For the Crowders
Tom and Cara Lee, Lisa and Christina
1
THE APPRENTICE GLASSMAKER
THE DAY BEGAN NORMALLY enough, for a Tuesday. Griffin and his father, Philip Fenn, ate breakfast (juice and apple-butter toast for one, coffee and oatmeal for the other). They buttoned up their thickest flannel shirts and stepped out into the gray morning. Mornings are almost always gray on the Oregon coast. But that’s what makes the green of the mosses and the ferns and the scraggly trees so very green.
Father and son tromped up the wooded path leading along the bluff toward the lighthouse. Griffin darted ahead, sucking in his breath and lining his skinny shoulders up with the rough bark of an obliging tree trunk. The seconds ticked by as he waited for his dad to catch up, anticipation bubbling up and threatening to spill over. Griffin leaped out just as his father lunged toward his hiding spot—they both howled in surprise—and the chase began, darting and winding through the rain-spattered woods. When they broke through the trees, gasping for breath between fits of laughter, the stark red roof and tall white tower of the lighthouse stood out from the green-gray ocean and the blue-gray sky as if to say Look at me. Pay attention.
It was the Fenn family’s job to care for the aging building. Philip was a glassmaker who looked after the delicate prisms in the lens that swiveled high in the tower day in and day out, sending powerful beams of light sweeping over the mighty Pacific. The grassy landing also boasted two sheds that had once been used to store oil for powering the light above. These days, one held rakes, shovels, and a temperamental lawnmower, while the other had been remade into the family glassmaking studio.
Instead of a more traditional fifth-grade classroom, school for Griffin was here, right beside his dad. This morning’s lesson was on casting prisms. Philip wrote the equation for the ratio of silica, soda, and lime on the chalkboard, and Griffin moved through the steps, measuring out the ingredients, then melting, raking, and cooling the molten glass. The following day, he’d grind, measure, and grind again until he’d gotten the angles just right. The two worked together, and father peppered son with questions all the while.
When the lesson was finished, they went for a walk on the beach. Philip skipped stones on the fan of waves receding with the outgoing tide while Griffin combed through the flotsam strewn across the sand, hunting for a piece of sea glass. Then they hiked up the bluff to his mother’s grave, the somber note that was always there, beneath the rest, rising to the surface.
Griffin clasped his father’s hand as they drew near. There was no headstone, only a suncatcher Griffin had made to soften the sunlight’s fall on that particular rectangle of earth. And then, like he did every day, he set the tumbled shard of glass he’d found on the beach below into the ever-expanding frame.
After lunch (SpaghettiOs for one and a tuna sandwich for the other), Griffin and his father oiled the ancient brass gears that rotated the lens high in the lighthouse tower. It was a first order Fresnel lens with eight panels of thick greenish glass that tapered up toward the domed ceiling of the lantern room and down to the grated steel floor. Around the middle, eight panels of concentric circles like bull’s-eyes channeled the light from a single bulb into beams that shone twenty-one miles out to sea. It was magnificent! And right at that moment, the lens didn’t even need the clouds to part and let the sun through; all that glass sparkled and winked on its own.
Griffin and his father stepped out onto the gallery and squeegeed the windows. The wind flicked at the soapy bubbles and dribbled the wash water down their forearms. Philip carefully drew his wand down the glass, while Griffin swooped and squiggled over his dad’s straight, measured lines.
When they’d finished, father and son closed up the lighthouse for the day and tripped back down the path to the old keeper’s cottage, where they warmed their toes by the sitting room fire, sipping piping hot mugs of cocoa (with bobbing mini marshmallows in one and a nip of whiskey in the other).
Griffin licked a melted-marshmallow mustache off his upper lip and watched some nasty weather roll in off the water. The dingy furniture in the sitting room was angled so you could be warmed by the fire and take in the view at the same time. The walls were covered in nautical wallpaper dotted with a few dusty oil paintings, a barometer, an antique clock, and a shelf of books that listed slightly to the left. A dozen guidebooks were stacked on the shelf, containing more information than you’d need in several lifetimes on things like mariner’s knots, tide pools, whale migration patterns, and seabird watching. On the shelf below the books perched an ancient weather radio that frequently emitted a low hum of chatter announcing Coast Guard dispatches and storm alerts. Beneath the radio was a small locked cupboard.
Griffin and his father hardly had any visitors, and they went out of their way to avoid the tourists who veered off the highway to get a closer look at the lighthouse. A just-the-two-of-them kind of quiet filled their days. It may have been a strange sort of life for a kid, but it suited Griffin just fine.
After all, he was doing important work; he was an apprentice in the family trade. It was glass that had brought his parents together—she a PhD student in anthropology, specializing in the impact of the material’s first contact with societies around the globe, and he a skilled tradesman working in restoration. The couple had moved to the coast so Katherine could study the effect of the Fresnel lens on maritime culture up and down the country’s western coast and so Philip could be on hand to tend the lighthouse and repair the glass panels if need be.
At least, that’s what Griffin had always been told. It never occurred to him to wonder if there was more to the story.
2
A LOCK AND A KEY
THERE ARE SOME noises that will make a person jump right out of his skin. A foghorn on an ocean liner, for example. The whistle on a train. Or a tsunami siren when it winds up to its hair-raising wail.
Just when the warmth of the cocoa and the fire had Griffin practically melting into the sofa cushions, an ear-splitting alarm screeched through the sitting room. The mug flew out of his hands, and if there had been any cocoa left inside, it would have soaked the faded rug at his feet.
Philip jumped up. (His cocoa did splash across the rug, and halfway up the wall, too.) He hurdled over the back of the sofa and knelt beside the locked cupboard. He unclipped the multi-purpose knife at his waist and pried off the handle’s plastic cover. Beneath, a small key lay within a foam bed molded exactly to its shape. Philip inserted the key into the lock, twisted it, and yanked the cupboard door open. Inside was a brown box encased in leather, with a single silver toggle at its center. He flipped the toggle down and back up again, and the alarm stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
While his father leaped into action, shock rooted Griffin to that very spot. He stared openmouthed at the cupboard, his hands clamped over his ears. He walked past it several times a day, hardly even noticing the locked door or considering what might lie behind it.
Philip drew a hand across the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw. There was a decision to be made. He was left with only two options, and both were terrible.
The fire crackled pleasantly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Drips of spilled cocoa slid down the wallpaper. Outside, above the restless winter ocean, heavy clouds crept toward the shore.
“Dad?” There was hardly enough moisture in Griffin’s mouth for that one syllable. He swallowed and tried again. “What was that?”
Philip’s voice was muffled, his fist jammed against his lips. He didn’t turn to meet his son’s eyes. “It’s a warning.”
“What do you mean? What kind of warning?” Unease snapped and popped through Griff
in like a flame sputtering along a fuse.
Philip leaned over, reached into the cupboard a second time, and pulled out a thin journal. The corners were dented inward, and the linen cover was faded with age. He tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans and tugged the curved edge of his flannel shirt down to hide it. Philip dropped a reassuring arm over his son’s shoulders, but he flinched a little when he finally met Griffin’s worried gaze.
“We don’t have time for me to tell you everything—there’s too much—and anyway, they’ll be here any minute.”
“Who will be here?”
“The Keepers.”
“Who?”
But Philip only strode to the front door and peered outside, waiting. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the answers to Griffin’s questions, or that he was avoiding them. A singular dread had fallen over him, and it rang in his ears louder than that hateful alarm. The truth was that Philip would have taken the tsunami siren any day. That he could do something about—he could heft his son onto his back and sprint to higher ground.
But this? He couldn’t run from this.
Philip had done everything he could to warn the Keepers that this might happen. But they hadn’t done a single thing he’d suggested. They’d barely listened to him. Philip closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cottage door. Maybe none of it mattered. He knew all too well that no matter how thoroughly you prepare or how desperately you try, sometimes you can’t protect the ones you love most.
3
VISITORS
IN ADDITION TO the occasional spouting gray whale, passing trawler, or frolicking sea lion, the picture windows of the Fenn cottage were witness to a host of air travelers. Hordes of gulls, the occasional eagle, and at least once a day, one of those big orange Coast Guard helicopters zoomed by. But Griffin had never imagined one would drop from the sky and land on the cottage lawn.
He ran to the window and craned his neck for a better look. The orange belly lowered closer and closer to the ground, and for the second time that afternoon Griffin clamped his hands over his ears to muffle the sound. On any other day, he would have dashed outside, jumping up and down, waving at the crew and hollering for his dad to join him. But on this day, after that piercing alarm and the too-quiet minutes that had followed, anything out of the ordinary seemed sure to be horrible. Griffin hurried over to his father’s side.
A spray of sand blasted the cottage windows, and the helicopter swayed in a sudden gust of wind before the landing gear touched down. The rotors slowed, and out poured a dozen grown-ups wearing identical pale blue pajama-like outfits. They leaned into the wind, the red sashes cinched around their waists fluttering like kite tails behind them, and they marched toward the cottage.
Philip opened the door with a grimace, stepping in front of Griffin and shielding the boy as the strangers tromped inside. There were eight of them, following behind a woman whose silver hair swept over her shoulder in a long, loose braid.
“Well, Philip,” she said in a brisk tone. “It would seem that you were right.”
They didn’t have many visitors at the cottage—just Griffin’s grandparents, who came on his birthday every year. He peered around his father’s arm, curiosity getting the better of him. The woman standing toe-to-toe with his dad held her hand out to the side, and a folded set of the same funny blue clothes was placed into her upturned palm.
“You’d better get dressed,” she said in the kind of tone that suggested she was used to giving orders and used to having them obeyed.
Philip crossed his arms over his button-down flannel. He wasn’t a tall man, but after years of work in the glass studio, his frame was sturdy and strong. “No, Hypatia. I’ll show you what to do, but this time you’re on your own.”
The woman puffed her cheeks in exasperation. “You’re our best candidate—”
“Absolutely not. My family has sacrificed enough.”
Sacrificed? Griffin searched his dad’s face for answers. What were they talking about? And why did he look so scared?
“Come now,” the woman said. “We all wish Katherine had—”
“Stop it!” Philip shouted, his whole body trembling. “You don’t get to say her name to me.”
Griffin wrapped both arms around his dad’s waist and held tight. He didn’t understand what was going on, but his dad’s grief, still raw after three long years—that was as familiar as his own skin. That’s the way it is when you’ve lost someone. The grief is always right there, below the surface.
“But they are tampering with the lens.” Hypatia enunciated as if she were speaking to a small child. “The portal might open at any moment. We need you.”
“No, you needed to listen when I warned you year after year that this would happen. But you didn’t, did you? So, no. I’m not going anywhere. My son needs me.”
At that moment all eyes shifted to Griffin. He stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest, an echo of his father’s defiant stance. “Go away. We don’t want you here.”
Griffin and his father were different people. When they played checkers, Griffin hopped his pieces all over the board, while Philip marched his forward in strategic chevrons. Griffin squished all the foods together on his dinner plate—the gravy and the peas drowning in heaps of mashed potato, while the dividing lines on Philip’s plate were never, ever breached. The two of them weren’t the same. But when what remained of the Fenn family was confronted with a threat from the outside, they faced it together.
And from what Griffin had seen so far? These people were a threat.
Hypatia leaned closer to get a better look at Griffin. He had round brown eyes set into pale skin and thick brown hair that twisted and curled at the edges, barely leaving room for details like eyebrows and earlobes to peek through. Whether it was from the chill outside, or the unusual events of the afternoon, the tops of his cheeks flushed bright red.
The woman pursed her lips as if she had swallowed something sour. “I’m guessing you don’t remember me. I’m Dr. Hypatia Hibbert.”
Griffin stared straight back. Dr. Hibbert’s face was all angles—hard eyebrows and sharp cheekbones. And a long, thin nose. Even if this had been an ordinary day, with no blaring alarms or helicopters dropping out of the sky, even if he hadn’t heard the way his dad’s voice broke when Dr. Hibbert spoke his mother’s name, that wasn’t the kind of face that made a person feel at ease.
She extended her hand to shake, but Philip was having none of it. He stepped into the entryway, pulling Griffin with him. “You know the way.” He threw the door open, ignoring the wind that gusted in and the rain that splattered over everything.
Dr. Hibbert sniffed. She lifted her chin and sailed outside. The rest of the grown-ups followed her down the porch steps and up the forested path to the lighthouse. Philip hugged his son tight and watched them go. And that would have been that if the alarm hadn’t suddenly started blaring again for the second time that day. Griffin jumped. His father ground his teeth together.
“Dad!” Griffin shouted over the racket. “What is going on?” Unease prickled along his skin, and his palms began to sweat. There was supposed to be an order to their days, a pattern of work and rest and play. It was predictable. Safe. Comforting. And Griffin liked it that way.
Philip stood in the open doorway. The wind whipped the tails of his flannel and tugged at the ends of his hair. His face broke and he knelt, taking his son by the shoulders.
Griffin knew his father better than anyone else in the world. He could always feel one of those big belly laughs coming on before Philip’s shoulders even began to shake. He knew the kind of stillness that would come over him when he was remembering the time before the accident, before Katherine had died. But the look in his dad’s eyes right then was something Griffin had never seen before.
“I have to go.”
The alarm shrieked from inside the cupboard.
“What do you mean?” Griffin’s voice was barely above a squeak. “Where are you going?
”
“I just need to make a quick adjustment to the lens. I’ve been working on a block for this side of the por—” Philip cut himself off, shaking his head in frustration. “There isn’t time to explain. Griffin, I hoped this would never happen. But I have to go help them.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
“No. It’s too dangerous. You need to stay here. I’ll be right back.”
“Dangerous?” Griffin’s voice wavered. His dad wasn’t supposed to go running off without him. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure it seems like you don’t. But the truth is, you know more than you think you do. Everything I’ve told you about the lighthouse, and working glass—it’s all part of this mess. When I get back, I’ll fill in the gaps. I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Griffin didn’t like it. He scraped his thumbnail against the calluses that scarred his palm, the hard layer straining against the soft one surrounding it. “Keep the walkie-talkie with you.”
“I should only be up at the lighthouse for a few minutes. Unless . . .” Philip winced. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the journal. He thumbed to the back and pried out a sprig of green from beneath a clear plastic flap. He unbuttoned his sleeve and thrust it up over his elbow. Philip carefully laid the vine’s tip against his pale forearm. The plant seemed to soften as it touched his skin, and he lowered the rest of the vine, bit by bit, along the narrow blue vein that ran up his arm.
The plant faded, dissolving into his skin. “What is that?” Griffin reached out and grabbed Philip’s arm, but the vine was gone, his skin smooth and unmarked. “Dad.”
Griffin blinked. Sure, plants moved in the wind or when rain splattered against their leaves, and if you had nothing to do all day besides sit in one spot and watch them follow the sun across the sky or inch upward, you’d see a little shift. But that vine had slid like a garden snake over his dad’s arm.
The Lighthouse between the Worlds Page 1
