The Lighthouse Keeper, page 2
Probably using it as a den, Rebecca thought. Wonder if there are any cubs in there.
She loved animals, and spending so much of her time in the city, she rarely had the chance to observe them in the wild… and if there were fox cubs inside, she wanted just a glimpse. She wouldn’t stay, since that would undoubtedly distress the parent… but just a quick glimpse…
Slowly and carefully, so as not to startle the fox, Rebecca bent down towards the entrance, which was hardly more than a ragged hole at one end of the building, and peered inside. The bright sunlight reached only a little way inside; the majority of the interior was dark, although she could discern the dim shapes of the stones forming the walls.
There was no sign of the fox. The chapel was empty.
What the hell?
She had definitely seen it enter the building, but there was nothing here now except darkness and a damp earth floor. Was there a small hole at the far end, through which the fox had exited? Rebecca strained to see into the gloom, wishing she had a flashlight. An animal with a dark pelt would have been able to hide from her gaze, but the fox was pure, almost luminous white. If it were in there, she should have been able to see it.
Weird. There must have been a hole somewhere in the walls of the chapel, just big enough for the animal to squeeze through.
Rebecca was about to stand up and go looking for the fox on the other side of the building, when something caught her eye… something on the floor – or rather, just beneath the floor, half buried under a small mound of earth. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would bury something here. For one thing, hardly anyone ever came here: the lighthouse had been automated back in 1971, and since then the only people who came to Eilean Mòr were the maintenance crews and naturalists like Nick and his colleagues. Maybe it was some relic from ages ago, perhaps centuries. Maybe, Rebecca told herself, it had been left by the hermit who once lived here. Unlikely, but an intriguing thought.
She edged a little further into the chapel, mindful of the dilapidated state of the roof: the last thing she needed was to get KO’d by a lump of stone. She looked up at the ceiling. It seemed sturdy enough, so she crawled the rest of the way inside and began to push aside the mound of earth. It was cold and clammy, and Rebecca grimaced in distaste. She never figured herself for an archaeologist, but if there were something interesting here… well, at least she’d have a souvenir to take back to the mainland. She might even give it to Nick as a present.
After a minute of pushing and digging in the darkness, Rebecca managed to free two objects from the earth’s damp embrace, and she carried them out into the daylight. Looking at the results of her labours, she was a little disappointed. A weirdly-shaped lump of stone and a small package wrapped in a thick, heavy material – that was it. She hefted the lump of stone in her hands. Strange. It looked like it had been carved into that shape, but it certainly wasn’t representative of anything – in fact, it was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Its surface appeared to be pitted with tool marks, like someone had chiselled it, carefully working the stone… someone with serious mental problems, by the look of it.
She put the stone on the ground and turned her attention to the cloth-covered package, which was tied together with a thong of rotted leather that fell to pieces as soon as she tried to untie it. Must have been buried for years and years, she thought.
Carefully, she began to unwrap the package, pulling aside the dark, stained fabric.
‘Becks,’ said a voice behind her, making her jump.
‘Shit! Nick…’
He laughed. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.’
She smiled at him. ‘It’s okay.’
‘What you got there?’
‘Oh, it’s… well, actually, I don’t know. I found them in there.’ She indicated the chapel with a nod.
Nick frowned. ‘Rebecca, you shouldn’t have gone in there. It’s centuries old. If it had collapsed on you…’
‘I would have been up the creek without a paddle, I know.’
‘And I’d never have forgiven myself.’
She sighed and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
His smile returned. ‘Well, no harm done. Just be careful. It can be dangerous out here, and we’re a long way from help.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise.’ Shit, she thought. The last thing I want is for him to start worrying about me. He’ll end up thinking it was a mistake to invite me. ‘How’s the equipment? Is it still playing up?’
‘I’m afraid so. Donald and Jennifer are working on it. We just thought we’d come up and see how you’re doing.’
‘We?’
‘Get a room, you two!’ said Max as he drew up alongside them. ‘Or should I say tent?’
Nick gave an embarrassed laugh, and Rebecca noticed a blush creeping into his cheeks. ‘Shut up, Max,’ she said with a smile.
‘Becks found something in the chapel,’ said Nick.
‘Oh yeah? Let’s see.’
Rebecca picked up the lump of stone and handed it to the big Floridian, who examined it. ‘Jesus. What the hell is this?’
‘That’s what I was wondering,’ Rebecca replied.
‘It’s definitely been carved,’ Max added, turning the stone over and over in his hands.
‘Yeah, but into what?’
‘Beats me. What else you got?’
Rebecca unwrapped the package.
Nick and Max leaned in close. ‘A book?’ said Max.
‘Looks like it.’ Rebecca handed the wrapping to Nick, who examined it briefly.
‘Oilskin. Pretty old… and this looks like an old logbook.’
Slowly, taking care not to damage the book, Rebecca opened it to the first page and read aloud the title.
The Testament Of Alec Dalemore,
Occasional Keeper
‘What’s an “occasional keeper”?’ asked Max.
‘A lighthouse keeper,’ Nick replied, ‘but not a professional, fulltime one. Occasional keepers filled in on lighthouse duty when there was a shortage of staff for any reason.’
‘My God,’ said Rebecca suddenly. ‘Dalemore… Alec Dalemore.’
Nick gave her a curious look. ‘What’s up?’
Rebecca looked from Nick to Max. ‘He was one of the relief keepers who came to Eilean Mòr after the disappearances.’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Max. ‘What disappearances?’
‘It happened a long time ago,’ Rebecca explained. ‘Back in 1900.’ She nodded behind them, back up towards the squat tower of the lighthouse at the island’s summit. ‘The light was brand new – it had been built less than a year before. It was manned by three people when the disaster happened.’
‘So what’s the story?’ said Max.
‘The three lighthouse keepers vanished from the island,’ Rebecca replied.
‘Vanished?’
‘When their tour of duty was up and the replacement crew arrived, they found the place deserted. No sign of them. They were never seen again.’
‘And this Dalemore fella was part of the relief crew?’ said Max.
Rebecca nodded.
‘How come you know about all this?’
‘I decided to read up on the history of the place when Nick invited me out here.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’
‘In case you’d forgotten, Max, I am a bloody historian!’
He chuckled. ‘Okay, point taken. Anyway, sounds spooky, like a Scotch version of the Bermuda Triangle.’
‘Scottish,’ Nick corrected him. ‘Scotch is a drink, dickhead.’
‘Whatever.’
‘You know,’ said Rebecca, ‘this could be a really significant find. There’s never been any record of what happened when Dalemore and the other relief keepers came to the island after the disappearances. None of them ever spoke about it. And as far as anyone knew, none of them left behind any personal logs.’
Nick took the book from her and leafed through it. He frowned. ‘This isn’t a log, personal or otherwise.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Rebecca.
Nick held the book open for her to see. ‘Look. There are no day-by-day entries; it’s a continuous text, kind of an autobiography, I guess…’
‘A testament,’ said Rebecca, ‘just like the title says. Jesus…’
Nick glanced back towards the ruined chapel. ‘How come it was in there? I mean… who buried it there, and why?’
‘Maybe Dalemore did,’ suggested Max.
Nick gave him a dubious look.
‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe you’ll find the answer in there.’ He indicated the book, then gave Nick a playful punch on the shoulder. ‘In the meantime, buddy, we’ve got a bit more work to do before chow.’
‘Can I help?’ asked Rebecca absently, still looking at the book.
Nick regarded her for a moment, then smiled. ‘That’s okay. Why don’t you get stuck into your own research?’
They held each other’s gaze, until Max rolled his eyes and said: ‘I’ll be on the crane platform.’ He sauntered off towards the edge of the island, whistling a Jimmy Buffet tune.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Nick.
‘About what?’
‘What old Max said about… you know, getting a tent.’
‘Oh!’ Rebecca laughed. ‘That’s okay, don’t worry about it.’ She found his embarrassment very attractive. She was about to say something more, but then she remembered how she had found the book and the stone. ‘Nick,’ she said, ‘is there much wildlife on the island?’
‘On Eilean Mòr?’
‘Yeah, I mean, actually on the island.’
‘Not much, apart from a few wild rabbits and the seabirds which nest here.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ she said quietly.
‘Why? What’s up?’
‘I saw a fox earlier on…’
‘Really?’
‘A white one. It looked like an arctic fox.’
Nick regarded her in silence for a few moments. ‘You’re kidding. There aren’t any arctic foxes here, Becks. Are you sure it wasn’t a rabbit?’
The comment was so ridiculous it made her laugh out loud. ‘Of course I’m sure it wasn’t a rabbit! I was thinking maybe it stowed away on one of the maintenance ships that come out here.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s possible. But… an arctic fox…?’ He considered for a moment. ‘It could have been an albino, I suppose… if it was a fox.’
She sighed theatrically and smiled.
He glanced at her, and then laughed. ‘Okay, okay, it was a fox. Come on, let’s get back to the platform.’
As they descended from the island’s summit, Nick shook his head. ‘An albino fox… wow. I’d love to see that.’
‘Maybe we can look for it later.’
‘Yeah, maybe we can…’
While the rest of the group continued to struggle with their equipment, Rebecca went into the tent she was sharing with Nick and Max. She dropped the carved stone onto her sleeping bag, sat down and opened the book. She leafed through it, noting that the pages appeared to have been well preserved in their oilskin wrapping. The script was small and very neat, almost a copperplate, in fact. Very few words had been crossed out, implying that Dalemore had thought very carefully about what he was writing.
Jesus, what a find! She could hardly believe she had stumbled upon it – and all because she had followed the white fox into the chapel. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the Rosetta Stone, but it was still of great importance to the maritime history of this region, and might well offer some clue as to the fate of the three lighthouse keepers who had vanished so tragically and mysteriously all those years ago.
Although she had already embarked on her MA, she couldn’t help thinking that this would have made a hell of a subject for a dissertation. All the same, this discovery would be a fine start to her career as a historian. She imagined being interviewed by the local press, maybe even by the local news on TV. And then, when she had completed her MA, she might even be able to use it as the basis for a PhD proposal.
Hold on, Becks. You’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you?
She guessed that was true… but who knew where this might lead?
She thought about Alec Dalemore. I’m the first person to read his journal. But why did he bury it in the chapel – if he was the one who buried it? Had he written it while he was on Eilean Mòr, or had he written it later, and then returned to the island?
This was the reason for her love of history: the thrill of discovery, the piecing together of evidence that led to a new understanding of the past; the slow, steady adding to the sum of human knowledge of itself and the world. She had the feeling that she was standing at a small frontier, that she was about to learn something that no one in the world knew. She looked out through the open flaps of the tent across the slow-moving ocean and smiled. The great mystery of the sea, and the mystery of Eilean Mòr: a puzzle each for her and Nick.
She flicked carefully through the book, unable to resist the temptation to read snippets here and there. But as she scanned the text, a frown crept slowly across her brow. She stopped reading and started to look for the beginning of each chapter. She read the titles. They started off prosaically enough, but as she worked her way through the book, they became stranger. One chapter was called ‘The Living Sky’; the next was called ‘From the Ocean’; later on, there were chapters called ‘This Night Wounds Time’ and ‘Another Order of Being’.
And then she found a chapter entitled ‘The White Fox’.
‘Shit!’ she whispered. The White Fox?
She suddenly wanted a cigarette very badly, but Nick and Max were non-smokers, and she didn’t want to mess up the air in the tent, so she grabbed her pack and her lighter and took the book out onto the crane platform. She could still hear perplexed voices coming from the equipment tent. Jennifer was outside, though. She had set up the camping stove and was heating soup and preparing smoked haddock for their evening meal.
Rebecca sat with her back against the mass of rock rising from the inner edge of the platform, lit a cigarette and read the chapter entitled ‘The White Fox’.
When she had finished, she closed the book and sat very still for a while. Presently, she said quietly to herself: ‘Jesus Christ.’
Jennifer glanced at her. ‘Are you all right, Rebecca?’
She looked at the older woman as if she had never seen her before. ‘I’m sorry?’
Jennifer regarded her in puzzlement. ‘Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I… I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Well, our tea’s ready. Donald! Nick! Max! Come and have something to eat before the soup gets cold!’
They discussed the problems with their equipment while they ate, but their words made little impression on Rebecca, who was still thinking of the chapter she had read. Nick noticed how quiet she was.
‘You okay, Becks?’
‘Yeah,’ she nodded. ‘I’m fine.’
She wanted to tell him what was in the chapter, but she knew she’d sound stupid or crazy if she even tried to describe it. So she just smiled and nodded and said yeah, she was fine.
When they had finished, Max helped Jennifer wash the dishes, and when they returned to the camp, he said: ‘Hey, Becks. How about reading the book to us?’
‘Book?’ said Donald.
‘She found it in the old chapel up there.’
Donald looked at Rebecca in surprise. ‘What an astonishing find! I’d love to hear it, if you don’t mind.’
‘No… no, I don’t mind at all,’ she replied.
‘Cool,’ said Max. ‘This is exactly what we need: a good campfire story!’
Donald lit his pipe and puffed at it contentedly as Rebecca picked up the book, which she had placed beside her while she ate, opened it and began to read.
The Testament Of
Alec Dalemore,
Occasional Keeper
1
How I Learned of the Mystery of Eilean Mòr
The Flannan Isles are wild and untamed, and when the storms of winter seize these latitudes, the seas rise like the foothills of invisible mountains, drawing the eye towards the far north and the further lands beyond, which lie at the unseen pinnacle of the world. Here at the far extremities of the British Isles, where the North Atlantic pounds with eternal insistence upon the jagged edges of the land, and the sky groans with the rage of distant thunder, it is easy to surrender to fevered imagination: to allow oneself to believe that the mundane world of the senses is but the most fleeting echo of another world – vaster, stranger and more magnificent than even dreams may tell.
Many of the older people who live in these regions, whose hearts and minds have not been swayed by the onrush of this modern age, would say that it is not merely imagination that hints at the existence of the other world. It is a reality, they say; perhaps more real than our own world, with its noisy, soulless machines and mad rushings here and there. In spite of this, the strange beliefs that once shaped the lives of all have declined over the decades, so that now they are no more than curious tales told quietly to each other by the elders around the bright, crackling hearth, while the younger folk fix their eyes and their hearts upon the concerns of the new century.
Once, I would have counted myself proudly amongst the latter group, with little time for the quaintness of folklore in far-away places. But the ages of man are but the ages of the world writ small, and just as the land is gradually transformed by the wind and the rain, the warmth of the summer and the cold of winter’s chiselling frosts, by the breathing seasons of the world, so are we constantly altered and shaped by the experiences of our lives, which can mould us gently like the skilful hands of a potter, or beat our minds into new forms like white-hot metal upon a blacksmith’s anvil.
Such has been my experience, and this is my testament, my account of all that happened to me when I went to Eilean Mòr to search for a man to whom I owed my life.
The man’s name was James Ducat, and before I set down my later experiences, I must tell of the great service he did me, for he plucked me from the ocean’s maw when my ship dashed itself against rocks near Gallan Head on the west coast of Lewis in the winter of 1899. I and my crew had thought ourselves at an end as we clung like barnacles to those unforgiving stone sentinels, and for hours we prayed for either rescue or a quick and painless death in the sea’s roiling embrace. In the end, just when it seemed that God had forsaken us, a ship appeared from out of the mist and sea spray and gathered us to safety on the brooding land. A lighthouse tender it was, on its way to some far-flung splinter of rock, carrying men who would relieve those who kept the lamps lit through the long, dark northern nights.
