The Lighthouse Keeper, page 4
Muirhead paused and regarded me with a desperate expression, which at first I couldn’t interpret. I wondered whether he was tacitly offering me a final opportunity to back out, to say that I couldn’t go to Eilean Mòr. I glanced at Mary, and in her face I saw the impossibility of turning away, even had I wished to.
I stood up and again offered Robert Muirhead my hand. ‘You need a third Keeper, sir. I offer you my services.’
The Superintendent took my hand in his and clasped my arm in a strong grip with the other. ‘Thank you, laddie. Thank you.’
*
The Hesperus was still an hour or so away, and I wanted to speak with Mary again before I left. Donald MacArthur’s wife, Anne, had returned to the Shore Station from a long walk. Mary looked at her with great affection and sympathy, for Anne was not from here; she was a native of Gravesend, in the far south of England, and had met her husband shortly after his discharge from the Royal Engineers. Donald had brought her back to his homeland, and although she was highly regarded and well liked by the people hereabouts (she had even begun to master the Gaelic language), she sometimes found it difficult to fit in with this way of life, which was so different to what she had been used to.
After I had offered Anne MacArthur my condolences, Mary asked if she and I might take a walk outside, to which I agreed. Although the sky remained overcast and the wind snatched at the shore, the rain had eased, so that now the air was dampened only by occasional sea spray and pierced with the cries of hovering gulls.
As we walked slowly down the path leading from the Shore Station to the edge of the ocean, Mary looked at me, her face furrowed against the wind, and said, ‘Thank you again for coming, Mr Dalemore.’
‘Please call me Alec.’ It seemed to me that formality was lost in this situation. I had wanted to ask her about the things she had said in her letter, but now that the moment was upon me, I found it unaccountably difficult to broach the subject. Fortunately, Mary took the job from my hands.
‘I think I should apologise for writing the things I did. They must have seemed like the ravings of a madwoman…’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘There is a mystery here; that much is plain. I can’t understand why all three of the Lightkeepers would have gone outside at once.’
‘Nor can I. Nor can Mr Muirhead.’
‘You mentioned something else in your letter. Something I confess I didn’t understand.’
‘Yes. I am sorry for that. I wrote it while I was thinking of the dream I had.’
‘A dream? What did you dream about?’
‘The strange thing is, I can’t remember. I think I dreamed of James and the other keepers, but something seemed to reach into me, something strange and terrible, and snatched the dream away.’ Her voice had grown halting, punctuated with stifled sobs. I placed a hand on her arm, trying in vain to comfort her. Without thinking about where we were heading, we had arrived at the pier where the lighthouse tenders were moored. The sides of Loch Roag, weather-worn and misty, rose away on each side.
‘It’s so difficult, Alec,’ she continued. ‘I dreamed I was on Eilean Mòr, looking up at the lighthouse. James and Thomas and Donald were there, on the balcony, looking out to sea. It was night, and mists were covering the island, and every half-minute the light flashed out, turning them into dark silhouettes. I called out to them – to James – but they couldn’t hear me above the roar of the ocean. They seemed to be looking at something in the sky, but I couldn’t see what it was. They were grabbing each other and pointing; two were wearing their oilskins, but the third wasn’t… perhaps they were outside at first and rushed in to tell him that something was happening, and together they climbed in the greatest haste to the top of the tower.’
Like everyone else, I was aware of the so-called ‘forerunners’, phantoms of those lost – or about to be lost – at sea, who appeared to their loved ones as if to prepare them for the tragic news they would soon receive. They were said to appear sometimes in dreams, sometimes in the waking world.
‘What do you think they saw?’ I asked quietly.
‘I don’t know,’ Mary replied. ‘I looked up into the sky, but all I could see was the rain and mist and the spray of the ocean. And the light… the light swinging round every half-minute to turn them into black phantoms!’
She buried her head in her hands. I wanted to put my arms around her and hold her close, but felt that such a gesture, however innocently intended, would be presumptuous. And so instead, I placed a hand on her shoulder. After a few moments, she recovered a little and drew apart from me, her gaze fixed on the ground between us.
Something occurred to me then, a question which I wondered whether I should ask her. It might sound as though I were being dismissive, and yet I could not stand to see her so consumed with horror, and I knew that I had to seize any opportunity to bring her back to the world of sane thoughts – even if those thoughts were also unbearable.
‘You say that your dream was stolen from you. If that’s the case, how can you remember it?’
Her reply surprised me. ‘I’ve wondered that myself. Perhaps dreams are things… things that drift through the mind, of which the mind is aware. And when they go, they leave behind memories of what they were, and if something takes them, you remember that, too.’
I did not know how to respond to this. I believed that Mary Ducat’s mind was so filled with horror and grief that it was in danger of becoming unhinged. I was afraid for her, and for her children. I said nothing, as the wind flew in from the mouth of the loch and snatched at us as if trying to carry us out into the heaving waters beyond.
3
The Testament of Joseph Moore
The lighthouse tender Hesperus ploughed through the cold northern ocean, bound for the Flannan Isles, the Seven Hunters; bound for the heart of the terrible mystery that had descended like a carrion bird to cast a shadow of despair over us all.
John Milne, the Principal Keeper, had introduced himself to me soon after we got under way. He seemed an affable, capable man, a man of steady nerves who was untroubled by the lonely life of a Lightkeeper. Not every man is suitable for this profession, which requires him to spend long periods in isolated and dangerous places.
Lightkeepers are divided into three grades: Principals, Assistants and Occasionals. During the daytime, our duties include cleaning the Station and painting if necessary. We must maintain the equipment, making sure that the light is in proper working order, the oil fountains and canteens filled, the lenses polished and the wicks properly trimmed. At night the Keepers are required to keep watch in the lightroom to make sure that the light is working properly and flashing correctly to character, and also to keep a constant fog watch, and be ready to operate the fog signal in the event of poor visibility. The Lightkeepers must be men of many talents and abilities, with a good working knowledge of engines, and also a healthy respect for the capricious and destructive power of the sea. They must be good handymen and decent cooks, as well as genial and pleasant companions – a more important requirement than one might think, since they are required to man Rock Stations for four weeks at a time.
John Milne was such a man, and I felt confident at the prospect of spending a month in his and Joseph Moore’s company. I must say, however, that this feeling did not seem to be reciprocated; for although Milne seemed affable enough, I had the impression that this was only a pretence born more of good manners than something genuinely felt. Whenever I looked at him, he averted his gaze, and his smile seemed distracted, artificial. I didn’t know why this was, and I did not feel confident enough to ask him outright. In the end, I put it down to the sadness we all were feeling.
For the remainder of the voyage out to the Flannans, he avoided me, and even the tender’s crew refused to look me in the eye. The only man who treated me differently was Superintendent Muirhead, who had come with us to look over the island and talk to Joseph Moore. Nevertheless, several times I even caught Muirhead looking at me with that same expression of sadness and trepidation.
*
It was late in the afternoon when the Hesperus made its approach to the Flannan Isles. The turbulence of the Atlantic was mirrored in the sky, where the clouds boiled ceaselessly. Cold, hard rain lashed the decks, and the sea raised white-flecked claws against the vessel, thrashing and pounding it this way and that, so that the engine wheezed and panted its hunger for more coal. As we approached Eilean Mòr, I went out onto the deck and seized the rail to steady myself, so that I might have an unobstructed view of our destination.
The world is full of beautiful things; some bring delight to the heart, and others possess a terrible beauty that inspires fear and wonder. The calm waters of a loch, shimmering like quicksilver in the summer sun, can lift the soul and make one grateful to be alive. And yet on other days in those parts, the soul can tremble at the sight of rocky crags reaching naked and primal into a stormy sky, and one feels the need to hide one’s eyes from the limitless power of nature.
But Eilean Mòr inspired neither delight at nature’s beauty nor fear at its perilous splendour. The sheer ugliness of the place gave rise to a terrible kind of awe: if a shape can be said to be violent, then its shape was that. It seemed an expression of all that is dangerous and inimical in nature: its rocky crags and sheer cliffs, the deep gouges of its inlets, as if something huge and malign had reached up from the depths of the ocean to claw mindlessly at it, sent a flood of sickness through me – a sickness that had nothing to do with the rolling of the ship as we made our approach.
Muirhead came up beside me and grabbed the rail, planting his legs far apart on the heaving deck, his hair plastered across his forehead by the sea spray. ‘Cap’n Harvie’s going to try for the West Landing,’ he shouted.
I nodded and turned back to the approaching bulk of the island. Harvie had already sounded the tender’s horn, and a lone figure had emerged from the lighthouse and waved to us. From this distance I couldn’t tell who it was, and he and the lighthouse were quickly obscured from view by the misshapen rock of the island’s flanks, which rose precipitously into the furious sky.
The swell heaved us closer to the West Landing, with its semi-submerged steps clinging to an ascending outcrop of rock, constantly washed by the boiling sea. I was unashamed of the fear that seized me as jagged forms reared up on either side of the tender, threatening to smash us to smithereens at any moment. Fear and respect kept men alive in places like this, and at any rate, James Harvie was an experienced captain who well knew what he was doing. Twice he guided the Hesperus towards the landing, and twice the tender was coughed back out into the open sea. But on the third attempt, the island accepted us. William McCormack, the second mate, hurled a rope over the railing. The loop found the capstan, and the tender’s crew secured her at the landing.
And then something happened that made the steamer’s crew glance at each other uneasily. The sea that had been thrashing in the inlet containing the West Landing suddenly calmed, as if defeated by our successful mooring. The deck on which we stood ceased its heaving and began to bob gently up and down. It was as if the elements, exhausted by their attempts to deny the island to us, had finally admitted defeat and let us be.
I breathed a great sigh of relief and turned from the railing. As I did so, I caught sight of John Milne standing at the steamer’s prow, looking at me, his face devoid of expression.
*
Five of us went onto the island: myself, Captain Harvie, William McCormack the Second Mate, John Milne and Superintendent Muirhead. We laded ourselves with backpacks filled with supplies and made our way carefully up the slippery steps which curved upward around the island’s flank. The going was painstaking, for although the sea had unaccountably calmed, the wind still lashed at us, and the cold rain felt like a million tiny teeth gnawing incessantly at our faces. We took full advantage of the iron safety railing bolted onto the rock, clinging to it and hauling ourselves up the steps.
Presently we reached the wide concrete platform, about seventy feet above sea level, containing the crane used to transfer heavier supplies and equipment onto the island, and the terminus of the miniature tramway which was used to haul them up to the lighthouse. The first crane had been washed away during a violent storm the previous winter. Its replacement was in good order, the jib was lowered and secured to the rocks, and the canvas covering and the wire rope on the barrel were firmly lashed.
Everything seemed normal at first, with no clue to hint at the disaster that had overwhelmed James Ducat and the other Keepers. But as we made ready to leave the platform and climb the final flight of steps that would take us to the top of the island, we saw that part of the safety railing had been ripped from its stanchions, and what remained was horribly twisted out of shape. A large block of stone that must have weighed upwards of twenty hundredweight had been dislodged from its position higher up and carried down and left on the concrete path leading from the terminus of the tramway to the steps.
Milne paused at the remains of the safety railing, and slowly and tentatively reached out to touch the twisted iron, as if it were a length of electrical cable that might still be live. William McCormack came up and stood beside him. ‘Dear God, what could have done that? The sea?’
‘The sea has carried off more than this from the island, Mac,’ the Keeper replied. ‘It took the first crane with no trouble.’
‘And yonder stone,’ added Captain Harvie, pointing ahead at the fallen block.
McCormack shook his head. ‘All the same, Cap’n, a crane and a big lump of stone, they give the water something to hold onto… but the railing here… I’ve never seen the sea do that.’
Captain Harvie glanced at me and then clapped his Second Mate on the back. ‘Come along now, Mac; let’s get this gear up to the light. I’m sure the lads up there will have some hot tea waiting for us – and perhaps something a wee bit stronger.’
‘Aye, my nerves could do with it,’ muttered McCormack as he followed the captain onto the final flight of steps.
We found the man who had waved to us waiting at the top of the steps, and I saw that it was Joseph Moore, who had been first onto the island on the 26th of December. He greeted us all with a shake of the hand, although he didn’t smile; in fact, there was a great fear in his eyes and a pallor to his face.
Moore led the way up the sloping top of the island towards the lighthouse. Superintendent Muirhead walked with him, turning his head and saying things periodically, but the wind snatched his words away before they could reach me.
The lighthouse tower was squat and sturdy, rising some sixty feet into the air. At its base stood a large whitewashed house and a couple of stone outbuildings, where the equipment and supplies were kept. Gratefully we passed through the entrance gate in the low wall surrounding the small enclosure and entered the house through the kitchen door.
Inside, we found a fire burning brightly in the grate, and the table was laid for afternoon tea. Archie Lamont was pouring hot water from the kettle into a large teapot and called a friendly ‘hello’ over his shoulder as we relieved ourselves of our heavy backpacks and slumped into chairs around the table.
As I gratefully received a steaming mug of tea, I noticed that Joseph Moore was standing beside the kitchen door, as if reluctant to stay here. Lamont noticed it, too; he walked up to the lad and placed a comforting arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on, Joe, sit down and have some tea.’
‘How are you, Joseph?’ asked Captain Harvie.
Moore ran a hand through his thick, sodden dark hair and offered a weak smile. ‘Oh, I’m all right.’ He sighed. ‘Yes… I’m all right.’
‘Joe’s a good lad,’ said Lamont. ‘It wasn’t easy for him, being the first to find… well…’ He broke off and brought a large plate of oatcakes and apple scones to the table.
‘I understand,’ said Muirhead. ‘This is a terrible business, but I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of it. Where is Mr McDonald?’
‘Up in the lightroom.’ Lamont turned to Moore again. ‘Joe, will you ask Allan to come down? I daresay Captain Harvie’ll be wanting his shipmate back, eh Cap’n?’
Harvie nodded; the Buoymaster Allan McDonald would be leaving on the Hesperus when it departed. I glanced at Moore again and saw a yearning in his eyes that told more eloquently than words ever could how dearly he wanted to be away on the lighthouse tender when it left Eilean Mòr behind. Without a word, he retreated from the kitchen.
Lamont took a bottle of whisky and some glasses from a shelf and placed them on the table. ‘Now, who will take a wee dram?’
We all mumbled our agreement, and as Lamont poured, he said, ‘I don’t mind telling you that young Joseph has had an awful time this week. The shock of what he found – or rather what he didn’t find – has been almost too much for him to bear. He’s a sensitive lad, and that’s all to the good, but his nerves have been frayed ragged, having to stay here.’ It was clear that this was addressed more to Muirhead than to any of us others.
The Superintendent nodded. ‘Believe me, Archie, I understand what you’re saying. But the fact is I need him here for a while longer. I’ll certainly consider a transfer in due course, if that’s what he wants, but for the moment…’
‘Aye, Mr Muirhead, I know.’ Lamont sighed and sipped his whisky.
An uneasy silence followed, which Lamont broke by turning to me. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met, laddie.’
‘Alec Dalemore,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘Occasional, standing in for Daniel McBride, who’s on sick leave.’
Archie Lamont exchanged the same uneasy glance with the others around the table that I had noticed onboard the Hesperus. ‘Aye,’ he said at length. ‘Well… good, laddie. Good!’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s drink to the health of the relief Keepers – Mr Dalemore and Mr Milne!’
