Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  ‘Yes, of course. That explains why we can smell the ocean. But there’s no draught, so it must be coming from underneath.’

  They started walking again, the torchlight and lamplight bobbing in the darkness. To their left, the wall of the cave curved inwards just above their heads. To their right, a lip of rock separated them from nothingness. As they continued down, the lip became less prominent until the crevice was a natural ramp. The sound of lapping water grew ever clearer.

  ‘I don’t feel too good, dad,’ Neil said.

  ‘Funny you should say that, mate. I’m starting to feel weak myself, like all my energy has been drained out of me. I wonder if it’s that oily smell. The air down here mightn’t be any good.’

  Neil groaned softly.

  ‘Stop a minute, son.’

  Neil did as his father said.

  They remained where they were and tried to breathe normally.

  ‘It’s not getting any better, is it?’

  ‘No, dad,’ Neil confirmed.

  It wasn’t the first time they had been in a tight spot together. In a way, that’s how it had always been, the two of them lost in the dark.

  ‘I’m getting weaker and weaker. It’s as though I’m carrying my legs instead of them carrying me. We need to head back up before it’s too late.’

  But it was too late already.

  ‘Illumination!’ a voice called. It echoed throughout the cave.

  In perfect synchronisation, several flames were ignited.

  ‘What the hell?’ Kevin gasped.

  Neil said nothing. He just stared, dazed and confused.

  There were dozens of oil lamps hanging from short chains attached to the cave wall with steel brackets. Several more were dangling from T-shaped frames further to the right. Standing beside each oil lamp was a resident of Hollow Head, and each was looking at Neil and Kevin with a passive, silent face.

  ‘Let’s get out of here!’ Kevin managed to say, but they turned to find the route back to the lighthouse blocked. The policeman, still looking as bored as he had that morning, was standing next to the tattooed man from the pub. They were looking at the treasure hunters, their faces expressionless. A fishing net was stretched out in front of them, ready to be cast.

  ‘It’s not the air,’ the voice said. They turned around again but couldn’t see who was speaking. ‘It’s the rum. Don’t you know you should never drink on the job? Of course, they all do. They always do.’

  Neil and Kevin locked eyes and tried to focus. They knew that they should have been in a state of panic or a fit of pure rage, but the drug had numbed their survival instincts.

  ‘Who are you?’ Neil asked, but even that simple question required so much energy.

  ‘Come down here and you’ll find out. We’ll tell you everything.’

  Neil dropped his lamp, carrying it required too much effort. Kevin did the same, letting his torch fall to the ground.

  A shove from behind got them moving. They stumbled down to the end of the ramp where the rock floor became flat and smooth.

  The entire cave was visible now, and their stomachs tightened as understanding dawned. There was no hidden treasure, and probably never had been. It was all a spectacular trap.

  Halfway across, the cave floor disappeared, replaced by lapping water. There was a podium, carved out of the rock surface, not far from where the very centre of the cave would be, and a wooden crane with a winch was fastened next to it. Church pews faced the podium just as they would have faced the pulpit in Hollow Head’s previous place of worship, and the organ, which looked as though it had been taken apart and later clumsily reassembled, stood to one side. An elderly man sat at the organ, ready to play, and about a hundred silent residents occupied the pews.

  ‘Welcome to our temple,’ the voice said as one of the worshippers stood up from a pew near the podium and turned around.

  Kevin recognised the voice before he saw the man’s face.

  ‘You’re the bloke from the bookshop.’

  The old man smiled. ‘I’m glad to see you found the treasure map. By the way, do you have it on you?’

  Kevin said nothing. Father and son were both trying to work out what was happening, but their minds were dull.

  The bookseller nodded to the policeman, who rummaged through Kevin’s pockets until he found the map.

  ‘You’ll put that back in the book?’ Kevin asked. ‘No. But you can’t. I have the book.’

  ‘I have the book. Mary found it in your cabin.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘She runs the campsite.’

  Kevin nodded slowly.

  ‘You’re all involved,’ Neil mumbled.

  ‘We’re not the first,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Far from it, my friend. The legend of Captain Redmond may or may not be true, but there has never been any trace of his treasure found here at Hollow Head. For nearly one hundred and thirty years, The Cult of the Kraken has been encouraging the belief to lure people like you down here to our place of worship.

  ‘We saw you looking into the church this morning. For many decades, we continued the pretence of holding Sunday sermons, so as not to arouse suspicion. These days, of course, churches are up for sale all around the country.’

  Kevin and Neil found themselves staring past the bookseller to the surface of the sea pool. They had heard legends of a sea creature called the kraken, but surely nobody in their right mind could actually believe in such superstitions.

  ‘You worship the kraken? That’s ridiculous. People don’t believe in sea monsters in this day and age,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Ridiculous, is it? Well, my good man, there are vast numbers of humans who still spend hours every week praying in churches, mosques, synagogues, and temples to various sky fairies, some of which are supposed to have written holy books. Millions upon millions of human beings adamantly believe this, right now, in this day and age. What is more, their religions are based on primitive superstitions. Ours is based on empirical evidence, tried and tested.’

  Kevin had to admit that he had a point.

  ‘You may be wondering, why the kraken?’

  ‘Yes,’ they replied in unison, barely whispering.

  ‘Soon after Hollow Head was founded in 1882, the townsfolk began to notice that the sea was claiming lives on a regular basis. The regularity of the deaths was bewildering. Every three lunar months, shortly after the new moon, a resident disappeared, usually a fisherman. The founder of the cult was Hollow Head’s schoolmaster, George Margate. He was an amateur astronomer and well-educated in all branches of science. He also had a keen interest in marine biology, and much to the disapproval of our church’s last god-fearing minister, he was an avid follower of Charles Darwin. It was he who first conducted a thorough survey of this sea cave and beheld the almighty kraken that dwells within its waters.’

  ‘Hail the kraken!’ the worshippers chorused. Their unified voice resonated.

  ‘One night, an out-of-towner who had indulged in too much rum broke into the home of a local widow and raped her. He was caught and beaten by fishermen who had worked with her late husband, and they would have killed him had George and one of the constables not heard all the commotion and arrived in time. The precise details of what followed are not clear, but we do know that George managed to take the fiend into his custody. To put it quite bluntly, he was led to the sea cave and sacrificed.’

  Kevin sucked in a sharp breath.

  Neil groaned.

  ‘I think you know what happened, or rather didn’t happen, as a result. Nobody was claimed by the sea after the new moon.’

  The bookseller paused and indicated the congregation with the sweep of his hand.

  ‘Since that day, every inhabitant of Hollow Head has been a member of The Cult of the Kraken. We ensure that none of us are taken by the almighty one by offering him regular sacrifices. Tonight, the honour is all yours.’

  The men listened, too doped to react.

  ‘Now and then, we failed
to make a timely sacrifice. The last time we allowed that was the saddest day in living memory. We lost an angel. You noticed the photographs in the bookshop. You saw the beautiful young woman. She was my granddaughter, the only child of our town’s policeman. That was fifteen years ago, but my son and I still shed a tear for her every day.’

  The bookseller glanced at the salt water lapping at the cave floor and wondered how many tears it would take to fill the ocean. Then, he turned back to his captive audience.

  ‘In the wake of that terrible mistake, the good folk of Hollow Head made a solemn oath to each other. Never again, we swore, would we lose another son or daughter to the almighty one. They must always be free to surf and swim without danger.’

  Kevin looked at the faces of the townsfolk, hoping to find a hint of pity or guilt, but they remained impassive and he couldn’t think clearly enough to even attempt an articulate appeal for clemency.

  ‘Antea, we are ready,’ the bookseller said.

  The waitress from the Beachfront Hotel rose and walked over to the edge of the pool. She wore a long black dress, and her arms were adorned with silver bracelets that snaked from her wrists to her elbows. The water, flickering in the lamplight, licked at her bare feet. She held her arms out in front of her with her palms facing downward, and for a moment, remained like that, motionless. Then, with a graceful curlicue, she raised her hands up into the air and began to sing. Her voice was glorious and the words she sang were in another tongue.

  ‘Bring them to the dais,’ the bookseller commanded.

  Kevin and Neil were taken by the arms and propelled forward. The policeman and the man from the pub dragged them up onto the rock and pulled their hands up above their heads. The men resisted, trying to squirm away, but it was futile. Their hands were strapped to a ring hanging from the crane.

  The bookseller strode over to the crane and started working the winch as the two captors stepped down from the platform. With a loud groan that insulted the terrifying beauty of the song, the crane began to swing out over the water and the men found themselves dangling.

  They could see the waitress from the front now. Her arms were constantly moving, but the bracelets she wore could be seen more clearly. They were silver tentacles. The plunging neckline of her dress revealed her heavenly cleavage, but there was no longer a mirror nestled between her breasts. Her intricate amulet represented a giant octopus with probing tentacles complete with suckers.

  She was not looking at the men, wriggling like worms on a hook. Her gaze and voice were being directed into the unfathomable depths of the pool.

  The groaning of the crane ceased and was replaced by the horrible sound of rope rubbing against wood.

  Kevin and Neil were being lowered.

  The worshippers then joined the waitress in her invocation, and the church organist began playing a majestic but most unholy harmony. The dark music filled the cave.

  As the terrified men entered the throbbing water, they felt their ankles and calves becoming entangled in a mass of thick appendages. Beneath the surface, it seemed that countless tentacles were squirming in the water, tugging them down.

  PSYCHOPOMP

  Mark McAuliffe

  It was Thursday. A bleak day, a grey one. Anne had finished preparing the lunches and left home early. It was only a short walk to the lighthouse, but after the recent rain, she needed to be cautious on the path.

  The door was unlocked. She found Robert with his back to her, putting the last nail into a loose step close to the ground floor. She tapped his shoulder and he jumped, which almost made her spill the tray.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Foolish of me.’

  Lunch held no surprises. Mutton on fresh white bread, plenty of butter. Two plates. Six rounds each.

  Tea. Earl Grey. Milk and sugar to spare. She poured him a cup and he swallowed it in two gulps. That was his habit. He liked it down him, quick and scalding like a penance. He quivered, winced a little. Then he reached for the first neat triangle. He took big bites, chewed loudly.

  She asked him if they had finished polishing the lamp.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the electricity… the, ah… that new…?’

  ‘The automated system.’

  ‘Yes! The … you said it was… twitchy?’

  He shrugged.

  She told him the chickens were laying well, that the cow had given plenty of milk this morning. She had also patched up the tear in his other pair of trousers. Used a strong double-stitch.

  ‘Should last a bit longer now.’

  He said nothing.

  Robert sat on the step he had just repaired. He stared straight ahead. Anne perched lower. She looked at him with eyes that might have been despairing, might have been desperate. She clenched and unclenched her weathered hands.

  He worked his way through one sandwich. Two. He was halfway into his third when she asked, ‘John?’

  He gestured upward.

  ‘Putting a fresh coat in the lantern room. Be down soon, I expect.’

  Moments later, they heard the steady clomp of heavy boots coming down the spiral stairs. John arrived with a smile, wiping his paint-flecked hands with a bright handkerchief.

  ‘Anne.’ He nodded.

  ‘John.’

  He looked at the sandwiches.

  ‘Ah, I’m famished! Anne, you’ve saved my life!’

  He examined his hands.

  ‘I should clean up first. Just one minute.’

  He walked outside, to the old water pump. Anne’s eyes followed him out the door, then looked back to Robert. He was watching her with hard eyes. They held her for several seconds, blinked away.

  Neither spoke. There was a thick silence. Then, John returned and Anne said, ‘I hope you like mutton. Left over from last night.’

  ‘Ah, love it!’ He slapped his big palms together. ‘You’re far too good to me.’

  He remained standing. He ate with enthusiasm, chewed thoughtfully. Anne poured him his tea — milk, two sugars — and he accepted it like it was a deep kindness. She willed herself not to look at him. It was never easy. Some part of her trembled, another part thrilled. She felt sweet and sour, hot and sickly, as if she had a belly full of warm molasses.

  John.

  Like Adonis or Gideon. Those hands that could bruise sure to be oh so tender…

  John. Tall, like her husband, but fairer, neat. Closer to her own age.

  The silence was suffocating. Something needed to be said. Surprisingly, it was Robert who spoke first.

  ‘The automated system…’

  ‘Yes,’ John said, ‘I had another look. Seems fine now…’

  ‘I don’t trust it.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s the alarm.’

  ‘I don’t trust that, either. The same buggers who installed the system installed that too. They told me someone is coming to take a look. He’ll be on the next boat. Less than a week. Until then…’

  Until then, they were back on shifts. There was no point arguing. John had learned quickly. Once Robert had made a decision, he was like a siege wall.

  ‘Well, then. I can take first watch, if you like?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ Robert said. He had finished his sandwiches and was back on his second cup of tea. He drank more slowly this time.

  ‘Such a shame,’ Anne said. ‘It was meant to end shift work.’

  John shrugged, said, ‘It’s new… bound to have a few problems.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Anne, ‘still—’

  Robert made a tsk sound. It was a sound like a little, ferocious insect, and it appeared to sting Anne. She shut her mouth with an audible click, twisted her lips into an ugly, sour pucker.

  ‘As Rob said, just another few days…’ John offered.

  More silence. Anne looked down at her clenched fists. She blinked and held her breath.

  Robert sniffed.

  ‘More rain on the way, I think,’ he said. ‘Best you be getting home. John, I think I’ll have you—’

/>   ‘I was thinking beef stew tonight,’ Anne said suddenly, and a little forcefully. Robert felt a tiny jolt.

  ‘I want to try the carrots. They came in just marvellously. Quite surprisingly really, given the soil. Yes, I really am very happy with them.’

  Robert stood. He turned, began to walk up the stairs.

  ‘And John, you must come and eat with us!’

  Robert stopped in mid step. He turned back quickly. Anne sensed the movement but remained focused on the younger man. She smiled at his sudden schoolboy awkwardness.

  ‘Ah… well, ah… no, oh no, Anne, I couldn’t possibly impose…’

  ‘Impose? Oh tush. It’s about time we had you round ours for a meal. How long has it been? And I always make far too much for just the two of us. You’ll be our guest. I insist.’

  Robert walked back down, just a couple of steps. He made more insect sounds, a kind of ticking at the back of his throat.

  ‘Shall we say five?’

  ‘The lighthouse must be manned at all times,’ her husband said, ‘from five until—’

  ‘Oh shush! I’m sure the lighthouse can spare you both for twenty minutes to eat a spot of dinner. Why, you’ll both only be a hop, skip, and a jump away!’

  Anne snatched up the tray. She trembled, felt queasy. She was very surprised that her voice didn’t catch.

  Robert folded his arms. He closed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Impossible.’ Adamant.

  Anne didn’t miss a beat.

  ‘Well, then we’ll have to make it earlier. Say, half past four?’

  Robert tensed. He grimaced.

  A frozen instant.

  ‘Well, I—,’ said John.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anne, ‘that’s settled then.’

  Point made, Anne now needed to make a hasty retreat. The crockery rattled as she quick-stepped to the door.

  ‘So, half-to-five it is,’ she threw back over her shoulder, a Parthian shot, and then she went over the threshold and onto the path home.

  Robert leaned against the banister, like a man given a terrible verdict. He looked down at the younger man.

  John looked back. The grin he wore was that of a retarded child.