The Lighthouse Keeper, page 9
I wanted to go to the kitchen and say this to them, to put their minds at rest, but I knew that it wouldn’t do any good. I was already an outsider, and in their eyes worse than an outsider. Any protestations I made would simply have marked me as one who does not known the ways of the sea, and men of the sea, and Lightkeepers.
And, perhaps, all the more dangerous for that.
What was I to do, then? The answer was obvious and came to me immediately: I was to do the job I had come here to do, to the best of my ability, and not be found wanting in any of my tasks. Thus would I reassure my companions that they had nothing to fear from my presence!
I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor as Milne went to his room. They seemed to pause briefly outside my door before continuing on. I stood up, left my room and went back to the kitchen.
Joseph had set the table for breakfast and was boiling water for tea. ‘Good morning, Alec,’ he said quietly.
‘Good morning, Joseph.’
He looked out through the window. ‘The weather hasn’t turned yet. It’s calm now, but it’ll be raining auld wives and pike staves by this afternoon.’
‘Aye, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘I wonder if it will come back tonight,’ he said quietly, and I was struck by the casual way he said it, in the same tone he might have used had he been wondering what was for supper this evening.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. Then I asked if Milne had mentioned any further disturbances after we left the lightroom last night. Joseph shook his head. ‘What do you think it was?’ I asked.
‘I can’t say… but didn’t you have the feeling it was watching us, Alec? Be truthful with me, now.’
I gave a chuckle as I took the kettle and poured boiling water into the teapot.
‘No, Alec! Don’t treat it lightly,’ Joseph said suddenly and with great vehemence. ‘It’s a bad thing to do, to laugh at it!’
I turned to him. ‘And what would you have me do, Joseph? Cower under my bed like a wee trembling mouse, waiting for the cat to pass by? We saw something strange last night, I won’t deny that; something that shouldn’t have been there, but there’s an explanation for it, Joseph, even if we don’t know what it is – an explanation that makes sense. And we’re still here and unharmed, and we have a job to do.’
‘Why didn’t it move, Alec?’ he demanded suddenly. ‘What can cause a light to appear above the sea, to make it hang there without moving in a sky full of gales?’
‘A star,’ I said. ‘A star in the sky does not move, at least not fast enough to be seen.’
Now Joseph laughed, but it was a humourless sound, bitter and desolate as the sea. ‘It wasn’t a star, Alec; you know that as well as I do. No stars shine in a sky full of thick clouds.’
‘Well then, a break in the clouds,’ I countered in desperation. ‘A sudden break in the clouds, allowing a single star to shine through.’
Joseph shook his head. ‘The clouds were as deep as the ocean last night. There were no stars in that sky. And the light was too big to be a star – you saw it with your own eyes.’
‘Then I’ll ask you again,’ I said, trying to keep the irritation from my voice, for poor Joseph had begun to grate on my nerves, and I felt his fear and superstition passing to me like an infection. ‘What do you think it was?’
He said nothing for some moments. Turning from the window, he walked slowly to the table and sat down heavily, as if he had just spent many hours at some back-breaking toil.
‘Well?’ I prompted.
‘I’ve heard old folk speak of such things, now and then,’ he said. ‘My parents and grandparents have spoken of them on many occasions. Things that live in the wild places, where people have no business; things that guard their places jealously, ever mindful of the world of human beings.’
‘You’re speaking of the fairy-faith,’ I said, and he nodded.
‘I was raised with a hundred tales of such things, Alec, as perhaps you were yourself.’
‘I never set much store by them,’ I confessed.
‘I know what you mean. Many people consider them no more than stories to pass away a long winter evening by the fire, or to frighten bairns into doing what their mothers and fathers tell them. But I’ve always wondered whether there’s some truth in them.’
‘If there is,’ I ventured, pouring tea for us both, ‘then the spirit that haunts the Flannans is not to be trifled with.’
‘Did you know that it was once the custom to say a prayer the moment you set foot on the Flannans, Alec? They used to say that the Seven Hunters are home to a wild spirit, which was ancient even before Christianity came here, and that this spirit doesn’t like men to come here. It’s known as the Phantom of the Seven Hunters, and no one can tell of its true nature, save that it wishes nothing but ill towards the living.’
He shook his head. ‘No, none of these things are to be trifled with. Not the Phantom of the Seven Hunters… nor the great black birds that live in the lochs of Argyllshire… nor the Brown Man of the Muirs, nor the Brollachan…’
‘The Brollachan?’
‘A Gaelic word. The Brollachan is a creature of the night, a thing that has no shape. And then there are the kelpies…’
‘Aye, I’ve heard of them.’
‘Most people have. They are the water horses that can change their shape to that of a man. They haunt the rivers all across the land, and leap out to cause mischief with the unwary traveller. These lands of ours are home to as many spirits as people. There are more than I can name, and I can name many.’
‘So you think that the light we saw last night was a fairy spirit,’ I said. ‘Something from beyond the world of men.’
Joseph regarded me in silence for a moment, then gave a small, embarrassed laugh. ‘I’m sure you think me a fool.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Joseph, I do not.’
He took a contemplative sip of his tea, and continued, ‘There are so many legends, Alec, so many stories… hundreds, thousands, and many that are forgotten, and some that will soon be forgotten for the lack of telling. Are they all no more than fantasy? Can simple folk have invented them all, every last one? Can they really be explained away so easily? Or is there a seed of truth at their heart?’
I didn’t answer – how could I? I had all but forgotten the tales told to me in my own boyhood, nor did I have the education and learning of a scientist who might have found a rational explanation for what we had seen the previous night. I felt as if I were trapped between two worlds: that of misty legend and that of the scientific intellect of modern man. I felt lost in a limbo between the spirit and the machine, besieged by both, and truly understanding neither.
I sipped my tea and nibbled at an oatcake, since I didn’t have much of an appetite, and while I did so, I stole the occasional glance at Joseph. He was a strange one: not ten minutes ago, he had been voicing his fears regarding my presence to Milne, and now he was confiding in me, telling me of the superstitions that clung fog-like to the Flannan Isles, and with which he clearly had more than a passing sympathy.
I didn’t know what to make of him. It was as though his experience of finding the lighthouse empty eleven days ago had slightly unhinged him, drawing his mind towards a strange world in which I refused to believe. His natural sensitivity was like a raw nerve that had been touched by something hard and unyielding, and I pitied him.
I pitied all of us.
8
The White Fox
The light did not come back that night, nor the next, though each of us who manned the lightroom in the days that followed watched uneasily for its return. In fact, we never saw it again, and I have often wondered, since returning to the mainland, what its true nature was. There is still a part of my mind that refuses to believe that it was anything other than a star, whose light had somehow managed to filter down through the clouds, and whose apparent size had grown by some trick of the atmosphere.
Yes, in spite of everything that happened to us subsequently on Eilean Mòr, I still cling uselessly and forlornly to that naive hope. Such thoughts seem to depend on my mood, by which I mean that when I am feeling well, and my mind is clear of the memories of the island (an infrequent occurrence, I have to say), I can almost convince myself that that is indeed what it was, and the other things that happened were no more than the fantasies of minds besieged by solitude and the elements.
But for the most part, I cannot help but return to that night in my memory, to dwell morbidly upon it, and to wonder whether the light was actually a harbinger of what was to come… or perhaps even the means by which subsequent events occurred – although by what mechanism such a thing could happen I cannot say, save that I am troubled by such thoughts most often when the north winds press upon my window, and the thought that those winds have also touched the lighthouse on Eilean Mòr makes me cringe.
I confess that I do not like to go out when the wind blows from the north.
*
The light, then, let us alone, and for the next few days we performed our duties normally. We took our turns manning the lightroom, keeping the oil fountains full, the wicks trimmed and the clockwork lens assembly properly wound. We performed routine maintenance on the buildings during the day, and in the evenings played a game or two of cards, or tried to lose ourselves in books. I like to think that I acquitted myself well in the kitchen; certainly I had no complaints from my companions, and more than one nod of appreciation.
By common, tacit consent, we did not speak of the light, and we fell to our allotted tasks with all the more enthusiasm for the distraction they offered from our private thoughts. During those first few days, both John Milne and I kept a careful eye on Joseph Moore. Milne appeared to be very fond of the lad, and I felt my own affection for him growing with each passing day. He was hardworking and diligent in the performance of his duties, and his gentleness – a poet’s gentleness, one might say – made him a good companion.
That very gentleness and sensitivity, however, had caused the disappearance of Ducat, Marshall and MacArthur to weigh most heavily upon him. It was obvious enough that his nerves had been frayed badly by his discovery that the three Lightkeepers had gone from the island; his human qualities had been doubly assaulted by the loss of his friends and colleagues, and the horrible mystery of the circumstances surrounding it. This, I supposed, had forced him to give vent to his fear when the light had appeared and also to speak to Milne of his fears regarding my presence, and there were occasions when I sensed a great unease in the lad’s bearing and demeanour.
John Milne was a different matter. He was older and more experienced than either Moore or I, and he possessed a quiet strength and dependability born of his many years in wild and lonely places. I knew that he harboured the same misgivings about me as Joseph, at least during those early days on the island, but he never voiced them or allowed them to influence his conduct towards me. It may sound foolish to say so, but during the time we spent on Eilean Mòr, I came to regard Milne as a kind of lighthouse himself: a beacon of calm, offering quiet reassurance in the incomprehensible darkness that grew to surround us.
*
In looking back over these words that I have just written, I realise that they form a kind of preamble to the first of the events that truly defy all reason and logic – events that made the strange, still light seem as commonplace as a sprig of heather. And in writing them, I have expressed a just defence of my friends, of their character and the high regard in which I still hold them. It feels correct to do so, and so I will let the words stand, for what they are worth.
It happened on the 9th of January, towards the end of our first week of duty. The day was bright, the weather mercifully calm; the storm had spent itself, and the elements were quietly gathering their strength for their next bout of rage. Milne, Moore and I took advantage of the day’s clemency to perform some maintenance on the lighthouse, replacing some roof slates and sweeping out the tiny yard that surrounded the tower, the house and the outbuildings. A couple of petrels lay dead in the yard; having been attracted to the light, they had dashed themselves against the wall of the tower. I gathered their bodies and cast them into the ocean.
It was a pleasure to feel the sun on my face after so many days of cloud and rain, and more than once I took a few moments to pause and look out across the calm ocean at the other islands and skerries of the Flannans, their forms rising serenely in the distance, mottled with shades of grey, green and brown. The sky was clear and good; the bruises of the storm had healed, leaving a vault of deep, jewel-like blue that was filled from horizon to horizon with the flitting shapes of puffins, fulmars, storm-petrels and a dozen other types of seabirds, and I listened to their raucous calls with a glad heart. Out on the ocean, seals and minkes broke the water’s surface like capering children, and for some moments I stood watching them, envying their apparent freedom from care.
I went into the kitchen to find Milne preparing smoked haddock and potatoes for the midday meal. The room was bright and fresh with its recent airing, and the first of the day’s meteorological notes had been written on the blackboard on one wall, ready for transfer later to the lighthouse logbook. Milne offered me a smile and a nod as he dropped the peeled potatoes into a pot of boiling water, and for the first time since receiving Mary Ducat’s letter in distant Stornoway, I began to feel a certain ease of mind.
‘Where’s Joseph?’ I asked.
‘On the West Landing, checking the ropes and tackle. He should be back shortly.’
‘Shall I brew a pot of tea?’
‘Aye, I’ll take a cup, and I’m sure Joseph will too,’ he said, and for a brief moment I felt as if this were a normal tour of duty, as if no disaster had recently occurred on the island, as if no men were missing and probably dead and we were merely tending the light as many had done over the past year, and as many would do in the years to come. I am quite sure that Milne felt the same at that moment, but it was only a moment, for presently the smile faded from his lips, and without a word he returned to his cooking.
While I spooned tea into the pot, I glanced out of the window. A lone figure was approaching up the slope of the island’s shoulder. ‘Here’s Joseph now,’ I said, and I hesitated before adding, ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘I believe he will,’ Milne replied. ‘I believe we all will.’
There was a quiet determination in his voice which I found comforting. ‘We have a job to do, and we’ll do it well,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Milne replied, and the determination was still present as he added, ‘Whatever happens, we’ll keep the light burning.’
I hesitated and turned to him. ‘Do you think something else will happen?’
He shrugged. ‘How can I say?’ And then he smiled a small, sad smile. ‘I’m sorry, Alec. I shouldn’t have said that – it was a bad choice of words.’
I recalled my earlier conversation with Joseph. ‘John… that night, when we saw… well, you manned the light until morning.’
‘Aye.’
‘You didn’t see anything else, did you?’
‘I told you I didn’t.’
‘If you had, you’d have told us… and even if you didn’t want Joseph to know, you’d still have told me, wouldn’t you?’
‘You sound as if you wanted me to see something,’ he replied, and I caught the sudden irritation in his voice.
‘No, I’m not saying that…’
‘Look, Alec,’ he said, turning to me, ‘if I had seen something else, I would have told you both, and for a good reason: there’s only the three of us here, and if anything happens that might put us in danger, we all have to know about it.’
I looked into his eyes and saw no hint of deception there, and I believed unequivocally that John Milne was being honest with me as he said, ‘I saw nothing else that night. Nothing.’
I nodded and returned my attention to the window. Joseph had come to a halt and was standing a few yards from the low stone wall that surrounded the lighthouse and its buildings, and a few yards from the ancient chapel. He was looking at the entrance to the chapel, which was hidden from our vantage point, and even from there in the kitchen I could see the expression on his face.
Instinctively, I clutched Milne’s shoulder and pointed through the window. He looked and suddenly became very still and watchful, as if waiting for some event to unfold, the outcome of which was utterly unknown.
Outside, Joseph too had become as still as a statue – except, that is, for his face, which was contorted by an expression of terror and confusion the likes of which I had never seen. His mouth opened and closed as if he were talking to himself, and presently he began to shake his head vigorously from side to side, and took several faltering steps backwards away from the chapel.
‘What’s he seen?’ whispered Milne.
Without answering, I rushed across the kitchen, threw open the door and ran out into the yard. I had barely reached the gate when Joseph ran frantically up and vaulted it in a single bound, colliding with me and knocking me to the ground. Badly winded, I tried to call out to him, but already he had disappeared inside the house. I heard Milne shouting his name, his voice at once confused, angry and fearful. Evidently, Joseph paid no heed, for Milne’s voice, still shouting, faded further into the house.
Painfully, I got to my feet, nursing a bruised shoulder, and went back into the kitchen. A few moments later, Milne came back in.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He’s shut himself in his bedroom. I tried the door, but he’s jammed it closed with something.’
I looked out through the kitchen window again, out at the island sloping away to the cliffs and the tranquil blue sea beyond, out at the sky and the distant flapping forms of the seabirds, out at the peace of the world, and I could not guess at what Joseph had seen to make him flee in such panic.
And then my gaze fell upon the ruined chapel standing there, its shivered stones still and silent with the weight of abandoned ages. Joseph had stopped in front of it, facing the ragged hole of its doorway. Had he caught sight of something inside?
