The Lighthouse Keeper, page 16
We turned our backs on the sea and began to walk towards the light.
‘Can I ask you one other thing, Alec?’
‘Of course.’
‘While the clouds were… well, while it was happening, I heard you say something. “Dear Mary,” you said, “I have kept my promise.” What did you mean by that?’
‘It’s the reason I volunteered to join the relief crew. I received a letter from James Ducat’s wife, informing me of what had happened. She asked me to try to find out what had befallen her husband and the other keepers, and I vowed to do as she asked, somehow. Two days ago, I thought we were lost; I thought our ending was upon us and that I had answered her question – though I would never be able to tell her.’
‘I see. You knew Ducat well?’
‘He saved my life,’ I replied and told Milne of how my ship was wrecked off Gallan Head a year ago, and of how Ducat had saved me from death upon the rocks. I told him of the unpayable debt I owed that man, of how I had become a friend to him and his family in the months that followed, and how I considered it my duty at least to attempt to find an answer to the mystery of his disappearance, for the sake of Mary and the children.
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Milne, and in his voice I detected something that might have been a new respect. I certainly hoped so, for Occasional Keepers are not always held in high esteem by their full-time colleagues, and I had the additional disadvantage of having replaced a man who was unable to do duty on the island – just as Donald MacArthur had done.
At that moment, I thought of broaching the subject of the conversation I had overheard Milne and Moore having in the kitchen soon after we arrived. But then I realised that there was no longer any need. To their great credit, they had tried to ignore the ill omen of my presence, and now I was glad to reveal something of my character to Milne, to reassure him that I was a man who could be trusted in matters of importance.
I also noticed a new lightness in Milne’s step as we walked across the yard to the kitchen door, as if he were happy to be returning to the light and to the resumption of his duties, and for the first time I realised how important my action had been in ridding us of the carved stone. I had the impression that we were beginning again on Eilean Mòr, that we had rid ourselves of fear and brooding mystery, and that now we would be able to discharge our duties cleansed of the dark strangeness that had so hideously besieged us over the past week.
Although I cannot say for certain, perhaps somewhere in my mind there was a dim awareness of how naive such thoughts were. With hindsight, it seems obvious that I was merely seizing on my disposal of the stone as a harbinger of better fortune, which is understandable enough.
At any rate, I was profoundly, terribly mistaken. Four days later, on the 18th of January, there occurred an event that was to mark the beginning of a new phase of our strange torment on Eilean Mòr.
*
On the night of the 18th, Milne was doing duty in the lightroom. Joseph had already transferred the meteorological and other information from the slate to the logbook, and he and I played a couple of hands of cards in the kitchen and then went into the sitting room to read. Joseph chose a book of history, while I took up a copy of one of Walter Scott’s stories. I had briefly considered taking Martin Martin’s A Description of the Western Isles of Scotland again but decided against it, for now I had no desire to acquaint myself further with the mysteries of ancient folklore and superstition.
I took a pipe and puffed happily upon it as I settled back with my book, listening as I lost myself in its pages to the rising wind and rattle of rain outside. Presently, I felt my eyelids drooping and a pleasant fatigue gently overcoming me. I rested the open book upon my chest and allowed myself to drift towards sleep. I began to dream vaguely of a great dark sea, above which a lone seabird flew on slowly flapping wings. The seabird shrieked – a strange, almost human sound…
And then I was shaken awake by Joseph. I opened my eyes to see him standing over me, a look of great fear and confusion on his face.
‘What is it?’ I mumbled, sitting up straight.
At that moment, I realised the origin of the cry I had heard in my brief dream, for it sounded again, from somewhere above.
In the lightroom, John Milne was screaming.
Joseph and I ran from the sitting room. As we hurried up the stairs, another cry filled the tower. The sound of a man screaming is one of the most tragic and horrible things, and I could not begin to guess at what was happening to make Milne cry out so. There was such a pitiful despair in his voice that my heart withered in my chest.
‘John, we’re coming!’ shouted Joseph behind me.
We entered the lightroom to find Milne standing at the windows, shuddering and moving to and fro, like a child swaying to the strains of a lullaby. He was hugging himself with his powerful arms, as if he were freezing cold. And all the while, he was gazing out through the windows – out and down towards the sea.
I went to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched and groaned at the contact. ‘John, what is it?’
Milne shook his head. ‘I can see it. Look there… look! Can’t you see?’
‘See what?’ I followed his pointed arm and looked out into the darkness.
‘Down there, Alec. Down there in the sea. It’s there!’
‘There’s nothing there, John!’ I said firmly, for in truth I could see nothing but the whirling of the rain, driven to frenzy by the constantly rising wind which threw it upon the windows in crackling bursts, and the great, dark, moving mass of the ocean beyond.
‘Wait for the light,’ he said. ‘Wait for the light to come around, and then you’ll see!’
A few seconds later, the lens assembly brought the white beam around and cast it before us into the night, etching the sea’s heaving surface with bright silver and making diamonds of the flying rain. Still, I could see nothing but the world, nothing that could make a man scream.
‘Joseph!’ I shouted. ‘Can you see anything out there?’
‘No,’ said Milne. ‘Don’t let him. Please don’t let him.’
But the lad came up behind me, and together we waited for the next passing of the light. When it came around, Joseph jumped back from the windows and cried out, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ save us!’
Milne turned to him. ‘Get out of here, Joseph. Go back downstairs.’
‘No.’
‘Get downstairs, laddie, now!’
‘I won’t!’
‘You mustn’t see it,’ Milne said, and I saw tears flowing down his face.
I shook my head furiously. ‘There’s nothing out there. I can’t see anything out there but the sea and the rain.’
‘Why can’t you see it?’ Joseph whimpered, still backing away from the window.
‘Please go downstairs,’ repeated Milne.
‘I don’t want to be alone,’ said Joseph.
The light came around again, and again I pressed my face to the glass and tried to see, but again I could discern nothing but the fierceness of the wind and rain and ocean. Why couldn’t I see what the others were seeing? My fear was compounded by confusion and desperation.
I turned to Milne. ‘All right, John – describe it.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’
‘What do you mean you can’t? What is it? What does it look like?’
‘It’s moving in the ocean,’ he said, his voice thick with terror and revulsion. ‘It’s coming up out of the sea. Coming closer now… oh God!’
Joseph went again to the windows and waited for the light to swing round, and I marvelled at the perversity of his action, for the sight of it had smitten him like a physical blow, and yet, against all sanity and logic, he strained to see it again. He was as one hypnotised by some immense and malign power, held helpless in its grasp, or perhaps forced by his own disbelief to look upon it again and again.
Without warning, Milne lunged at him and threw him violently to the floor. ‘No!’ he screamed, as I seized him and drew him back, fearful of what else he might do in the chaos of his terror. Under normal circumstances, I was perhaps his equal in strength, but panic lends a man greater strength, and I thought again of my speculation that one of the missing Keepers had gone violently insane and murdered his fellows.
‘John,’ I whispered into his ear. ‘Be calm, now. Be calm.’
‘I can’t let him see,’ Milne said softly through his tears. ‘It’ll be the end of him.’ Another glance through the flood of the white beam, and Milne collapsed in my arms, and gently as I could I eased him to the floor.
‘It’s on the island now,’ he whispered.
13
‘This Night Wounds Time’
I awoke in my bed, and immediately I was seized with confusion and panic. The last thing I remembered was John Milne collapsing to the floor in the lightroom, and me cradling his trembling form in my arms. Grey light seeped in through the window, and as I sat up suddenly, I saw a figure rising from the single wooden chair in a dim corner of the room.
‘What’s happening?’ I cried.
The figure came into the watery light, and I saw that it was Milne. He had a frown of deep concern upon his face as he said, ‘Rest easy now, Alec. You’re all right…’
‘I know I’m all right,’ I said loudly. ‘But you, you…’
Milne retreated a little way, took up the chair from the corner and brought it to my bedside. He sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at me with great intensity.
‘How are you feeling, Alec?’
‘I don’t understand what’s happening,’ I replied. ‘The last thing I remember, I was up in the lightroom with you and Joseph. You’d cried out, and we’d gone up to see what was wrong. And then… then…’
‘What? Tell me what you remember,’ he said very gently.
I spoke in a swift, frantic whisper, while Milne sat and listened. ‘You and Joseph saw something coming out of the sea. You were both terrified, pointing through the windows, saying it was coming towards the island. I looked, but I couldn’t see anything – nothing but the storm, the rain, the wind. I couldn’t see what you were seeing… and then you threw Joseph to the floor because you didn’t want him to see it, and I took hold of you because I didn’t know what else you might do, such was your fright. And then you seemed to collapse, as if overwhelmed by what you saw.’
‘And then?’ he said.
‘And then… I woke up here. Is it really morning?’
‘It is.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Half past ten. You’ve been asleep for nearly thirteen hours…’
‘Thirteen hours! It’s not possible.’
‘I can assure you it is, laddie, for here you are, and half past ten is the time.’
I lay back against my pillow, still hardly believing what Milne had said. I recalled the strange and frightening lapse in consciousness I had experienced some days before, when I had suddenly and unaccountably found myself inside the ruined chapel, and again I feared for my reason and sanity. But it was Milne and Moore who had been pushed to the point of madness last night; it was they who had seen something in the ocean which I could not see. Could I be the victim of lunacy, when I had been the one to see nothing but the natural elements?
I sighed and met Milne’s gaze squarely. ‘What did you and Joseph see, John? What was out there to cause you to cry out and weep so?’
Very slowly, John Milne shook his head. ‘Alec… we saw nothing. It was you who was raving about something coming out of the ocean.’
‘Me?’
‘Joseph and I have been very concerned about you, laddie. Joseph, in fact, wondered if you would last the night. I don’t mind telling you I’m glad to see that you have.’
I felt the room sway around me, and my breath began to come in gasps. What Milne was saying was not possible. I had seen nothing! But after all, I was the one lying in bed after spending thirteen hours in oblivion, not Milne, and not Joseph.
‘I don’t understand.’
Milne shrugged and gave me a smile which, I supposed, was intended to encourage me. ‘Neither do we. But you seem to have regained your senses.’ He shook his head again. ‘We were very worried about you.’
‘All right then, John. It seems clear enough that I have no memory of what really happened last night. So, will you please do me the favour of telling me?’
Milne hesitated, and then he sighed and said, ‘Very well. I was on duty in the lightroom. Everything was normal. You and Joseph were downstairs. At about half past nine, you came up with a mug of tea for me, and we talked for a few minutes. Then you went to the windows and looked out to the north. You made some comment about the weather, the rising wind, the rain… then you looked down at the sea, and you cried out…’
‘I cried out?’
‘Yes. I came over and asked you what was wrong. The look on your face, Alec… well, I looked where you were pointing, but I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But you said there was something there, moving in the sea. I tried to calm you. I reminded you that a stormy sea plays tricks on a man’s mind, that sometimes one sees things that aren’t really there.’
‘I understand that well enough,’ I said.
‘I know, but last night you wouldn’t accept it. You kept shouting that there was something out there – something you wouldn’t or couldn’t describe. But there was panic in your voice, and I was afraid, and I called down to Joseph to come up and help, because I didn’t know what you might do – break the windows and injure yourself, perhaps, or…’
‘Or injure you?’
‘Aye,’ Milne nodded. ‘I’m afraid of no man, Alec, but a man seized with fear and panic can be difficult to manage – I’ve seen it before. And so Joseph came up to the lightroom, and immediately you began screaming at him to get out, to go back downstairs, and that you didn’t want him to see what was out there, that it would be too much for him, that to see it would be too much for any man. To his credit, the lad stayed calm, and we tried to get you away from the windows, but you kept screaming and pointing, and saying strange things…’
‘What things?’ I asked. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Ach, I’m not sure I remember precisely. Jumbles of words that didn’t mean anything.’
‘Please try to remember, John.’
‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘you talked of a shadow… “it’s a shadow,” you said, “a shadow of something no longer here… but still it moves and lives. And the sea knows and is afraid of it, the cause of all storms.”’
‘What else?’ I asked, trying to remember these events but failing utterly. It was as if Milne were describing a scene at which I had not been present, and again I experienced a vertiginous feeling of shock, confusion and disbelief.
‘You…’ His voice trailed off, and he looked at me, and for the first time since I had woken, I saw fear in his eyes, and it seemed that it was not felt for me, and I believed then that he remembered far more of what I had said than he was prepared to admit.
‘You must tell me what else you remember, John,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘It’s my right to know!’
‘Your right?’
‘Yes. If what you say is true, then there is something wrong with me, with my mind. If so, then I am owed the facts by a fellow man!’
Milne gave another sigh. ‘It’s true you said other things, but they were things no Christian man would say…’
‘Blasphemies?’
‘No, not as such… but such strange things! About what you were seeing outside. Nothing of which a Christian mind could conceive. “The coming together of past, present and future,” you said. “The primal night… the first thought in the great outside… the shadow of that which thought first, in the night which was, and which will be. It is here,” you said. “It is still here, and it is still alive.”’
And then Milne stood up suddenly and went to the window. For many moments he stood there with his back to me, gazing out silently across the island to the sea beyond.
‘“It breathes our dreams,” you said. “It forged the cross and the star and the crescent in our minds, and all are shadows of its shadow. It lives on the land and in the sea… and in the seas of space and time, and the minds which live in space and time. And God is the shadow of its shadow, for it is not God.”
‘And then you began to weep, Alec. And you moaned with such despair that I thought my heart and mind would break, as yours appeared to be breaking. And then you laughed when Joseph began to pray. “It’s coming closer,” you said. “It’s coming onto the island now. What is it made of?” you asked. “Why can’t you see it?”’
Milne turned away from the window and stood facing me, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘And then you collapsed to the floor, and Joseph and I held you while you wept.’
‘Did I… did I say anything else?’ I asked quietly.
‘One more thing. Just before you fell unconscious, you said, “This night wounds time.”’
‘What does that mean? What does any of it mean?’
‘I don’t know, Alec. I truly don’t know.’
*
Milne left my room, and I lay in bed for a while trying to make sense of everything he had said. But of course, it didn’t make sense. I felt fine, apart from the slight headache and that certain fuzzy feeling behind the eyes which one gets after too much sleep. I truly did not think I was losing my mind. Of course, who knows what madness feels like, except the mad? But I felt in full control of my faculties, and I was still confident that my own memory of the previous night’s events was accurate. In fact, had Milne not described to me what he recalled, I would have gone to him and Joseph with the same concern they evidently felt for me, with not the slightest suspicion that my memories were anything but true.
And the things Milne told me I had said! They were not the products of my mind, for I could never have conceived of such bizarre notions. Bizarre and blasphemous, in spite of Milne’s reluctance to call them that. Living shadows in the seas of space and time… the primal night… breathing dreams and forging the Cross. Such concepts completely passed my understanding, and I wondered whether, even in madness, my mind would be capable of producing such abnormalities of thought. The more I pondered the matter, the more outrageous it seemed.
