I

Drip, drip, drip. 

Two, two, nine. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

Two, two, nine. 

Waves crashed against the hull. Beat against the shore. Stubborn wood of boat, mulish rock of land pressed back—against the ocean? Useless. They knew it. Yet their very existence dictated it be done. No choice in the matter. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Two, two, nine. 

“There,” said Kurt Clemens, but his voice was drowned in the rain and the waves. He gripped the rail, icy cold—chanced a look behind. The captain hadn’t heard him. That, or she ignored him. Perhaps the old woman hadn't seen the light yet. Only visible as the small vessel crested those black rollers.

The captain was silent save for the sucking noises she made at her wet and smokeless pipe. 

“​​Finger Hook!” Kurt yelled. 

The woman squinted as the Kildeer topped another roller. Two, nine. She nodded, then looked starboard, shook her head. 

He already knew what the woman would say—but she didn’t say it. 

“Well, damn you—what am I to do?” He knew the answer to this, too. 

Arms spread like a gull’s wings, he shuffled up the icy deck toward the woman at the helm. Patience was wearing thin for this one. If he had any left in the bucket, it was less than a drop. Too many hours rocking on the waves, too many days in silence under gray skies. Supposed he’d have to get used to that, though, wouldn’t he? If he ever made it to shore, anyhow. 

The captain’s eyes flicked to port.

Aye, he knew the answer. 

They crested another wave. 

Two, two, nine. 

Teeth chattered—cold, too cold for autumn and he feared what Mother Winter would bring when she came. 

“Well, are you going to help—” 

The captain fastened the wheel in place with a pole and drew her knife. An old weathered thing with a worn whalebone handle. 

No stars, no moon, but he could see the blade clear as sun.

The captain grunted, jerked her head at the dinghy lashed to the port side—if a dinghy it could be called. Was more half a barrel with a stick for an oar.

“You want me to get in that thing?” He knew the answer.

The woman gestured with her knife. 

“If only to be out of your company,” Kurt said. Though, he wasn’t sure he meant to say it aloud. Too late now, the words were out.

The captain didn’t seem to give a gull’s shit about the insult.

“Wait. Are you staying for Orram’s relief?”

The woman said nothing, but took her knife and pointed to the east, made a circle in the rain. 

Took Kurt a moment. Blink. Blink. “Sun? Sunrise? Will you at least be back in the morning?”

The woman gestured at the small lifecraft. 

Kurt pulled tight the ropes of his bag—candle, journal, quill, stale bread, a bottle of the brown stuff within. He clambered over the side, slipped on the ice. Chin crunched against the gunnel. Bit of blood in his mouth. He turned, hoping for a moment at least to grab up the oar, but the captain raised that great knife of hers and hacked down at the rope like she was angry with it. 

A clap and a splash—the boat smacked the black waters off the coast of Finger Hook Light and his teeth clacked together. The captain and the Kildeer faded into the night and he was glad to never see them again. Unless he needed off Golau Coll Isle—then he supposed the bastard would be a welcome sight. 

He rowed on over the great rollers and the rains fell and Finger Hook’s beacon blinked its characteristic. 

Welcome or warning, Kurt Clemens couldn’t say. 

II

Fog and trees—so few trees. How’d that keeper stay warm, then? Oil, he supposed. He looked back, checking he’d dragged up the dinghy far enough onto shore, out of reach of those hungry waves. No. Not far enough. A bit more. But would it ever be far enough from them? 

Though the clouds blocked the moon—though fog choked the space between Heaven and Earth, Finger Hook shone its light—two, two, nine—just enough for him to see . . . every few seconds of struggling light, at the least. He'd paint a picture in his mind with every blink, like memorizing a tree line, or a row of small houses in the night illuminated by a flash of lightning—thin trail of seaweed strewn sand, closing in on itself as it neared a few fallen boulders—crag ahead, cliff behind. Where the hell did he land? That captain certainly did him no favors. And how the hell was he supposed to make it up to the light and the keeper’s quarters? He looked about. 

Darkness—light—darkness—rain—ocean—wind. 

And where the hell was Orram? Had Kurt not been freezing half to death, he’d have sat himself upon a rock and pulled the cork, flipping through those cards of life that’d landed him here. 

Make it up top, make a fire, pour a glass of pity then. But not before. Kurt took up the oar to use as a walking stick, hoping the rest of the boat would make it. Might be good to burn at the least. Or maybe make a run for it. But that’d be giving up. Again. He turned away from the cliff and the shore and set out looking for another way up. 

An angry wind on that isle. Thrashing this way and that—couldn’t make up its damn mind. Rain had soaked through his shitty boots, but that was no surprise. Issued back when? Eight years now? Maybe longer. Maybe less. Seemed he couldn’t get rid of the damn things if he tried. Insole beneath his big toe was worn through, holes through the sole poked up to meet more holes. Swiss cheese shoes. Ain’t that nice. Perfect things to wear stuck on a rainy island surrounded by water, water, and more water. 

He pulled his peacoat tighter round him—at least that had held fast against the rain. Followed a narrow deer trail, walled in by stubborn brush, brittle reeds. Couldn’t say where it went, except that it went up. Two, two, nine. Crunch, crunch of his shoes—and the heartbeat of the ocean—and the breath of heaven—there’d be no silence here at Golau Coll Isle, that much was clear, and he wondered what the place would look like by light of day, if there’d be any gulls or deer or beaver. Rabbits maybe. If there ever were a light of day.

The trail was at an end and the keeper’s quarters—home, now—was just a stone’s throw away. A tall pine stood next to the hut, old wet needles plastered the roof. Brittle pinecones scattered about the path to the door. The rain fell harder, bits of hail had snuck their way into those clouds, flew down like shot. Kurt Clemens took a step. Crunch. But a hand tugged at the bottom of his coat—his other foot hung in the air and he turned. 

Dark air. Wind. 

That’s all. 

Rain and hail.

He covered his eyes, wishing he’d had a cap. Perhaps Orram had a spare. 

Finger Hook blinked. 

He painted the picture. The deer trail was lonely. Kurt grunted, annoyed at the rain and at that damn captain of the Kildeer and at his life—made his way through the rain toward the dark quarters. 

Near time for a pour, wasn’t it?

Knock. 

Two.

Knock.

Two. 

Knock.

Knock.

Nine.

He knocked and knocked and knocked, but the hut was dark and silent. Only the wind and the waves answered back, but they had nothing of note to say. Old bastard can sleep, eh? He rifled through his pockets for a key—patted his chest, then almost cursed himself for wasting his own time—as if he’d have a key. As if it’d magically appeared in his pocket while he was mucking about the trail and up the cliff.

“Orram!” Throat was hoarse, sounded like someone else’s voice. He banged the door a bit more, moved off to the side—a small window there. Wait for Finger Hook, take a peep in. 

Wait . . . 

Wait . . . 

“God am I stupid,” he said. “Good God, did they pick the wrong man for the job.”

He stepped back from the hut and looked up to the light. Two, two, nine. The land lit up round him and his heart leapt. Arms and shoulders tensed. Hands to fists. 

The pine. 

He blinked, shook his head. 

Blood. 

He could’ve sworn that trunk was splattered with dark, brown and red blood. A dripping L, almost like Lousianna . . . almost like . . . 

Rubbed his eyes. No, must’ve been a splash of rain. Gull shit. A trick of the light.

He recalled the brief the warden had given. Nocturnal work. Yeah, yeah. But he was so damn tired the thought had fled his mind. How in the name of God could anyone on Earth be up at this hour, in this rain, in this cold? He supposed it had to be done. If Orram were worth his salt as a keeper, he’d be up there on watch, tending the light, not sleeping cozy like a babe with the rain pitter-pattering away on the windows for a lullaby. 

The light wasn’t more’n 10 yards from the hut—heard of some that were connected, that’d be convenient—looked like this one was more of an afterthought. He looked up. Tall, tall, tall. Octangular . . . one red stripe. 110 feet up? Thought that’s what he’d heard. Supposed that didn’t mean much though, it was the stair count that’d get him. Supposed he’d see in a few moments.

He stepped off the path and went toward the light. 

The door of the hut creaked open behind him.

III

Up another hill. Lots of hills for a small island. This one at least had stairs built in. Sandy and sprinkled with whatever bits of life could find root here. Slippery though they were—they got the job done and he knew where he was going. 

The light loomed over him. He could hardly see the thing climbing toward the dark heavens. Its single red stripe—old blood across a sun bleached bone. 

Two, Two, Nine. 

At least it was on. That meant Orram were up there. He could introduce himself, find his quarters and finally get some damned shut-eye. 

A rusty, grating in the wind. Methodical. Like two children on an old see-saw. The cast-iron door to the light swung open, tired and heavy on its hinges. Back and forth, back and forth, back and . . . BANG. A gust of wind. The metal door on the stone wall of the light. Kurt’s shoulders and arms tensed and he grit his teeth. Rifles and cannons in his mind. Shivers and sweats.

Just the door, just the wind.

Puddles on the floor of the light. Boots were soaked through—they could only be wetter if he took them off and flung them into the sea. “Orram?” he called. The entrance to the base was dark and narrow—not much to it. A few ropes hung from the wall. A cork life preserver and the odd shovel leaning. The first steps of the spiral staircase were before him and he placed a hand on the rail and craned his neck, looking up—as though he expected the old man to be right there waving down at him. Big smile and open arms. 

No answer. Just the dizzying and mystical spiral of a snail’s shell. Just the wind and the rain sneaking in and the creaking door. That damned door. He turned and pulled it shut. Heavy. Latched it in place and took to the stairs.

Clang, clang, clang. 

How many now? He’d kept count early on, but with every gust of wind, every wave—could be Poseiden’s punch—he’d lose count and start again until he figured what the hell was the point in it—the point was to keep from looking down and picturing the long fall to his death—bouncing from rail to rail, snapping bone, crunching cartilage all the way down till his head smacked the stone floor and cracked open like an egg. 

Anyway. 

Couldn’t be too much longer now—could it? He stopped to breathe. A short landing. A window. Chance a look out, though he could be sure he knew what he’d see. A black sky and a black ocean through rain-blurred glass. Maybe a stab and a vein of lightning here and there—the rumble of thunder soon after. But when you see a window . . . you look through, don’t you? 

Kurt leaned his elbows down on the small ledge—the window inset in the four-foot-thick walls. He looked up. A ways to go. He almost looked down but thought better of it. “Fuck all,” he said to no one at all but the light. He was tired and why the hell shouldn’t he have a nip if he wanted one? He slung his pack around, pulled it open and pushed aside the rope and journal and candle, and his fingers wrapped round the cold hard glass. A pop as he pulled the cork, he sniffed it and it burned like hell in his nose—took a draught and it burned worse—but good. 

Rain, rain, rain, down that window in sheets. Like someone threw bucket after bucket at it. Didn’t seem that bad when he was out there—supposed it was good he found his way in. 

A bit of clarity now as the brown stuff carved its way down the gullet, clearing away the lump he carried all that day in his throat. He blinked, breathed through his nose and the world outside lit up like a torch. 

Two, two, nine. 

Two. The pines, the ocean, the island. 

Two. A child runs along a narrow path between butterfly bushes.

Nine. The pines, the ocean, the island. 

Kurt smacked his face and corked the bottle. Strong as anything. Wasn’t enough to have another. Not here. Had to save it. He broke his rule anyway—poured his pity early. Best keep going. 

Don’t think about it. 

IV

Clang, clang, clang. 

Stair after stair after stair after stair. 

“Orram?” He waited. Nothing. “Relief’s here.” Wait—what’s that. A sound, almost like a baby crying. A mewling. 

Would there be relief sent for him? He could have laughed at the thought. This post was a punishment, wasn’t it? 

A sentence. Chances were they’d sent him here to die. Exile is as good as death isn’t it? Yet here, there was a job to be done. Aye, a job he wanted nothing to do with, by the seven mad gods—nothing at all. Couldn’t do it at all.

Could be worse though, he supposed. Wasn’t a jail cell—though, some might say it were. 

Nearly there now. Walls were thinning, the tower was narrowing—closing in around him. He could almost spread his arms and touch wall to wall—but it didn’t hurt. No, felt right and good. He might like it here after all. Cozy almost. The final steps. Gripped a rail, took a breath—

Two. 

God if that light weren’t brighter than anything. 

Two. 

Another three steps. Legs burned, but what’s three more? 

Nine. 

The top of the light. The whir of machinery. The crackle of oil and wick and fire. The blinding light. “Orram?” Kurt called, but there was only a mewling in response. 

Rain, rain, and more rain. Kurt was glad to be in the tower—the sound of it coming in sheets against the stone and the old glass of the windows. Took a moment for his eyes to adjust—the light making its round. After round. After round. After round.

Footsteps clanging against the cast-iron floor. Holey socks sloshing about in wet boots. No sign of the old man. A flash of light—but it wasn’t the light. That was from a distance and he knew thunder was soon to follow. He turned, forgot about the old man for a second and looked out the massive glass storm panes—a wonder they held out against the elements. He stepped forward. Clang. Dammit all if those boots weren’t heavier than dragging around a child-sized chest of lead. 

A low rumble at first and it felt like the clouds had turned into waves, encroaching. Louder, louder—and then a CRACK. He felt the thunder in his chest. Felt like he was in the sound. His feet moved of their own will. He stepped to the storm pane, placed a hand on the cold glass, felt the rain rattling against it on the other side. 

A marvelous thing, this tower, to stand up to a storm like this. He was just glad to be out of the wrath of nature if he was being honest. He breathed—and God, a sickly sweet smell—one he hadn’t noticed before. Another flash. Lightning again. Storm must be right overhead, looking down at the lighthouse like a bullseye. The world lit up. And it stayed lit.

For a moment in time Kurt saw everything. He saw every last corner of Golau Coll Isle—the shaded spots beneath the trees, the crevices and cracks between boulders, the black cave that went on forever and the well at the bottom of it—at the far end punched over and again by the waves, the black sky and blood-red clouds. The child. The . . . child? There, beside a holly tree ripe with red and poisonous fruit, stood the boy. Shaggy hair and tattered clothes, shorts, a shirt, a little tie—the poor child had shoes, but they were just as ragged as Kurt’s. Holes. The heel was missing on one. Looked as though in another life it might have been his Sunday’s best, but here, now, looked as though the kid had been through hell and back. 

Here . . . now. What on God’s good Earth was this child doing here on this island, and at this time of night and in this storm? It was as though the sun were shining, yet the sky was black and the rain came down harder, ever harder. The child raised a hand and Kurt would be damned if he didn’t just see the boy’s mouth move, calling out for him. But the rain and the wind—the storm panes. Couldn’t hear a damned thing. 

There. The gallery. Took a moment of fumbling at the latch, but he was through—eyes burning, the wind, the rain stabbing at him like needles and the world was black once more.

Two. 

The light, the holly tree. Nothing. Where’d he gone? Kurt blinked—eyes burning, old images in his mind like foggy memories. No trace. A ghost in the night. Tired, hungry, cold. Mind would play some naughty tricks on you under these conditions, wouldn’t it? The child was gone . . . if he were ever even there. 

Wind picked up, railing cold. There’d be a frost tonight, no way around it. Best find the old man, get the fire going, get some rest. He turned, left the gallery. Let it be. Sure he’d be out there more than he’d like soon enough anyhow. 

Back inside. The whirring of the machine, the spinning of the light. The smell and the mewling. “Orram? Kurt Clemens here—your relief.” He made his way around the light to the side he hadn’t checked and the smell ripped at his nostrils. 

Two. 

The light caught up with him and caught his eyes. Blinding. Fire. A scurrying sound. 

Blink, blink, blink. 

Hands out, feeling—another step. No, best wait for his eyes to readjust before he tumbled down the stairs and cracked his head, but his wet boot thudded into something. A sack of straw, or oats, or meat. He rubbed his eyes, blinked again, it’s all he could do—there, the world was coming back. He looked down and he couldn’t help it. 

A scream came from somewhere deep down, and he tripped back over his own feet, fell to the cast iron, hands in the wet tracked in from his boots. 

Before him lay Orram. 

The old man was twisted in a heap. Clothes tattered and wet—strips of kelp tangled—as though he’d been beneath the sea a fortnight and was vomited up here only moments before—twisted gray beard, bits of flesh gone, black spots where his eyes once were and Kurt had to choke down vomit. Scurrying sound again and Kurt nearly screamed a second time. A fat old cat jumped down from a steel shelf, looked at Kurt with suspicious eyes and then turned back to its meal. 

It chewed and chewed and slurped, working away at the sinews and windpipe in the old man’s neck. Black and rotting. Stinking.

Kurt swallowed. Blinked. He shrugged off his pack, placed it in his lap—took the bottle of the brown stuff from it and took a pull. The pity burned. He let the fire wash over him as the cat ate its old owner atop Golau Coll Isle Light. 

Nine.