On the outskirts of town stood an abandoned lighthouse; a relic of the past, it
had fallen into disrepair over the years.
The prior keeper had passed away a decade ago, and no one had
filled the void left with his passing. A
lighthouse keeper is important for a harbor; during the fierce storms he helps
guide ships to shore. Now, with no one to keep the furnace lit, the harbor had
dwindled in use--visited only by local fishing ships. Only with his passing did the people realize just how important he
had been; even as no one moved into the forsaken tower to take his place.
Quietly
walking along the overgrown path from the town to the cliff the
lighthouse was built upon, was an elderly woman. She used a cane to walk, her left leg
dragging ever so slightly with each step. It was a tiring journey, and as she
grew older she had to stop and rest more frequently. What had once been an hour-long walk in
welcomed solitude, now consumed an entire Sunday, walking a path which had
lost much of its meaning. On her back
she carried a small satchel, filled with a few simple flowers she had
picked from her garden. As she reached the overlook near the lighthouse, the cool wind whipping her hair
back, or at least what remained of it.
Breathing in a deep breath of the salty air, she tried her best to
straighten herself, so as to gaze at the top of the lighthouse. A decade without a keeper had been hard on
the building, its dilapidated form was a sharp contrast to the majesty she remembered.
Making
her way to the cliff’s edge, she gazed out at the sea. Carefully, trying to keep her balance, the
old woman removed the satchel; gathering the flowers, she began to quietly
chant a small prayer to herself. Then,
as she had the last 537 Sundays, she tossed the flowers to the foam below. She didn’t watch them fall--it didn’t
matter. She breathed deeply, then turned
to return home. With the frequent stops
along the way, she couldn’t stand here for hours like she once had; night would overtake her. She slowly
made her way back to the path; looking back, she couldn’t help but
gaze at the lighthouse. Its shadow seemed to point out to the sea. The crumbling lighthouse was a remnant of a past she had tried to forget; it just didn't feel right to disturb what should be left to rest. Yet looking out at the shadow, she was filled with an ethereal wish
that she could have seen the sea the way he had.
She made her way to the lighthouse,
a part of the path which she had not taken for many years. The door was left ajar, as it had been since
that storm. As she entered the dark
confines of the tower, a sense of nostalgia swept over her. She had not set foot in this room for many
years, yet it all seemed painfully familiar to her. That small bookcase against the right wall,
its titles obscured by the darkness… she had never actually looked through the books. She wished she had. On
the other side of the room, haphazardly leaning against the wall, lay those
paintings of his.
She carefully made her way across
the room, her shadow seeming to snake out in front of her. Bracing herself against the wall, and leaning
down on her good leg, she gingerly lifted up one of the paintings. Blowing off the dust which covered it, and
holding it up to the light from the door, she examined the painting. Only a ship illuminated by lightning adorned
the canvas, the edges of the canvas had not been complete, making the scene
seem isolated without anything else to complete it but the mildew which was
starting to consume the bottom. So this
is what it had looked like? She tried to
hold her composure; with a deep breath she placed the painting back to the
ground… it wasn't something she wanted to see.
Cautiously making her way up the
stairs, she ascended to the deck of the lighthouse. It was an arduous climb, exhausting considering
her age and condition. But somehow she felt that it was important that she saw what he saw, not just through some
painting. As reached the end of the
stairwell, the light temporarily blinded her; she had to pause a moment to
collect her bearings. She had never been
up here; he had never allowed anyone else up here. To the right of the stairway, she noticed a
bed with blankets strewn about it haphazardly, while on the left she noticed the
beacon--an intriguing contraption of lens, mirrors, gears, and a furnace. A breeze brushed her skin, and looking
towards its source, she noticed one of the windows had shattered. Carefully, as to not step on the sharp shards
of glass scattered across the floor, she made her way to the window;
looking out… she saw a sea much like the sea she was familiar with. Somehow it didn’t seem right… why live here
for something like this?
She stood like
that for several moments, before turning with frustration. She had wasted enough time here with these
painful memories.
But as she was about to descend the stairs, she noticed something… a
scattered collection of pages, loosely bound in a makeshift cover--a crude
semblance of a book. It lay near the
bed, standing out in a room of various odds and ends. There were several similar books stacked nearby; but it was the one with scattered pages which stood out. With only a
moment of hesitation, she opened the cover; then carefully holding the
loose pages, so they wouldn’t be blown away, she began to read.
Oct. 15 Storm clouds brewing on the horizon,
they are far away enough that I can only see them from the top of the tower.
It seems likely that we will have a storm soon. Fortunately I have
been keeping up with maintenance, so preparations have not taken long.
The mirrors and lenses of the light have been properly polished, and the
furnace is ready when it is needed. I made sure to gather extra firewood,
which makes it difficult moving around in the loft, but you can never be too
prepared. However, the oil reserve was low, so I had to take a trip into
town to replenish it. I am not often in town, I usually just stay in the
lighthouse; it is a quiet life which I prefer. Every time I enter the
town, I notice that people regard me with unease. Not necessarily
distrust or dislike… simply unease. It it probably my own fault for only
entering town to resupply before a storm. They probably see me as a
harbinger of sorts. Today Ms. Fairweather visited as she does every
Sunday morning to give me my weekly food supplies. I guess I could ask
her to bring some oil on occasion, so I didn’t have to make a special trip;
she has even offered on multiple occasions. But somehow it feels like my
last real connection with the town… I don’t understand what that means.
Ms. Fairweather brought some fresh vegetables which she claimed she took
from her garden… I know it's not true, she doesn’t have a garden and her bad
leg would make gardening difficult, I am assuming that
the variety of vegetables are just like the smoked fish which she brings, a gift of sorts from the fishermen for keeping the harbors safe.
Still, I simply smiled and thanked her for her consideration. Even
if the vegetables weren’t from her garden, it only seems right, she is the only
one who visits me anyway. It was a long night, despite the storm clouds
gathering on the horizon, the seas were calm. It was a long night looking
out to sea, waiting for ships which never arrived. Wind SE at 5 knots,
barometric reading of 1015 millibars.
Oct. 16 I awoke today in the late evening to
find that the barometer had dropped significantly, I am expecting the storm
this evening. I am writing my entry earlier than normal, it is that calm
before the storm, so it is the best time. I have been painting in my
downtime as of late. A few canvases of the sea, and the cliffs… just the
beauty of the horizon. A few of the townspeople have been interested in
purchasing them, and I have admittedly parted with some of my landscapes; I
have a small living allowance which cannot cover the costs of the canvases
otherwise. I keep a few canvases which I keep under the bed. Ms.
Fairweather… I know she would complain that I had exaggerated her beauty
if she saw them, say that I didn’t capture the grotesque nature of her scarred
face, or her poor posture from that injury from the fire several years back.
I am sure deep down inside she would think me a sad being, a lonely
hermit who can only fantasize on canvas. I don’t even know if she is
married, I always avoided the subject. I suppose I am a bit pathetic, but
again… I don’t really mind. Her weekly visits fill me with a simple
happiness, and I have no desire to change it. If this makes me pathetic,
not being more forward to the only connection I feel I have with humanity, then
so be it. Well… perhaps not my only connection; sometimes I feel this
journal lets me safely store away that human side of me which I often forget.
I….. I don’t feel up to writing about it today. Everything is
prepared, I am going to take a short nap, to make the night go by easier; these
storms always wear down on me. Wind SW at 10 knots, barometric reading of
993 millibars.
Pausing
for a moment, the woman awkwardly lowered herself to the ground; looking under the
bed she found several canvases tucked away where she would have never noticed. Much as she had the canvas of the ship, she
held it up to the light. It was easier
to see in the loft, the sun shone through the glass and seemed to radiate each
painting she held up. The woman in them
was beautiful… far more beautiful than she had been since the fire. Tracing her fingers over her heavily scarred
scalp, she then traced that very same scar in the painting. It somehow seemed natural, like a mere part
of the hair, something which gave the woman in the painting a unique beauty
which could not be described. She had to
stop then… just holding the painting--silently crying. It was a beautiful gift, one which she wished she had seen all those years ago. If only she had known how to express herself… Fighting back the tears, and regaining her
composure, she began to read again, her lips quivering, unable to fight back a
smile which could break at any moment.
Oct. 18 I am feeling conflicted, in a way I have
never felt before. I have read that “to err is human”... is that why
people seem to finally show gratitude? Because I am now human to them?
It doesn’t make sense to me, of course none of them know what really happened…
but regardless I feel like all the gratitude is wrong somehow. But it
also feels good. I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, and I don’t think I can
explain it right now… Wind SW at 5 knots.
Oct. 19 Normally I
would feel uncomfortable about confiding in what happened; but no one else will
read this, so I feel compelled to get it down on paper. Perhaps then I
can let this side of me rest; return to those evenings painting the sun's
descent. The night of the storm, I overslept. I somehow did not
awake under the fury of that gale, or more precisely, I did not stir until long
after the storm had been set into motion. It was only the sound of glass
shattering which woke me. I startled to my feet, a reflex of some primal
sort. The sound of shattering glass is a terrifying sound, it is never
good… the sound of something fragile cracking is a sharp, piercing sound--much
like the fragments it scatters.
Looking about in a daze, I realized that one of
the lighthouse’s windows had shattered. The whole tower was shaking, and
seemed to groan under the force of the storm; this was far stronger than your
average storm. It seemed as though the rage of nature itself targeted any
and all weakness, desperate to break my last bastion from its chaos. I shall
have to paint it sometime, I am having a hard time describing it. I
quickly reinforced the other windows as best as I could, but despite my
efforts, they each rattled in their frames, threatening to burst at any moment.
I shielded my eyes from the heavy waves of rain and in the distance I
could see the faint flicker of a distant lantern. Somewhere out on those
rough seas, a man was likewise braving the elements, trying to signal for a
guiding light.
My purpose in this lighthouse, why I have lived
away from the townsfolk, is to help guide ships such at that ship safely past
the perilous reef which threatened to crush and rend the hulls of ships seeking
refuge. As such, ships are often a relief to me, they make me feel like I
have done something, completed a purpose which other days often feel lacking of.
But I had overslept, and in my lapse, I was not prepared. I had
violated my own code. Frantically I tried to start the fire, but the wood
was soaked. By the time I could get a spark to hold, it was too late.
Out in the distance, I could no longer see that desperate light.
Through the torrents of rain which whipped my coat about me, I could see
what seemed to be the dark silhouette of the ship, already being dashed upon
the razor reef. A sickening realization blew through me, just as the
roaring wind stripped me of my warmth… leaving me shivering at its chill.
It finally hit me, just how something as seemingly small as oversleeping could
directly effect… so much. Dozens of lives flickering out just like the
lantern… It is heavy. I must have sat there for only a few minutes, but
it felt like hours. Sunk to my knees, I watched with a morbid fascination
as the ship was torn apart. I could only see it through the flashes of
lightning--a moment in which the whole sea seemed to flicker. It was
truly incredible, I don’t think I can paint it.
At some point I regained my reasoning, or at
least an awareness. I was running down the stairs of the lighthouse… and
then down the narrow way which had been carved out of the cliff. The wind
billowed and slammed me up against the slick rock, but I barely noticed.
As if I was in a dream--a nightmare--but more surreal somehow.
I was then down on the edge of the rock outcropping, the beach was submerged under the swell. I had my lantern on me, I don’t even remember
grabbing it...so I started frantically waving it. I don’t remember at
what point, but soon I began to see several of the sailors, desperately
fighting against the currents. I still don’t know what prompted me to--after all, I am not as fit as I was when I was younger--but I dived in after
them. I remember that first man… He looked me in the eyes with a feverish
look of fear and desperation, his screams muffled under the roar of the waves
crashing into the cliff. Those eyes were sunken in, the sign of a long
struggle to survive. Yet even with screams of help being drowned out, I
still could clearly hear him thank me from the depths of his heart. Somehow,
even in the roaring ocean where everything felt mad, I felt more human than I
had ever felt before. Never had someone thanked me like that, looked at
me like that. It was as if the whole world relied upon me, and me alone.
It felt like I was tossed about for hours… I don’t
remember how many men I helped to shore, but I doubt it was many. I am
old. The sun is setting, I should get back to work. Wind E at 7
knots. Barometric reading of 1010 millibars.
She felt a chill run over her skin, her face twisted with confusion. All these
years, no one had suspect the truth that lay under her shaking hands. Why had he kept this from her? She already
knew why, it was obvious… but still. The
guilt must have been overwhelming. It
was a mistake. He seemed far lonelier than she had ever imagined; what was this feeling?
Oct. 20 Today Ms. Fairweather showed up in the
early morning, odd because it wasn’t a Sunday. I opened the door
cautiously, and fell back as she threw her arms around me. Well… in all
reality she tried to, but her leg dragged a bit behind her, so we instead both
lurched to the side. She was sobbing, and hugged me as fiercely as I
would imagine she was able. She asked me if I was okay, and said that she
was horrified when she had heard the news of what had happened. Apparently
everyone in town was proclaiming that I was a hero, having personally pulled
seven sailors from the ocean. She said that she had come as soon as she
had heard the news, worried about me. I wasn’t as young as I used to be,
or so she said. Admittedly I have been feeling a bit ill since the storm. She urged me to come with her
to visit the sailors whom I had saved… but I was not comfortable with the idea.
She stayed with me for a few more minutes, admiring some of my landscape
paintings, before she awkwardly excused herself. It is an odd sensation.
I don’t think I can keep my composure around the town. They
don’t realize it, but I do. I was responsible for the whole ordeal, so
diving in was the least I could do. I don’t think writing this down is
putting to rest that side of me. I don’t know what will. Wind E at
3 knots. Barometric reading of 1015 millibars.
Oct. 22 Again, Ms. Fairweather visited me, as
she did each Sunday, giving me a polite but warm hug. At first I was
delighted to see her, but then I noticed that she had brought others. I
vaguely recognized them as the sailors. Each of them thanked me again. It seems that no one else survived the storm. There had
been fifty-six men on that vessel, so that meant that forty-nine were lost at sea.
It was a disconcerting thought. With each man who shook my hand and
awkwardly embraced me, I felt a withering shame. All those years of
studiously doing my job, and the townspeople and sailors never personally
thanked me… and yet here I was… forty-nine of these men’s brothers… dead--because of
me. Yet each had only praise and gratitude to show. The day
dragged on, long past when I usually slept. I still haven’t slept and
night is almost upon me; but somehow I don’t feel like sleeping anymore.
The men all gathered around the small foyer of the lighthouse, each
trying to make small talk; each wanting to know more about the man who had
saved them. Fortunately I did not have to answer many of the questions,
Ms. Fairweather eagerly answered them for me. I must admit, it
surprised me what she knew; some parts of my life she seemed to remember better
than I. It was awkward. Well, obviously the gathering… but also the
kiss. As the sailors each left, to make their way back home I would
assume, I was left alone with her for a brief moment. She looked at me
seriously, and told me “You take care of yourself.” And then she gave me
a light kiss on the cheek, and a tight hug. I didn’t know how to react,
but I had not felt this way for a long time--for as long as I had been a
lighthouse keeper. It may not be the romantic scene in the books
I have read, but it was enough that I could die satisfied. I stood there,
like that… silent, for several minutes after she left. I am still
reliving that moment in my head. The sea is beautiful… I should really do
another painting. But somehow… I just can’t. There is little to no
wind.
Oct. 29 I have not been doing a good job with
keeping up with this journal… It doesn’t really matter, I don’t have
anything to say. No one else will read this. I still haven’t got
around to repairing the shattered window, I don’t think anyone has even noticed.
I am in no rush, I have never felt so connected to the ocean before, with
its salty air lulling me to sleep each night. Miss Fairweather visited
again today--an average Sunday. Except this time she also gave me a light
kiss, and again told me to take care of myself. It feels odd, to have
someone say that to you. It isn’t bad, it’s actually a nice feeling, but
I don’t know how to react. It just seems strange that after a decade
of weekly visits, she only starts telling me these things after I make a
mistake.
It was hard not to
smile at the memory, that moment her composure had slipped. It was something she only regretted
had not happened earlier. He had been an
odd man, but always so sweet… With a
chuckle she confided in herself, she had been every bit as awkward as him. All those years and he had
always seemed so composed and aloof; she had felt the foolish maiden. How was she supposed to know that her heavily
scarred and damaged body didn’t repulse him?
She finally laughed, a pain-filled sob, at the irony of it all; their
awkward conversations, each afraid of showing themselves to the other--years wasted.
Oct. 31 Just another day. I couldn’t bring myself
to paint… not even her. So instead I contented myself to just reading one
of the books. I don’t think I
can take another night sitting in the loft, so tonight I am going to sit out on
the cliff instead. Maybe a change of pace will do me well. The air
is cool tonight, winter is approaching. Wind is SE at 5 knots.
Nov. 1 I think spending the night on the
cliff-side has done me well, I feel a clarity settling over me. Somehow
it feels like I have put that part of me to rest, perhaps writing it down
helped… but I think a change of pace was more important. I can see storm
clouds approaching from the horizon. Barometric reading at 986 millibars.
I hope a ship comes in tonight… I have decided that saving people feels
good, a nice change of pace. It felt good…guiding in ships, so that I can
again, be a saving light.
She
didn’t know why, but for some reason, she was crying now. Tears flowed from her eyes; she finally
understood, even if she couldn’t explain.
Looking out the window at the sea below, she finally felt she could
let the memories go. He had finally
found himself, in a change of pace. She
needed to do the same. While she was
sure he would have been touched to know she had left flowers on his grave every
Sunday for these 538 weeks; she also knew that the same man who had worried
about her picking vegetables with her injured leg would not want her… to keep
doing this. Wiping her eyes, she made
her way to the furnace, and opening the door, she tossed the notebook inside--a
memento of him. Hesitantly at first, but
with renewed determination, she then cast each of the canvases in as well;
saying farewell to each reflection of a beauty she had forgotten, silently
thanking him. She stared at the furnace
for a long while, far longer than she should have; but farewells are not so
easy to leave.
Something was off… Squinting, and
lowering herself, she looked into the furnace’s iron bowels. The furnace, it was clean…
immaculately so--no soot--not at all how it should be. Reaching into the furnace, she
gingerly pulled the journal back out and re-read the last line.
I hope a
ship comes in tonight… I have decided that saving people feels good, a nice
change of pace. It felt good…guiding in ships, so that I can again, be a saving light.
With sinking realization she understood what had happened that fateful night. Quietly she whispered to herself, "You poor man." Solemnly she whispered, "It's not so wrong..." and placing the makeshift journal back into the furnace, she finally lit it. The canvas burst into flame: burning away the past, burning away misguided passions, and burning away his feelings for her.
A blinding light filled her
gaze; stumbling back, she fell to the bed--bewildered. Looking up, she saw a fierce beam radiating out of the beacon, its furnace lit at
last. She slowly raised herself up, and
looking out to the ocean, her back to the light, she could see her shadow
spread across the dark rolling sea. With
a smile, she realized that she couldn’t wait any longer.
And so, the old woman left that lighthouse, walking back along the dark path to her small cottage. Gazing back at the lighthouse, which shone for the last time, she realized she would never return to his sea. And for a moment she understood this ocean he had seen; then, with a light kiss on the wind, she finally let him go.
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