Thick, sea-born gales that clouded the night with their own wretched howls battered the mind of the keeper as much as the body of the lighthouse. The winds encircled the stone structure and rattled the glass panes of the watch room. Their calls gripped me just as fiercely. They had gotten stronger, so much stronger, and conversed with me in a language that slipped past my eyelids and into my sleep.
Tonight, the waves were vicious. They tore at the island and whirled and crashed and swelled with a rage no man could possess. Their shrieks almost made me too fearful to step onto the gallery, but I was soon soothed by the groaning of the heavy iron door that, for a moment, drowned out the bellows of the ocean and cooled the nerves that tingled beneath my palms.
The deep blue of the sky hung over the sea, heavy with every pleading wish it had been given. I glanced upwards to see the light of the lighthouse penetrating the fog and wondered if I should retreat to bed. But sleep only invited dreams that left me with a dull ache in my ribs; ones that ended with me waking to a different day. To a self who had been swept away with an equinox or a solstice. One who floated in between mists and sifted through clouds, existing somewhere far away from the seashore lights.
It lived in the bronzed grass that clung to the cliffs, in the bottle green-scented trickle of rain that ran in thin streams down the windows and wafted over the island to join the mountainous green of the mainland, in the mournful hum of the fog horn. Most of all, it lived in the wind.
The island stood isolated from the mainland, from anyone’s eyes, from anyone’s hands. The depth of black water that divided us swayed steadily, holding the island and me gently, but the reflection of the light, the light that pierced through clouds and mist and every attempt to stay hidden, rippled across the waves, unfazed. The beacon weighed like iron in my stomach. I clawed my way around every day, tripping on my string of grief for what once was, what will never be again, that had tangled its way into every divot and hook around me. If the light had not been so heavy I might have found the end of the string and, maybe, if I was really to let it fade, begun to look for the spool.
But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. The water was too deep, cavernous and hungry, and my arms were too heavy, like iron. Like wings.
The descent towards the service room was shaky. My legs wobbled for the first time in years when I looked down below to see the curl of the spiral staircase. The echo of my footsteps in the empty tower sent chills rumbling through my bones.
Pahm, pahm, pahm.
The service room, with its twisting pipes and vents, loomed above me like snakes slithering over one another. The switch beckoned me, unwinding guilt and fear and wanting so as to lead me toward it.
I surged forward and closed my eyes. A quiet part of me whispered, “What if when you open them it’s January again? The one where you drifted through the sky and clung to your sadness and dreamed hazy winter dreams? Or what if it’s that summer filled with anger, with confusion, with questions for the sea and words that failed you? What if when you open them you have returned to when no one knew you? When you were dumb and had nothing, nothing, nothing to live for except an aimless and lonely pursuit for something, something, something bigger than you? Bigger than all of it?”
I thought of the swollen sky and gave it a wish.
I want to be safe. I want to be untethered. I want to float between existence and nonexistence. But the lighthouse is too much.
I saw the seashore lights begging me. I heard my own voice in the wind chanting a chorus of “FINALLY”s.
And I imagined the horror of the sailors as they watched the light flicker, the blackness of the cliffs finally swallowing us whole.
Tonight, the waves were vicious. They tore at the island and whirled and crashed and swelled with a rage no man could possess. Their shrieks almost made me too fearful to step onto the gallery, but I was soon soothed by the groaning of the heavy iron door that, for a moment, drowned out the bellows of the ocean and cooled the nerves that tingled beneath my palms.
The deep blue of the sky hung over the sea, heavy with every pleading wish it had been given. I glanced upwards to see the light of the lighthouse penetrating the fog and wondered if I should retreat to bed. But sleep only invited dreams that left me with a dull ache in my ribs; ones that ended with me waking to a different day. To a self who had been swept away with an equinox or a solstice. One who floated in between mists and sifted through clouds, existing somewhere far away from the seashore lights.
It lived in the bronzed grass that clung to the cliffs, in the bottle green-scented trickle of rain that ran in thin streams down the windows and wafted over the island to join the mountainous green of the mainland, in the mournful hum of the fog horn. Most of all, it lived in the wind.
The island stood isolated from the mainland, from anyone’s eyes, from anyone’s hands. The depth of black water that divided us swayed steadily, holding the island and me gently, but the reflection of the light, the light that pierced through clouds and mist and every attempt to stay hidden, rippled across the waves, unfazed. The beacon weighed like iron in my stomach. I clawed my way around every day, tripping on my string of grief for what once was, what will never be again, that had tangled its way into every divot and hook around me. If the light had not been so heavy I might have found the end of the string and, maybe, if I was really to let it fade, begun to look for the spool.
But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. The water was too deep, cavernous and hungry, and my arms were too heavy, like iron. Like wings.
The descent towards the service room was shaky. My legs wobbled for the first time in years when I looked down below to see the curl of the spiral staircase. The echo of my footsteps in the empty tower sent chills rumbling through my bones.
Pahm, pahm, pahm.
The service room, with its twisting pipes and vents, loomed above me like snakes slithering over one another. The switch beckoned me, unwinding guilt and fear and wanting so as to lead me toward it.
I surged forward and closed my eyes. A quiet part of me whispered, “What if when you open them it’s January again? The one where you drifted through the sky and clung to your sadness and dreamed hazy winter dreams? Or what if it’s that summer filled with anger, with confusion, with questions for the sea and words that failed you? What if when you open them you have returned to when no one knew you? When you were dumb and had nothing, nothing, nothing to live for except an aimless and lonely pursuit for something, something, something bigger than you? Bigger than all of it?”
I thought of the swollen sky and gave it a wish.
I want to be safe. I want to be untethered. I want to float between existence and nonexistence. But the lighthouse is too much.
I saw the seashore lights begging me. I heard my own voice in the wind chanting a chorus of “FINALLY”s.
And I imagined the horror of the sailors as they watched the light flicker, the blackness of the cliffs finally swallowing us whole.