Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  He just shrugged.

  ‘Women, hey?’ he said.

  He thought: Bitch!

  #

  Anne slipped on the way home. One cup and two plates broken. Spilled milk and a chipped jug. She prayed to an increasingly distant God that neither of the men had been up in the lantern room, that she had not been seen.

  She slammed the front door with her heel and almost broke more crockery when she slammed the tray on the kitchen table. She dropped like a dead weight into a chair. The last of her foolish bravery had burned off on the short stagger home and now she wept.

  Stupid… stupid…

  She tried to rally, take stock. She rocked back and forth to help ease the trembling.

  Not for the first time, she thought: How has it come to this?

  She had been introduced to Robert on the day of her sister’s wedding. It had been an ill match from the start. Anne, a farm girl, the scent of soil and bitter regret. Robert, a veteran of the last Great War. A cousin, yes, but a distant one. Fresh from mourning his beloved first wife.

  ‘A bit on the maudlin side, perhaps,’ she was told, ‘but he will provide.’

  The pressure of chattering, spinster aunts.

  ‘The clock is ticking…’

  ‘A homely girl, no sense sugar-coating…’

  ‘You need someone…’

  Robert said little. He was the stoic type. Never gave an opinion of his own, simply acquiesced.

  Stern hmmms and tsk tsks when their first year together produced no issue. Sharp looks in her direction, even though he had brought her no children from his previous marriage.

  Despite her country upbringing — perhaps because of it — she had been less than enthusiastic about coming to the island. But he was the husband. He made the decisions. Almost two years now on this tiny speck. No adventures, nothing exotic. The last couple, Alan and his wife, Elsie, were just as reclusive as Robert. The briefest of exchanges, hardly any society, so it had really just been the two of them. A loveless monotony.

  And then John.

  John…

  Beautiful John, with that hint of mystery that had thrilled her starved senses from the first, and made her feel sensations in places she thought had atrophied long ago.

  John. His few scant references during a handful of brief exchanges were enough to feed her starved imagination. A rugged upbringing in the Territory, his stints as a jackaroo and a merchant seaman. Exploits in distant ports. The Joys. The Melancholy. His shiftless existence — the best reason Anne could think of as to why he had never married.

  And there, another mystery: just how had he managed to get a job here? The Authority usually balked at hiring single men. She could remember, at Robert’s interview, those bluff men had had more questions for her.

  ‘Need to be a good companion…’

  ‘Sharing the burden…’

  ‘Womanly duty…’

  Some that pushed the limits of decency! Anne could not begin to think how John had negotiated the snares of their stern rule book.

  But, then again, John did have that way about him. Anne had learned at the first meeting — a way of disarming a person, charming them. He could put you at ease, make you feel secure, respected…

  Anne stood up abruptly, bumping her hip painfully on the edge of the table.

  ‘Stop this!’ she said.

  Stop it now.

  There was work to do.

  No time for idleness…

  She pushed away from the table, bent and rummaged beneath the sink. She took out the skillet and set it on the stove. The chopping block was on the bench, along with a carving knife, sharpened only this morning. With practiced skill she fell to preparing the vegetables.

  First the potatoes and onions. The latest supply was almost exhausted, but she was sure she could hold on until next week.

  Peas and corn. Beans, cauliflower, celery.

  Tomatoes neatly diced.

  Carrots. These she was particularly proud of, grown by herself with no small measure of hard work.

  And the mushrooms, broad and fluffy, golden brown. Robert so loved his mushrooms. These had been a particular piece of luck, found beside a nice fresh pat on her way back from milking the cow. Quite a boon. Something, at least, from all the impositions of this beastly rain.

  The big, fatty leg of beef was another of Robert’s favourites. She took up the knife and began to carve. Thick slices, nice and even. She would do her task well, of that she had no doubt. She knew this with confidence, without a hint of pride. Her cooking was certainly not something that her husband could ever fault her for.

  The rain began to fall again. Heavy drops. Another storm? All too soon she had her answer, as the windows rattled under a hammering torrent. Anne sighed.

  ‘Enough,’ she hissed, then louder. ‘Enough!’

  If she was talking to the heavens, they paid no attention.

  By the time she had all of the ingredients prepared, the stew on the simmer, she had found herself quietly weeping again.

  She could not have said exactly why.

  #

  John had scampered upstairs and that was where he stayed for the rest of the day. The painting had suffered, near the end, as he slashed and poked and flailed the brush like a whip.

  Damn woman! The temerity… using me like that…

  Even after he had folded up the drop sheets, packed all of the gear away, he had still lingered up above — swept the floors, polished the brass — anything he could think of to keep him out of Robert’s clanking, sulky orbit. Not until his watch read 4:26 did he begin his reluctant descent to the ground floor.

  Robert was waiting at the bottom, leaning on the rail. A small tic played at the corner of his right eye. He looked like he was sucking on his own teeth.

  ‘Well,’ he said, as if the younger man had some explaining to do.

  John steeled himself.

  But then he just grunted, turned, and walked to the front door.

  John followed, making sure to stay several steps behind.

  The rain had stopped. The clouds had dissipated somewhat, allowing the sun to leak through. Now the air felt steamy, but the hint of a breeze from the east offered some hope. John tried to prepare himself for the event ahead.

  Bloody awkward this… Anne with her big, cow eyes… what the hell is she playing at? Trying to make him jealous?

  Robert turned the handle, kicked the door open.

  ‘Anne.’

  He waited two beats.

  ‘Anne!’

  She appeared, standing in the entrance to the kitchen. Looking over Robert’s shoulder, John could see that she had taken some trouble over her appearance. She’d had a wash, certainly, and her hair looked more than just a little fussed over. The dress she wore was perhaps best reserved for Sunday services.

  Anne skipped backwards as her husband barged into the kitchen. John followed for a few paces but paused at the entrance. He nodded to Anne, gave her a pleasant smile. He couldn’t help it, just his way.

  ‘Ah ha!’ he said. ‘Something smells good!’

  ‘Oh, stop,’ Anne said. ‘It’s just a stew. Nothing flash.’

  The blush in her cheeks was unmistakable.

  Robert stood at the refrigerator with the door wide open. He drank from a glass jug of opaque liquid. After a deep swallow, he looked to John, gestured with it in his direction.

  ‘Drink?’ he asked. ‘Cider?’

  ‘Makes it himself,’ Anne said.

  ‘Oh, um, yes, certainly… thank you,’ John managed.

  At first, Robert didn’t move, and for a moment, John thought he was expected to take the jug, drink from it as well. But then Robert reached into a nearby cabinet, fished out two glasses with his thumb and fingers.

  ‘Well,’ said Anne. ‘Sit. Please.’

  It was a small table, just comfortable for four. The place settings were impeccable. The good china, cutlery polished to a high sheen. Cloth napkins and a fine linen tablecloth that was
too long. John suspected that Robert had never seen it before.

  The two men took their seats. Robert poured the cider, spilling it as he moved the jug between the glasses.

  Intentional? John wondered.

  Anne ladled out the stew before she sat down opposite her husband. He was already tucking in, but John waited for her to sit.

  ‘Oh, please, go ahead. I hope you like it.’

  John picked up his knife and fork.

  ‘Oh, there’s no doubt of that!’

  And yes, it was delicious. John supposed the unkind fates had to give her some concessions. Robert should count his blessings. It was really the best he could expect. Or deserve.

  They ate with hardly any conversation, but this time, the clank of utensils on plates, and the contented slurping and appreciative smacks made things a little less awkward. The two men cleaned their plates, said yes to seconds. Robert kept a close eye on the clock above the stove. John mopped up his gravy with crusty bread.

  Anne asked, ‘More?’

  ‘Ah, no! Too much. I’m fit to burst! Ha!’

  ‘But some dessert, yes? Peaches and fresh cream.’

  ‘He can’t,’ Robert said.

  John fished the watch out of his pocket.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Back to work I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, but surely—’

  Robert slapped the table so hard his glass tipped and more cider stained Anne’s good linen. Her face went into mild spasm. Blood in the face. Slack jaw.

  ‘No,’ John said, ‘ah, no… too full, really. Anne, you are the perfect hostess. I thank you.’

  He stood and she stood with him.

  ‘I’ll come at midnight,’ Robert said. He had righted his glass and was pouring more cider. He remained seated as his wife walked John the short distance to the front door.

  ‘Well, thank you again for the meal.’

  ‘Think nothing… I’m glad you could come. We must do this again…’

  John smiled, nodded, and walked away. He walked quickly, without trying to. Kept his shoulders squared, fought against the urge to look back. Failed. There she was, still in the doorway. He raised his arm. He was far enough away so he didn’t have to smile.

  Damn.

  He entered the lighthouse, walked straight up the stairs, out onto the balcony. The clouds had drawn back further. The sun was on the descent.

  Soon the stars.

  John took a deep breath.

  ‘So,’ he said.

  He felt restless, began to pace. Round and round, awaiting the darkness. The stars would help. They always did. They were his passion, born from the days out alone in the paddocks and during the monotony of ship life, on the deck, with none to commune with but the glorious cosmos.

  Ah. The sun is dying. Die tyrant.

  Among the few possessions that John had brought to the island was a telescope. A precision instrument. Delicate and bloody expensive. He had suffered and saved to have it, fussed and tutted over it the whole way over. He’d set it up on Earl’s Barrow, the highest point on the island save for the lighthouse, of course. He had hoped to put it right here, on the balcony, but Robert had quickly put an end to that idea.

  Ignorant lout.

  But he would be gone, on rotation, in less than a year. Perhaps the next keeper would be more understanding.

  And perhaps the next one will have a less annoying wife.

  ‘Ah!’ he said, and slapped the rail.

  It was an unkind thought. Unfair. Anne was a good woman. She deserved better. But he couldn’t help. He was certainly no solution to her problem.

  I am a man apart.

  John had known from a young age that he was different. Different motivations. Alternative… tendencies. Not one to make friends easily, or sometimes, too quickly. Hard to read the signals. Shy around girls as a youth, awkward with the other boys. Never one for mobs or crowds. Born to a place of open spaces, he had always craved even greater distance from his fellow beings. His courtesy and easy charm a practised ploy, a defence mechanism to establish barriers.

  When the acres of land had failed to satisfy, he’d looked to the open oceans. The more distant the ports, the better. He’d craved the fringes. The lonely places where he could shore himself up. A bolthole, if only briefly. But those long stretches on board ship, confined by deck and cramped quarters. The stink and the rubbing of elbows. An itch he was too scared to scratch.

  Out there.

  The only solution. The stars, where his imagination could soar. Out there, where there were no boundaries.

  Early in life, he had found Verne and his Wells. Growing up in Darwin, those books hadn’t been easy to track down. He had persevered; a quest to stimulate an eager mind. Later, he had found Burroughs and Kline. Then Stapleton. Smith, Benyan and Vogt. With his limited education, John had struggled through.

  Adventures in other worlds. Able men, their wanderlust and grit. Newcomers to bright forges. They had not only adapted, but flourished. They gave hope that out there was something new, beyond the usual.

  Beyond this cloying human condition.

  In the here and now, time was dragging and the sun wasn’t giving up its supremacy easily, but finally the first stars began to flaunt. The lighthouse lamp had flicked on long before.

  He wandered the balcony, head held high.

  The Centaur. The Peacock. The Altar and the Phoenix. He knew them all. Fond friends. His true home. He paced the balcony, round and round. He felt the tension in his neck. It was a small price to pay.

  He walked in a clockwise direction. He began to feel a little light-headed, a tad out of sorts.

  The cider?

  He had only had one glass. He had never been much of a drinker, but surely that wasn’t too much for him to handle? Or maybe Robert had brewed it particularly strong? Maybe just all this pacing?

  His vision blurred. The stars began to flare up, brighter than what one should expect. He squinted. Then he noticed that some of the constellations were… off. Jumbled. Distorted. One or two stars, here and there, out of place. This was impossible, of course, and more than just a little off-putting. John began to feel unwell. Ice in his bowels.

  This is not right. Can’t be. What do I have to hold on to if not—

  He stopped.

  The Crux.

  The Southern Cross. It blazed brightly. Indeed, tonight it pulsed, seemed larger, somehow closer; and the stars that formed it were now a deep blood red.

  John looked down. He rubbed his eyes and the back of his neck. He looked back up.

  He staggered.

  Oh, God.

  The Cross now fairly hovered above him, bathed him in its satanic rays. His eyes watered at the stars’ savagery. They seemed to pulse through him, pierced his brain and brought on a dull ache.

  Sweet mercy.

  Then slowly, moving counter-clockwise, the whole constellation began to turn.

  Ah.

  A half revolution, until the whole cluster was inverted. And the pulsing grew stronger.

  John fell to his knees.

  ‘Jesus, God,’ he whispered.

  So many times he had looked into the night sky and felt so small. Now he felt damned. The starlight burned him. They were falling to Earth, and this was the last night. A monstrous vision, but he could not look away.

  Alpha Crucis, the brightest star, beat a kind of Morse code, much like John’s palpitating heart. As he watched, a speck of radiance broke away, circled its sire, advanced. A speck became a mote, became a grain. Closer and closer. John felt a horrible thrill, like it moved with purpose, felt it coming for him.

  There was not a trace of breeze. He sweated, tried to swallow in a tight, dry throat. His tongue felt thick. He chewed at it. He thought of the conjurings of Wells and Stapleton, quailed when he considered Lovecraft. A part of him revolted, wanted him to run.

  Run now!

  Another more submissive part simply wanted to relent, lie down, curl up like a foetus, and await the ne
w order.

  Old heaven and old Earth hath passed away.

  But then suddenly, he rallied, prompted by another facet of his psyche. Manlier, more sanguine.

  There is always hope.

  Always. The unknown is not something to be feared, but embraced. In fact, was this not what he had been hoping for his whole life?

  The thing from the star must have been moving at a frightful speed. Now, it was a mite, and John fancied he could see a body of sorts. Limbs. A head? He called up a fond wish from his younger post-pubescent fantasies. Held to it.

  It was now a definite shape. Human, but with adaptations. Like the Vitruvian man, like Apollo carved from marble. The visitor was naked. His jet black locks hung down just past his broad shoulders. His wings were like a butterfly’s, faintest gossamer. He had full lips and his nipples were hard. One look and John knew he came with only good intent.

  The Star Man didn’t speak, didn’t have to. He held out his hand. He was not ashamed, not a haughty god. He was the solution. John stood.

  No words. There was no need. No bags to pack, or passport required. John called up his most precious memory: that morning alone, on the beach on Mykonos.

  He considered that baggage enough. He reached for the offered hand.

  #

  Anne watched John until he disappeared into the lighthouse, then returned to the kitchen. Robert had left the table. He was in the parlour. She could hear the scratchy Bartok symphony playing through the gramophone speaker.

  She worked a superficial cleaning, dishes draining, tablecloth on soak, and left the kitchen. Robert was in his favourite chair, staring at the wall, drinking. She minced past him. Neither spoke.

  Their bedroom was small and sparse. There were paintings on the walls, some of them, she had painted herself, but they had failed to provide a homely feel. Anne changed into her nightdress. She approached the window. It was open, and a faint breeze stirred the curtains. She leaned out. There was the cow in the distance, wandering slowly, aimlessly. It raised its head and offered a listless bellow to the sky. Anne felt an awful empathy. She leaned a little further, looked to the right, but from that angle, she could barely see the lighthouse. She leaned a little further, craned her neck, but there was no way she could see the balcony from there.