Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  DAAAAADDDDDDYYYYYY!

  Barry dropped the phone and watched it tumble over and over down the stairs. He found himself bending to catch it.

  How could she be dead? he asked himself. She can’t be.

  The stairs spun around and around, the never-ending steps sapping him of strength until his legs folded beneath him. He rolled head over heels, the steps slamming into his back and ribs, knees buckling.

  He came to a sudden halt, slamming against a wooden door. He rolled on to his back and opened tear-soaked eyes to see Leopold peering down at him. Blue smoke oozed from his nostrils, but there was no pipe, only an everlasting fire from within. He pulled Barry to his feet and opened the black door.

  A panorama of blood and flesh and fire spread out before them in every direction; human vessels contorted and torn, but still experiencing some level of consciousness. In contrast to the light room, the screams in the dark room at the bottom of the lighthouse were silent, the victims’ mouths stretched, yet muted.

  Leopold whispered in Barry’s ear. ‘My light’ouse goes deep down,’ he said. ‘The light of the lost up there feeds the darkness down here; the darkness of those who lead the lost down the wrong path. People like you.’

  ‘No — I loved my daughter!’ Barry pleaded.

  ‘I’m sure you can find a way to prove that to her.’

  Barry felt Leopold push him through the door, heard it slam behind him, and St. Christopher’s Lighthouse became his hell.

  SCRIMSHAW

  Duncan Richardson

  ‘So, Fraser, my lad, can you cook?’ Mr Bartley said. The Assistant Controller of Lighthouses put his quill down on his blotter, leaned back in his creaking chair. He narrowed his eyes, almost covering them with his bushy eyebrows. Fraser stood before Bartley’s desk, his hands behind his back, staring through the window behind Bartley at the masts of the tall ships in the harbour, not sure how to react.

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘You think so?’ Bartley leaned forward.

  Fraser knew that it wasn’t food on the other man’s mind. It was fighting. Why didn’t he come out with it?

  ‘Yes. I can cook.’

  ‘Can you do it well enough to keep your crewman’s mind off his belly so he does his job well?’

  Fraser nodded.

  ‘Well? Can you?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. But I’m a signaller, sir.’

  Bartley shook his head, wiped his chin with his hand, and blinked at Fraser. ‘Look, son. In a lighthouse, no man is a specialist. You’ve been around long enough to know that. There’ll only be two of you in this one. You’ll have to muck in with everything. Food especially. There’s no chief on this shift. You’re equal rank. I don’t want any power struggles.’ He stood and jiggled his shoulders as if to stir his blood.

  Pale sunlight cast shadows on his face as he gazed out the small window.

  ‘Mr Fraser,’ he turned. ‘I know you and Mr Deagon have had your differences.’

  Fraser nodded slowly, took a deep breath. At last.

  ‘But you’re the only men I have available for this job.’ He peered at Fraser, leaning forward on his desk. ‘We need that light to be manned by good men. This is first landfall after a long Atlantic voyage. The brass hats in Cardiff and Liverpool will have our guts for garters if we let them down. Can I rely on you?’

  Fraser coughed. ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Bartley took a deep breath, stepped from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I’ve had a chat with Mr Deagon. He assures me there’ll be no problem this time.’ He sighed. ‘At least you’re not off to the Crimea, like those Navy lads.’ He unclasped his hands and stabbed his thumb back at the battleship in the docks. ‘I’ll wish you luck, then.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Outside Bartley’s office, Fraser grabbed his kitbag, nodded to the secretary, and opened the heavy wooden door. The sunlight hurt his eyes and he turned his back on it as he swung his bag, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.

  The bay was smooth as Fraser lugged his kit down to the harbour. A sloop was waiting to take them out to the lighthouse. An old shipmate, Marlow, was sitting on his sea chest by the gangway, the black paint on the box still shiny though chipped with wear. He stood and shook Fraser’s hand, grinning as much as his pipe would let him, then took it from his mouth.

  ‘Has old Bartleby given you the Ten Commandments again?’

  Fraser laughed. ‘Thou shalt not bring shame upon the Lighthouse Service, you mean?’

  ‘Aye. And ‘Thou shalt feed your comrades until they burst’.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘He likes his grub.’ Marlow turned to the sloop, watching a sailor clamber up the rigging. ‘It seems I’m joining you for a while.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fraser felt a surge of hope.

  ‘Just for the journey. I’m posted to the light on the headland beyond. Replacing a sick man.’

  Fraser grunted, trying not to show his disappointment.

  Hooves clopped on the cobbles as a heavy wagon drawn by a Clydesdale rolled up beside them. Deagon, a pale man with sharp eyes and chin, climbed down from the seat beside the driver, grabbed his kitbag from the tray, and slung it over his shoulder. His knees buckled slightly. He waved to the cart driver. Something clinked in his bag.

  Marlow grinned. ‘Is that the sound of the devil?’

  Deagon scowled and coughed slightly. ‘Medicine.’

  Marlow chuckled. ‘Of course.’

  Deagon frowned at him. A chill ran down Fraser’s back. Were the problems to start already? Being stuck on a small island with a Jonah would be worse than having one as a shipmate. On the island, there would be no escape. He wished Marlow was joining them.

  ‘All aboard, gentlemen.’ A crewman from the sloop was waiting by the gangway. On board, men were preparing the vessel to get under way. For once, Fraser was not part of it.

  Marlow, Deagon, and Fraser boarded the sloop and moved to the stern to stow their gear. They sat on the raised central decking, Marlow in the middle, with nothing to do except stay out of the way. The ship was towed out of the dock by a steam tug. Sailors unfurled the canvas and the wind billowed the sails, powering the ship over the water. Despite his foreboding, Fraser’s spirits lifted slightly as the ship came alive.

  In the open sea, it was like a pleasure cruise, with just a light spray from waves and sun gleaming on the water. Fraser kept stealing glances at Deagon, running through his head the fights he’d had with the man, trying to remember how they had started.

  Gulls and terns hovered around the ship. Fraser savoured the mournful note in the plaintive cries of the gulls. There was a hint of farewell in the sounds they made as the land fell behind and drifted out of sight.

  The waves grew stronger but the ship gathered speed and skipped over the whitecaps, sending spray over her decks. After about an hour, a white shape on the horizon resolved itself into a tower. The small, rocky base emerged and the crew began to take in some sails. The vessel slowed.

  The ship’s boat was made ready, and once the sloop anchored, the boat was lowered. Fraser, Deagon, and Marlow clambered down with a rowing crew of four sailors. They were surrounded by gulls’ cries and sailors’ yells, yet Fraser was dimly aware that he was leaving that world of noise and activity for a place of quiet. Except for the breakers, he thought. And there’s always work to do in a lighthouse.

  As they cast off from the sloop, Fraser saw how tall the lighthouse was, taller than the sloop’s mainmast by half again. Two small figures moved at its base. The departing crew, he thought. The sun shone on its gleaming white paint, striped with red. On the island side, halfway up, a small round window overlooked the rock.

  The island stretched for about two hundred yards south of the light, rising to a black and grey peak, sprayed by only the largest waves.

  The boat crew rowed them in to the rough stone jetty, a rectangle of black rocks filled with pebbles and gravel. Two men waited with their bags, one pa
cing, the other sitting on a rock.

  The sailors tied the boat to a mooring and the men formed a chain to pass the bags and boxes to the jetty. As Fraser went ashore, the pacing figure, a gaunt man in a white peaked cap, stepped forward and seized his hand. ‘Well met, sir,’ he said. ‘Welcome to The Rock.’ The man’s bleary eyes darted from one stranger’s face to the next.

  ‘What’s new?’ said the other, a short skinny fellow with a beard. ‘Have the Russkies surrendered yet?’

  Fraser noticed how the old crew were standing apart from each other. Had they also come to blows?

  ‘Not yet,’ said Marlow. ‘Though the French might.’

  The cap man grimaced.

  Is he a Frenchy? Fraser thought, and tried to think of something to say to divert the talk.

  ‘You’ve not missed much of the war,’ said Deagon as he hauled his bag ashore and began walking toward the lighthouse. ‘It’s a lot of men dying for nothing, as usual.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the cap man. ‘And we’re all well out of it.’

  Deagon nodded.

  ‘Come on,’ said the skinny man. ‘We’ll show you where to stow your gear.’

  He picked up a box and led the way. Fraser grabbed his kitbag and trudged over the rocky path to the base of the lighthouse. Inside, the iron steps curved up and he carried his bag up to the galley on the second floor. He glanced around as he smelled the cold stone and polish. He had a brief sense that the place had been waiting for him.

  When he returned to the ground level, the store room was crammed with boxes, bags, and tins. Deagon was reorganising them in neat rows while the others watched.

  ‘Expecting visitors?’ said the bald man, grinning and pointing to the stack of boxes.

  ‘Aye,’ said Deagon. ‘The Tsar’s coming for tea next week so we want to give 'im a good feed.’ He carefully placed a box of vegetables on the floor, stifling a cough.

  ‘Yes,’ said one of the sailors as he turned to go. ‘But you might need it yourselves, lads. You’re a long way from shore.’

  ‘True,’ said the cap man. ‘That you are.’

  He strode away from the lighthouse.

  Deagon and Fraser looked at each other. The air felt suddenly chilled.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Fraser said. ‘The sea’s well stocked with fish and there’s plenty of rain to drink. What more do we need?’

  ‘I’m glad you said ‘need’ and not ‘want’,’ said Deagon, his mouth curling. A worm of dread wriggled in Fraser’s guts. He wanted to slap Deagon on the back and say ‘Cheer up!’ but the emptiness of his eyes stopped him. Deagon coughed again, holding his hand over his mouth, then glancing at his fingers before wiping them on his trousers.

  Fraser looked around for Marlow but he was following the retreating civilians and sailors to the boat. A sudden panic made Fraser stride through the door after him, raising his arms, about to yell ‘Wait for me’ as if he were a small child following an older brother. But he slowed and tried to walk calmly to the jetty.

  Marlow was helping the other men as they climbed aboard the boat and loaded the old crew’s kitbags. Fraser joined in, trying to smile as he realised each moment was taking him closer to isolation.

  Fraser glanced back. Deagon had contented himself with walking halfway down the path and waving.

  When the boat was loaded, Marlow turned to Fraser and shook his hand. ‘Good luck, my friend. Watch for my light over yonder. Remember, it’s only a few weeks.’

  Fraser nodded.

  Marlow climbed aboard and the boat pushed off.

  Fraser turned. Deagon had disappeared. Fraser watched the boat as it bobbed out to the ship. It’s like a curse, he thought. What have I done to deserve it?

  He stayed watching until the ship had hauled up its anchor and slid away.

  Fraser turned to the lighthouse. It was still the white and red pillar that it had been when he first saw it from the sloop. But now the dark window at its top seemed to stare back coldly.

  Fraser looked into the clear blue sky, then away to the west where the horizon misted into the sea. Work and reading, he thought. They’ll pass the time. A perfect log and brass so shiny that even Deagon can’t complain.

  He strolled around the island, climbed over two rocks to the highest point, and watched the spray from breakers mix with sea birds as they hovered over rocks.

  ‘When the weather’s bad,’ Bartley had said, ‘the sea comes in around you like a fist.’ He clamped his fingers together and waved his hand in front of Fraser’s face. ‘So don’t go trying any excursions then. Stay inside.’

  Fraser had nodded, sighing slightly, wondering why he was getting the lecture more suited to a raw recruit. ‘Aye aye, sir.’ But then, he would be stuck inside with Deagon.

  ‘Even if you can’t stand the sight of each other by then,’ said Bartley. ‘Like the… other incident.’

  On that other station on the south coast just a year before, a bigger light with a crew of four, Deagon had insisted on checking everything that the others did and ticking it off on a long list. The other two older men had laughed and paid him back with small practical jokes, putting a dead mouse in his shaving kit and tying his laces together while he slept. Deagon barely reacted to these, just glowered at them as he passed, notepad and pencil in hand. Fraser wondered if he had another list, citing all the sins committed against him.

  Fraser had stayed out of those pranks and instead burned for some more suitable revenge. When it didn’t present itself by the second last day before the relief ship arrived, he had made a cigar from three of Deagon’s lists and sat in the galley, smoking it. Deagon came into the galley, recognised the paper, roared, grabbed a knife, and leaped upon him like a dervish. Fraser seized Deagon’s wrist and kept the knife away from his neck as they tumbled on to the floor, sending chairs and table crashing over. The other men appeared and quickly separated them. One dragged Fraser outside, the other stayed with Deagon until he had calmed.

  Later, they all swore to say nothing about the knife. The few bruises and a bleeding lip would tell their own tale, but that could be passed off as men needing to relieve the boredom of a long shift.

  When Fraser returned to the lighthouse, Deagon was upstairs, no doubt checking on the work of the previous crew. With a list. Well, let him. In fact, let him do my job as well. I’ll sit back and enjoy a rest. Deagon’s dry cough echoed through the tower. That’s going to drive me mad, Fraser thought. Perhaps I should keep a log of them.

  Nothing could avoid the first, essential meeting to work out a roster. The two men warily took their places at the small galley table and Deagon grabbed the clipboard from its hook on the wall.

  ‘It seems fairly straightforward to me,’ he said. ‘We’ll take alternate duties and then there’s no need for…’ He glanced up.

  Fraser nodded.

  ‘Good. Do you want first or second shift?’

  ‘First.’ He always liked that settling in shift, getting to know the light and the surrounds, perhaps with the silhouette of a ship passing in the distance.

  ‘Very well,’ Deagon scratched in their names with a pencil down the page, covering three days until the cycle repeated.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Fraser, and for a moment thought of offering to make a pot of tea.

  Deagon stood briskly, slotted the clipboard back on the wall, and turned away, clomping down the steps to his sleeping quarters.

  So much for that, thought Fraser. He took the stairs the other way, up to the light, with its smells of oil and polish. He stared through the glass at the calm sea, the setting sun striping it with gold. Wind whistled through a small hole in the window beside him. He cursed the previous crew for not fixing it. Deagon will be sure to note it in the log, probably with thick black lines underneath. Before winter set in, someone would have to fix it.

  He took out his mouth organ and began to play, stopping every few moments to sing a line,

  Come all ye young fellows that follow the sea,

&n
bsp; to my way haye, blow the man down,

  And pray pay attention and listen to me,

  Give me some time to blow the man down…

  He heard movement and a loud cough from below, and let the song fade. Deagon doesn’t like singing, he recalled. He likes to whittle and carve scrimshaw and make a mess with all the chip chip chipping. So long as he keeps his splinters away from me, I’ll try to keep the music down.

  Then another memory flooded back, another lighthouse two years before. A big storm had been brewing and Fraser had gone outside to bolt the boat shed door. On returning, he had found the lighthouse door locked. He had hammered on it with his fist as waves smashed over the rocks behind him. His heart had pounded and his throat had cracked as he yelled, ‘Let me in! Deagon! McGregor! Davis!’ Water had been swirling around his feet before he had heard the clunk of the bolt being slid and the door had opened. McGregor, the Senior Keeper, had ushered him in. Rubbing his beard, he had said, ‘Come in now, laddie. It’s too cold for swimming.’

  Fraser shivered at the memory. McGregor had called them together. It had been a serious breach of safety rules. Deagon had admitted to locking the door but claimed he thought Fraser was inside.

  McGregor had squinted at him, then at Fraser, before clearing his throat. ‘Well, let’s not let it happen again, gentlemen. Is that clear?’

  Fraser had watched Deagon’s pale face. Not a sign of guilt. Was he such a good actor?

  At least on this island, there was no boat shed to worry about. Fraser felt the tension prickle through his skin. If Deagon were a normal man, he thought, I’d just apologise for burning his papers and that would be that. But it was like I wounded his soul, doing that. He’ll never forgive me. But perhaps, if I give him no reason to get angry…

  And so it went for a few days until the bad weather set in. Then, they huddled in the lighthouse as waves crashed over the island. They had food for a month. In three weeks, the next supply ship would come. Deagon’s cough grew more frequent, more guttural. Fraser wondered if it was real, or whether Deagon was putting it on to irritate him; a slow-drip approach to wear him down.