The Lightkeeper's Daughter

by Iain Lawrence

  Murray picks among the stones and finds a bit of old twig half an inch long. He holds it up for all of them to see, then tosses it forward, and it snags on the spider’s web. The instant it hits, the spider is there.

  “Fast as lightning, isn’t he?” says Murray. “Now he’s seen through my trick already. He knows it’s just a bit of twig. But he’s not about to leave it hanging there. Tell me why not.”

  “The flies might see it!” shouts Squid. Then she blushes when her mother laughs.

  “Right you are,” says Murray. “His net is very special. It’s—”

  “Invisible,” says Tatiana. She looks up with her eyes huge. “It’s invisible, Grandpa.”

  “Good girl, Tat.” He ruffles her hair. “You’re as sharp as that spider, I think. Yes, his threads are so fine that even a fly can’t see them. But if a bit of wind—or some clod like me—comes along and fills the net with old sticks, then he’s not going to catch many flies, is he? So he cuts it loose.”

  They all watch as the spider works, its eight legs busy at once, snipping the threads and prying at the twig. It levers the twig away from the web, then drops it clear to the ground. And it sets to work repairing the damage, fixing its perfect web.

  “That’s his life’s work,” says Murray. “Tending his net. We won’t put him to the bother, of course, but if we broke his anchors and let his net collapse, he’d bustle about with his strings and his glue until he was all set up again. No rest for him, no time for play. He’s a very serious fellow. For him it’s always work first . . .”

  Murray falls silent, staring at the web. Squid imagines him thinking of all the sunny mornings spent at lighthouse chores, the rainy afternoons left for sodden play. She presses harder on his back, kneading at his muscles. “But he does the best he can,” she says softly.

  “Aye, he does.” Murray scratches his ear. “Och, he’s a simple sort of soul, I suppose.” Then he sighs and shifts himself straighter. His voice becomes louder, more cheerful. “Well, any questions? Then—”

  “Yes,” says Squid. “Can Tatiana stay with you?”

  “What?” says Murray. Hannah, too, looks up.

  Squid forges ahead; it’s too late to go back. “Dad, I have to go home,” she says.

  “Now?” His shoulders slump. His hands settle, and tighten, on Tatiana’s shoulders. “You’re leaving already?”

  “Yes, Dad. I have to, but Tatiana could stay for the month, just for the month that I promised.” She’s glad that she can’t see her father’s face. “Then we’re going to Australia, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but— well, I’m getting married and we’re going to Australia. But Tat could stay here for the month.” Then she asks Tatiana, just as quickly, “Would you like that, baby? Would you like to stay a bit longer with your grandma and your grandpa?”

  “Ooh, yes,” says Tat, grinning already.

  “If your grandma says it’s all right. Whatever your grandma thinks.”

  Squid looks at Hannah. There’s still a tiny bit of moss stuck in her hair. Hannah looks back, wondering at first, and then smiling. “That sounds lovely,” she says. “I could even bring Tatiana down to Vancouver. When I leave for the mainland.”

  “That would be great,” says Squid. “Dad, what do you think?”

  Murray’s still watching the spider. He nods quite slowly. “It’s not what I hoped for,” he says. “But, och, it will be a grand month.”

  chapter eighteen

  THE UNDERTAKER ARRIVES JUST BEFORE SUNSET. He comes from the east, low on the water, croaking his raven’s cry. Squid looks up at the sound, and watches as he settles on the red cap of the tower, a little black figure high above the lawns and the buildings.

  He’s been coming to Lizzie Island for as long as she can remember; before she was born he was coming each fall. He’s old and ragged; he has only one leg. But there he’ll stand, day and night, waiting for the fog and the songbirds.

  Alastair hated the Undertaker. “That black thing,” he called it. “I’m going to kill that black thing,” he vowed one year, and he spent hours standing below the tower, flinging stones in every direction. He could hardly see the raven, let alone hit it.

  Murray took him away, probably frightened of a window getting broken, or the tower paint being chipped. He brought Alastair back and sat him in the kitchen. “It’s all part of nature,” he said. “Another link in the chain. That raven has a purpose here, just like you and me and every creature on the island.”

  “But he doesn’t have to like it,” said Alastair.

  It was tragic, what happened. In the fog, or on dark and rainy nights, the songbirds passing in hordes to the south were drawn to the twirling beacon. They smashed against the glass and the concrete, and their bodies piled up on the platform or tumbled to the rocks. They covered the ground some mornings, their necks snapped, their wings broken, their bright little breasts heaving. And then the Undertaker came down from the tower and feasted on the corpses.

  Even now Squid feels a sickness in her stomach to see him arrive, black as a shadow, swooping up to his perch. She’s sitting on the winch pad, brushing Tatiana’s hair, but she stops to watch the raven.

  “Ah, here he is,” says Murray, beside her. “You see that, Hannah?”

  “Yes, Murray. I’m not blind.”

  Squid is sitting on her suitcase with Tatiana balanced on its edge in front of her. Murray on her left, Hannah on her right, they’re sitting in a row, leaning on the rocks. Below them, the Cloo Stung is tethered to the mooring buoy, looking square and squat from above. It’s far smaller than the Darby, but faster. For nearly an hour its inflatable boat has been going back and forth to the little lagoon, where the sound of a chain saw buzzes through the forest. The sound carries well in the twilight calm.

  “Do you remember what Alastair got you to do?” asks Hannah.

  “Yes,” says Squid. “It didn’t work any better than his other ideas.”

  He gathered cedar boughs, bundles and bundles of them. He whined and snorted until she helped him, and they packed the boughs to the top of the tower. They padded the railings and the hard edge of the platform, lashing down the branches with bits of string and rope. But the songbirds died in numbers even greater than before.

  “Maybe we should ask Dad to turn off the beacon,” said Alastair.

  “Good idea, Dumbo,” she said. “You can stand here all night with your stupid little oil light.”

  She grimaces now, remembering that. There were so many times when she hurt him.

  The cabin door opens on the Cloo Stung. A uniformed man comes out with a saucepan that he empties over the side. He clanks a spoon around inside it, and the Undertaker echoes the sound. The man looks up, clanks again, but the raven doesn’t answer anymore. The man shrugs, then turns toward the landing. “We’ll be leaving very soon,” he shouts.

  Squid waves, the brush held high in her hand.

  She watches the man step back into the cabin, then takes the brush to Tatiana’s hair. Each stroke sizzles through the dark strands, tugging the child’s head to the left or the right.

  “He’s early this year,” says Murray, still looking up at the tower.

  “You think so?” asks Hannah.

  Murray nods. “Last year you were already gone when he came.”

  “No I wasn’t. I remember counting birds, hoping to find at least one I could rescue.”

  “Really? Och, you could be right,” says Murray. “But you leave a little sooner every year.”

  Squid puts down the brush and smooths Tat’s hair with her fingers. She covers the child’s ears and tells Murray, softly, “Don’t let her watch the Undertaker. And please keep her away from the beach until they’ve finished with the whale.”

  “Fair enough,” says Murray.

  “Remember to cut her toast into fingers, and don’t let her wander too close to the cliffs. Don’t drive her too fast in the wagon, okay, Dad? And keep her away from the bridge when it’s stormy. And away fro
m the sea when it’s rough.”

  Murray produces an imaginary pencil in his fingers. His tongue comes out, as though licking the tip, and he writes out a list in the air, over his hand. He speaks each line as he writes:

  “Don’t let

  Tatiana

  have any

  fun.”

  “Oh, Dad,” says Squid, laughing. She gives Tatiana a playful shake. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, and I’ll watch her,” he says. “Be assured of that. But I didn’t go all that far wrong with you, did I? Och, I wasn’t perfect, God knows, but you’ve grown into a fine, good woman nonetheless.”

  Squid blushes, suddenly teary. That’s the highest compliment that Murray has ever paid her. She tickles Tatiana’s ribs, and the child giggles. One more brush at her hair, one more hug, then Squid passes her daughter into Murray’s care.

  His huge hands hold her firmly. “The wee Tatty will be happy here, while you’re gone,” he says. “And she’ll be just as happy to leave again.”

  “I doubt it,” says Squid.

  Hannah clucks her tongue. “Of course she will.”

  “But when I was her age,” says Squid, “I wanted to stay here forever. I thought it was paradise.”

  “And it is,” says Murray. “It’s Eden, right enough: full of beauty and knowledge, a fine place to start from.” He wraps Tatiana in his thick, strong arms and gazes at the sea that stretches on nearly forever. “But I suppose there’s always a time for leaving.”

  Squid leans against him, feeling his breath and his heartbeat. Her own time for leaving is just a few minutes off, and now she wishes it was farther. “What will you do tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Och, where to start?” says Murray. “We’ve got the whole small house to clean up. We’ve got to find that Barney doll; lord knows where it’s gone. There are paths to clear, and the steps will want painting—”

  “Play sandbox!” shouts Tatiana.

  “Oh, yes,” says Murray. “That’s the first thing.”

  “Play first, work after?” teases Squid.

  “Why not?” says Murray. “Just this once, though, mind.”

  The chain saw stops, and a motor starts up. Then the workboat passes, full of men and thick bundles. It sidles up to the Cloo Stung, and when the outboard shuts down, there are only the sounds of the sea and the island. Then the big engines of the Cloo Stung roar and gurgle. The men clamber from the boat, and it’s hoisted aboard, the cargo still inside, the outboard dripping water from its leg.

  The sky is dark and tinged with orange, the water nearly purple. The Cloo Stung’s lights come on, a glaring red on the side toward the island.

  “I guess I’ve got to go,” says Squid. She grabs Tatiana. “Now, listen,” she says. “You do what you’re told, you hear? And you stay away—”

  “Och, you’ve told her all that,” says Murray.

  “Okay,” says Squid. “I’ll see you soon, Tatiana.” She kisses her daughter, then stands up.

  Hannah rises on her right, Murray on her left. He holds out his arm as though he means only to shake hands. “I’m very proud of you, Squid,” he says.

  She throws herself at him and he hugs her back, his arms like sticks at first, until they bend and tighten round her shoulders. Her tears run onto his collar. “I’m glad I came back,” she says. “I’m sorry I disappeared.”

  “It’s all right,” he says. “Squid, it’s all right.”

  The Cloo Stung’s horn blasts with a tuneless screech. In a swirl of smoke, a rush of dark water, the boat backs away from the mooring.

  Squid turns from Murray to Hannah, everything she can see just a blur and a shimmer. Her mother hugs her fiercely, more tightly than she’s ever been held before. “Don’t say anything, Squid,” she says. “We’ll see you soon, Tatiana and I.”

  Squid steps back, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. Her throat feels sore, her eyes on fire. She picks up her suitcase and starts down to the sea.

  The Cloo Stung is small enough to come right to the shore. The skipper maneuvers from the deck, swinging his boat in the channel, going astern toward the steps. He nudges a lever; water boils at the stern, rushing over the concrete.

  Squid looks down, looks back at Tatiana huddled up to Murray’s leg. She drops her suitcase. A wave of her arms will send the boat away, will leave her on the island with her daughter and her parents. She can still stay until the end of the month. She spreads her arms wide and Tat runs toward her, thumping into her knees.

  “Oh, my baby,” she says.

  She’s ready to shout, to send the Cloo Stung on its way. But she’ll have to sleep in the small house. She’ll have to fill it again with a child’s laugh, with a child’s games and stories at bedtime. She’ll have to bunk with Alastair’s ghost, seeing his face wherever she looks, hearing his voice whenever she turns.

  Her arms, already half-raised, fall instead for one last touch of her daughter’s hair, for one more hug. Then she takes up the suitcase again and marches down the steps.

  Three men help her over the transom and onto the deck. They hold her up by her elbows as though she’s a frail old lady. The skipper smiles, then pushes the throttle. And the boat slides forward, leaving the island behind.

  Her eyes are still blurry with tears. Her father is a big, pink blob on the landing, her mother a smear of brown and red, her daughter a tiny, tiny thing. In a moment they’re gone, hidden by the turn in the cliff.

  The Cloo Stung travels so fast that it banks when it turns. It rises on the waves with a steamy spray at the stern. In moments it has passed the last reef, swinging to the south, bashing into the seas with foam churning between the twin hulls.

  One by one, the crew slip into the cabin. But Squid stays in the stern, watching the island shrink.

  It’s darker than the sea and darker than the sky, a hunched shape like an animal sleeping. There’s a square of yellow light from a window of the big house, but soon that is gone, hidden by the trees. Then only the beacon is there, flashing across the water, flashing again. Squid can feel her heart beating with it, keeping time to the Lizzie light.

  The Cloo Stung carries her away, pitching across the black slopes of the swells. The beacon sinks below the water, and the wind lashes at the lightkeeper’s daughter.

  Acknowledgments

  Lizzie Island isn’t real, but there is a place just like it. It’s called Lucy Island, and it lies just west of Prince Rupert. I have walked along its beaches and through its forest, following the boardwalk from the beach to the tower, past the midden and the meadow. I have anchored in its sandy lagoon, and watched the auklets arrive at sunset.

  There was once a lighthouse there, and a lightkeeper with a family of young children. I never knew their names, though I met them once or twice. They left the island many years ago, when the lighthouse was automated and the little white-and-red houses were burned to the ground. This story is not about them.

  I sometimes regret turning Lucy Island into a fictional setting for tragedy. It was, and is, one of my favorite places.

  The factual information for this story came from two friends, both longtime keepers of the lights. Larry Golden, who has tended to the lonely rock of Triple Island for more than twenty-five years, provided many details about the workings of a lightstation and the realities of a lightkeeper’s life. Chris Mills, who has worked on lights on both the east coast and the west, and who now is deeply involved in preserving east-coast stations, read the manuscript in an early form, made corrections, and suggested improvements. He gave me a tour of the light at Dryad Point, on the Inside Passage of British Columbia’s coast. To these two friends, I owe many thanks.

  He, too, is like the mussel, she thinks. He’s rooted to his island; his byssus is just as strong. To tear him loose would kill him (p. 82). Murray thinks of Lizzie Island as a paradise and can’t imagine living anywhere else. How do Hannah’s, Squid’s, and Alastair’s views of the island differ from Murray’s—and from each other? Do
they all need the island in the same way? Imagine growing up on an island with no one but your family. In what ways do you think you’d turn out differently?

  Assuming you didn’t grow up on a tiny island, how has where you live shaped your identity? Think about geography, climate, local society, economic conditions, etc. Draw parallels between your life and the plot of The Lightkeeper’s Daughter.

  There are many secrets in this story. What major revelations occur late in the book? What do Hannah and Alastair, in particular, think or feel that they don’t tell anyone else? How does keeping secrets affect a relationship?

  Alastair says, “Don’t do something if there’s a single person—anywhere—that you don’t want to know what you’re doing” (p. 66). Do you agree with this principle? Are there exceptions? (And don’t say planning a surprise party!)

  As [Murray] took each book from the box, he set it onto one of the four stacks he was making: one for each McCrae. Hannah looked at the titles and saw how he was building Alastair and Squid, and even herself, into the people he thought they should be (p. 127). In a variety of ways, Murray exerts a strong influence on the family. Why does he play such a powerful role, especially compared to Hannah? How does Murray’s vision of what each family member should be differ from each member’s vision for himself or herself? What is Murray’s vision of himself? Do you think it changes after Alastair’s death and after Squid leaves the island?

  The characters have different ways of dealing with conflicts and problems. Squid bounces from topic to topic, Hannah becomes resentful, Alastair isolates himself in his writing and his work. Flesh out each character’s responses to problems, including Murray’s, and find examples in the book. Whom are you most like?

  Describe Squid’s relationship with Alastair. Are Squid’s feelings for Alastair different from Alastair’s feelings for Squid? What do they like about each other, and how do they disappoint each other? Does the book imply that their love for each other develops a sexual aspect?