first saw you, I have no’ been able to get ye out of my mind. I know I should not ask it. I know ye are likely bespoken for already. And I know a woman like you deserves so much more than a man like me could ever give, but I will say it because I am not a coward. I love ye, Sara Stevenson.”

  “Oh Thomas,” I uttered, pulling away from his tight grip; for his words were as shocking for me to hear as they were for him to admit. “Thomas Crichton, what are you doing?”

  “I’m digging my grave, I am,” he quipped with a roguish grin.

  I shook my head, attempting to clear the tumultuous surge of thought and emotion. “Let’s just say …” I began at last. “Let’s just say, for the sake of this argument, that I too feel the same about you. You know that my father would never agree to such a thing.”

  “Aye. I believe I’ve surmised that much about the man. As Captain MacCrea keeps reminding me, I’m but a goat turd to Mr. Stevenson … no more than insignificant muck accidentally stepped in and easily kicked aside.”

  “Captain MacCrea says that to you?” I was shocked. And then I grew a little indignant by this treatment of the man that, although I would deny it, I knew that I loved.

  “Oh aye. He’s an observant sort, is Captain MacCrea. He may appear daft as a loon and three sheets to the wind on occasion, but the man is no fool. He knows what’s going on between us and he’s warned me to lay off. Says no good can come of it. Perhaps ’tis true. But I’m also a man willing to take a risk for what he believes in. And I believe in ye, Sara Stevenson.”

  “Dear Thomas,” I said, daring to touch the warm skin of his face, marveling at his rugged beauty. “I’m afraid Captain MacCrea is right. He knows my father well. My father is successful at what he does because he bends men to his will. And those who will not bend, he replaces. I do care for you, Thomas Crichton, more so than any other man I’ve ever met, and that’s why I’m telling you, it could never be.”

  “Fair enough,” he replied, covering my hand with his, yet his words held no conviction. My heart was pounding with frustration and desire as he pressed my palm to his smooth, warm cheek. He held it there, daring me to pull it away. And when he saw that I would not, he slowly brought my fingers to his lips, overwhelming me with chaste kisses of daunting passion. “If ye honestly believe that obedience surpasses true God-given happiness, then I will acquiesce. All I ask is that ye think on it, and that from time to time ye allow me to chase away your nightmares.”

  Alive with desire yet speechless from an awakening I had never before known, I nodded helplessly.

  “Now, then,” he spoke calmly, shifting my attention to the moon-kissed waves beneath the star-strewn sky. “Do ye know the story of Orion?”

  I shook my head as he gently turned me toward the rail. He was standing behind me and bent low to whisper in my ear, “He’s just over there.” He pointed to the sky, indicating the stars in question, but my eyes were closed, reveling in the feel of his warm breath against my cheek. It was then a soft moan escaped my lips. He slipped his arms around my waist and held me tightly to his hard body. I covered his hands with my own, afraid to let him go. “Do ye see the giant hunter, lass? Close your eyes and picture him, and I shall tell you the story of the poor mortal Orion, and of the beautiful goddess Diana, who loved him.”

  • • •

  Since that night many, many months ago, I have often recalled the story of Orion. I cannot help but think of it and of Thomas whenever the giant hunter appears. Sometimes I gaze upon his brilliant stars with the same bittersweetness with which the story was told to me. Other times his image inspires hatred. Yet more often than not, Orion sparks in me a longing so fierce that I have to turn away, and it is those times I think of Diana and how she wept for her lover—wept for him and for what she had done.

  FOUR

  For Pride’s Sake

  It started one month after my arrival on the Cape. At first I was able to sleep; in fact, I slept like a baby, for I felt so tired all the time. I was still getting used to my new surroundings, the weather had turned very harsh and I was encumbered with so many domestic responsibilities that I felt exhausted the entire first month. And so I had slept. But all too soon it came back to me, and once again I found it hard to sleep at night knowing he was out there … somewhere.

  The first night that I had heard the tolling of the bell I awoke with a start, thinking I was on the ship again. It was the same bell, calling out in that familiar ding-ding, ding-ding. It was not a loud bell, not like a warning call with its fervent pounding of ding-ding-ding-ding-ding, or even the constant, steady, far-reaching din of the fog bell with its resounding dong … dong … dong … dong. No, the bell that awoke me sounded off at midnight in the same manner as the bell on the ship, signaling the changing of the watch with a little ding-ding, ding-ding, followed by silence. And in this silence I waited anxiously for Thomas to appear. I sat up in bed, staring at the blackness of my room, trying to remember where I was. I had been dreaming of him again, dreaming it had all been a mistake—a terrible misunderstanding that was now resolved. He was coming for me. I knew that he was, for he had whispered the words in my ear. And so I sat up in bed waiting for the sound of his footsteps. Excitement coursed through me; I was awash with bliss, and when I heard his approach my heart quickened. It was faint at first, sounding far-off as if in a dream, yet it was undeniable that he was drawing nearer. And I sat up a little straighter, eyes fixed to the door, awaiting him.

  The footsteps came closer, each one hitting the wood with a purposeful stride. There was confidence there. Thomas, if he was anything, had always been confident, I thought, and my heart began to quicken in anticipation. But as the footfalls drew closer to my door the confidence of his stride seemed to dwindle and I could feel his hesitation and uncertainty. “Come,” I beckoned in a breathy whisper, clasping my hands together as if in prayer. “Come, my love, I am ready.” And to my astonishment, come they did, stopping just on the other side of my door. I peered into the darkness and saw the soft glow of his lantern seeping through the hairsbreadth of space. It drew my attention like a beacon. He was close now, so close I could feel him. Desire and longing consumed me, and without another thought I slipped out of bed and ran to him.

  I flung open the door, ready to launch myself into his waiting arms, when the lantern revealed the horrific trick my mind had played on me. It was momentum, combined with sleep-induced stupidity, that carried me into him when my mind screamed to the contrary. Fear-struck and with heart pounding like a deranged smith attacking his anvil with an oversized mallet, I found myself in the arms of Mr. Campbell, not Thomas Crichton! Still unable to speak, my eyes took in the sight of him—the dark tousled hair, the black, three-caped cloak emitting the faintest scent of pipe smoke and cold night air—but it was his eyes, those odd, mesmerizing pale orbs that seemed to glow from the depths of his shadowed face, that caused real panic to consume me.

  At first he was merely startled, like me, for he had hardly expected the greeting I gave him. And then, to my astonishment, he smiled. But when I began to scream from the rank shock of it, he became
confused. And then anger took him.

  Of course screaming in the dead of night was unwise, but I couldn’t help myself. I was terrified. The thought that perhaps I was being irrational did flash through my mind, for Mr. Campbell, besides being aloof, distant and at times rather harsh with me, had, for the most part, kept to himself for the last month. Since our arrival on the Cape Mr. Campbell had been slowly coaxed into something resembling humanity. It was a precarious transition, like making a pet out of an ill-used cart horse, a task to be approached gingerly and with caution. And though he was used to our presence by now, having been forced to live under the same roof with us, he was nothing like tame, no more familiar to me than he had been on that inauspicious first day. Never willingly would he come to the fence; he disclosed little about himself, always evading polite conversation and ignoring any direct questions that might delve deeper into his person than his working title of principal light-keeper. Had I not learned for myself his dark secret I might have regarded him as merely caustic and unsociable. But fortunately I knew better, and what I knew about Mr. Campbell had never left me.

  He was always there to remind me … staring at me with those odd pale eyes.

  Now, unavoidably, plagued by the harsh weather, shut in together on an inhospitable coast and forced to eat Kate’s stomach-churning, barely edible meals, the man had indeed cracked. I knew it would happen. Human beings can only take so much. Cape Wrath was enough to try the most patient of saints, let alone a reclusive light-keeper with a taste for the dead and naked. And it was just after the tolling of the midnight bell that Mr. Campbell had finally snapped.

  His eyes darkened and he tightened his grip on me, shaking me and hissing for me to be quiet.

  But I kept screaming.

  He set down his lantern and brought his hand over my mouth, pushing me inside the bedroom, where he shut the door behind us. And while holding me in his viselike grip as he pressed my body firmly between his and the door, he demanded that I be quiet.