A Guiding Light at Sea

A Guiding Light at Sea

A Chapter by Nusquam Esse






            On the outskirts of town stood an abandoned lighthouse; a relic of the past, it had fallen into disrepair over the years.  The prior keeper had passed away a decade ago, and no one had filled the void left with his passing.  A lighthouse keeper is important for a harbor; during the fierce storms he helps guide ships to shore. Now, with no one to keep the furnace lit, the harbor had dwindled in use--visited only by local fishing ships.  Only with his passing did the people realize just how important he had been; even as no one moved into the forsaken tower to take his place.


            Quietly walking along the overgrown path from the town to the cliff the lighthouse was built upon, was an elderly woman.  She used a cane to walk, her left leg dragging ever so slightly with each step.  It was a tiring journey, and as she grew older she had to stop and rest more frequently.  What had once been an hour-long walk in welcomed solitude, now consumed an entire Sunday, walking a path which had lost much of its meaning.  On her back she carried a small satchel, filled with a few simple flowers she had picked from her garden.  As she reached the overlook near the lighthouse, the cool wind whipping her hair back, or at least what remained of it.  Breathing in a deep breath of the salty air, she tried her best to straighten herself, so as to gaze at the top of the lighthouse.  A decade without a keeper had been hard on the building, its dilapidated form was a sharp contrast to the majesty she remembered.


            Making her way to the cliff’s edge, she gazed out at the sea.  Carefully, trying to keep her balance, the old woman removed the satchel; gathering the flowers, she began to quietly chant a small prayer to herself.  Then, as she had the last 537 Sundays, she tossed the flowers to the foam below.  She didn’t watch them fall--it didn’t matter.  She breathed deeply, then turned to return home.  With the frequent stops along the way, she couldn’t stand here for hours like she once had; night would overtake her.  She slowly made her way back to the path; looking back, she couldn’t help but gaze at the lighthouse.  Its shadow seemed to point out to the sea.  The crumbling lighthouse was a remnant of a past she had tried to forget; it just didn't feel right to disturb what should be left to rest.  Yet looking out at the shadow, she was filled with an ethereal wish that she could have seen the sea the way he had.

            She made her way to the lighthouse, a part of the path which she had not taken for many years.  The door was left ajar, as it had been since that storm.  As she entered the dark confines of the tower, a sense of nostalgia swept over her.  She had not set foot in this room for many years, yet it all seemed painfully familiar to her.  That small bookcase against the right wall, its titles obscured by the darkness… she had never actually looked through the books.  She wished she had.  On the other side of the room, haphazardly leaning against the wall, lay those paintings of his. 


She carefully made her way across the room, her shadow seeming to snake out in front of her.  Bracing herself against the wall, and leaning down on her good leg, she gingerly lifted up one of the paintings.  Blowing off the dust which covered it, and holding it up to the light from the door, she examined the painting.  Only a ship illuminated by lightning adorned the canvas, the edges of the canvas had not been complete, making the scene seem isolated without anything else to complete it but the mildew which was starting to consume the bottom.  So this is what it had looked like?  She tried to hold her composure; with a deep breath she placed the painting back to the ground… it wasn't something she wanted to see.


Cautiously making her way up the stairs, she ascended to the deck of the lighthouse.  It was an arduous climb, exhausting considering her age and condition.  But somehow she felt that it was important that she saw what he saw, not just through some painting.  As reached the end of the stairwell, the light temporarily blinded her; she had to pause a moment to collect her bearings.  She had never been up here; he had never allowed anyone else up here.  To the right of the stairway, she noticed a bed with blankets strewn about it haphazardly, while on the left she noticed the beacon--an intriguing contraption of lens, mirrors, gears, and a furnace.  A breeze brushed her skin, and looking towards its source, she noticed one of the windows had shattered.  Carefully, as to not step on the sharp shards of glass scattered across the floor, she made her way to the window; looking out… she saw a sea much like the sea she was familiar with.  Somehow it didn’t seem right… why live here for something like this? 


She stood like that for several moments, before turning with frustration.  She had wasted enough time here with these painful memories.  But as she was about to descend the stairs, she noticed something… a scattered collection of pages, loosely bound in a makeshift cover--a crude semblance of a book.  It lay near the bed, standing out in a room of various odds and ends.  There were several similar books stacked nearby; but it was the one with scattered pages which stood out.  With only a moment of hesitation, she opened the cover; then carefully holding the loose pages, so they wouldn’t be blown away, she began to read.

 

 

Oct. 15      Storm clouds brewing on the horizon, they are far away enough that I can only see them from the top of the tower.  It seems likely that we will have a storm soon.  Fortunately I have been keeping up with maintenance, so preparations have not taken long.  The mirrors and lenses of the light have been properly polished, and the furnace is ready when it is needed.  I made sure to gather extra firewood, which makes it difficult moving around in the loft, but you can never be too prepared.  However, the oil reserve was low, so I had to take a trip into town to replenish it.  I am not often in town, I usually just stay in the lighthouse; it is a quiet life which I prefer.  Every time I enter the town, I notice that people regard me with unease.  Not necessarily distrust or dislike… simply unease.  It it probably my own fault for only entering town to resupply before a storm.  They probably see me as a harbinger of sorts.   Today Ms. Fairweather visited as she does every Sunday morning to give me my weekly food supplies.  I guess I could ask her to bring some oil on occasion, so I didn’t have to make a special trip; she has even offered on multiple occasions.  But somehow it feels like my last real connection with the town… I don’t understand what that means.  Ms. Fairweather brought some fresh vegetables which she claimed she took from her garden… I know it's not true, she doesn’t have a garden and her bad leg would make gardening difficult,  I am assuming that the variety of vegetables are just like the smoked fish which she brings, a gift of sorts from the fishermen for keeping the harbors safe.  Still, I simply smiled and thanked her for her consideration.  Even if the vegetables weren’t from her garden, it only seems right, she is the only one who visits me anyway.  It was a long night, despite the storm clouds gathering on the horizon, the seas were calm.  It was a long night looking out to sea, waiting for ships which never arrived.  Wind SE at 5 knots, barometric reading of 1015 millibars.

 

Oct. 16      I awoke today in the late evening to find that the barometer had dropped significantly, I am expecting the storm this evening.  I am writing my entry earlier than normal, it is that calm before the storm, so it is the best time.  I have been painting in my downtime as of late.  A few canvases of the sea, and the cliffs… just the beauty of the horizon.  A few of the townspeople have been interested in purchasing them, and I have admittedly parted with some of my landscapes; I have a small living allowance which cannot cover the costs of the canvases otherwise.  I keep a few canvases which I keep under the bed.  Ms. Fairweather…  I know she would complain that I had exaggerated her beauty if she saw them, say that I didn’t capture the grotesque nature of her scarred face, or her poor posture from that injury from the fire several years back.  I am sure deep down inside she would think me a sad being, a lonely hermit who can only fantasize on canvas.  I don’t even know if she is married, I always avoided the subject.  I suppose I am a bit pathetic, but again… I don’t really mind.  Her weekly visits fill me with a simple happiness, and I have no desire to change it.  If this makes me pathetic, not being more forward to the only connection I feel I have with humanity, then so be it.  Well… perhaps not my only connection; sometimes I feel this journal lets me safely store away that human side of me which I often forget.  I…..  I don’t feel up to writing about it today.  Everything is prepared, I am going to take a short nap, to make the night go by easier; these storms always wear down on me.  Wind SW at 10 knots, barometric reading of 993 millibars.

 

          Pausing for a moment, the woman awkwardly lowered herself to the ground; looking under the bed she found several canvases tucked away where she would have never noticed.  Much as she had the canvas of the ship, she held it up to the light.  It was easier to see in the loft, the sun shone through the glass and seemed to radiate each painting she held up.  The woman in them was beautiful… far more beautiful than she had been since the fire.  Tracing her fingers over her heavily scarred scalp, she then traced that very same scar in the painting.  It somehow seemed natural, like a mere part of the hair, something which gave the woman in the painting a unique beauty which could not be described.  She had to stop then… just holding the painting--silently crying.  It was a beautiful gift, one which she wished she had seen all those years ago.  If only she had known how to express herself…  Fighting back the tears, and regaining her composure, she began to read again, her lips quivering, unable to fight back a smile which could break at any moment.

 

Oct. 18      I am feeling conflicted, in a way I have never felt before.  I have read that “to err is human”... is that why people seem to finally show gratitude?  Because I am now human to them?  It doesn’t make sense to me, of course none of them know what really happened… but regardless I feel like all the gratitude is wrong somehow.  But it also feels good.  I am feeling a bit overwhelmed, and I don’t think I can explain it right now…  Wind SW at 5 knots.

 

Oct. 19    Normally I would feel uncomfortable about confiding in what happened; but no one else will read this, so I feel compelled to get it down on paper.  Perhaps then I can let this side of me rest; return to those evenings painting the sun's descent.  The night of the storm, I overslept.  I somehow did not awake under the fury of that gale, or more precisely, I did not stir until long after the storm had been set into motion.  It was only the sound of glass shattering which woke me.  I startled to my feet, a reflex of some primal sort.  The sound of shattering glass is a terrifying sound, it is never good… the sound of something fragile cracking is a sharp, piercing sound--much like the fragments it scatters.  

 

    Looking about in a daze, I realized that one of the lighthouse’s windows had shattered.  The whole tower was shaking, and seemed to groan under the force of the storm; this was far stronger than your average storm.  It seemed as though the rage of nature itself targeted any and all weakness, desperate to break my last bastion from its chaos.  I shall have to paint it sometime, I am having a hard time describing it.  I quickly reinforced the other windows as best as I could, but despite my efforts, they each rattled in their frames, threatening to burst at any moment.  I shielded my eyes from the heavy waves of rain and in the distance I could see the faint flicker of a distant lantern.  Somewhere out on those rough seas, a man was likewise braving the elements, trying to signal for a guiding light.  

 

    My purpose in this lighthouse, why I have lived away from the townsfolk, is to help guide ships such at that ship safely past the perilous reef which threatened to crush and rend the hulls of ships seeking refuge.  As such, ships are often a relief to me, they make me feel like I have done something, completed a purpose which other days often feel lacking of.  But I had overslept, and in my lapse, I was not prepared.  I had violated my own code.  Frantically I tried to start the fire, but the wood was soaked.  By the time I could get a spark to hold, it was too late.  Out in the distance, I could no longer see that desperate light.  Through the torrents of rain which whipped my coat about me, I could see what seemed to be the dark silhouette of the ship, already being dashed upon the razor reef.  A sickening realization blew through me, just as the roaring wind stripped me of my warmth… leaving me shivering at its chill.  It finally hit me, just how something as seemingly small as oversleeping could directly effect… so much.  Dozens of lives flickering out just like the lantern…  It is heavy.  I must have sat there for only a few minutes, but it felt like hours.  Sunk to my knees, I watched with a morbid fascination as the ship was torn apart.  I could only see it through the flashes of lightning--a moment in which the whole sea seemed to flicker.  It was truly incredible, I don’t think I can paint it.

 

    At some point I regained my reasoning, or at least an awareness.  I was running down the stairs of the lighthouse… and then down the narrow way which had been carved out of the cliff.  The wind billowed and slammed me up against the slick rock, but I barely noticed.  As if I was in a dream--a nightmare--but more surreal somehow.  I was then down on the edge of the rock outcropping, the beach was submerged under the swell.  I had my lantern on me, I don’t even remember grabbing it...so I started frantically waving it.  I don’t remember at what point, but soon I began to see several of the sailors, desperately fighting against the currents.  I still don’t know what prompted me to--after all, I am not as fit as I was when I was younger--but I dived in after them.  I remember that first man… He looked me in the eyes with a feverish look of fear and desperation, his screams muffled under the roar of the waves crashing into the cliff.  Those eyes were sunken in, the sign of a long struggle to survive.  Yet even with screams of help being drowned out, I still could clearly hear him thank me from the depths of his heart.  Somehow, even in the roaring ocean where everything felt mad, I felt more human than I had ever felt before.  Never had someone thanked me like that, looked at me like that.  It was as if the whole world relied upon me, and me alone.  It felt like I was tossed about for hours… I don’t remember how many men I helped to shore, but I doubt it was many.  I am old.  The sun is setting, I should get back to work.  Wind E at 7 knots.  Barometric reading of 1010 millibars.

 

She felt a chill run over her skin, her face twisted with confusion.  All these years, no one had suspect the truth that lay under her shaking hands.  Why had he kept this from her?  She already knew why, it was obvious… but still.  The guilt must have been overwhelming.  It was a mistake.  He seemed far lonelier than she had ever imagined; what was this feeling?

 

Oct. 20      Today Ms. Fairweather showed up in the early morning, odd because it wasn’t a Sunday.  I opened the door cautiously, and fell back as she threw her arms around me.  Well… in all reality she tried to, but her leg dragged a bit behind her, so we instead both lurched to the side.  She was sobbing, and hugged me as fiercely as I would imagine she was able.  She asked me if I was okay, and said that she was horrified when she had heard the news of what had happened. Apparently everyone in town was proclaiming that I was a hero, having personally pulled seven sailors from the ocean.  She said that she had come as soon as she had heard the news, worried about me.  I wasn’t as young as I used to be, or so she said.  Admittedly I have been feeling a bit ill since the storm.  She urged me to come with her to visit the sailors whom I had saved… but I was not comfortable with the idea.  She stayed with me for a few more minutes, admiring some of my landscape paintings, before she awkwardly excused herself.  It is an odd sensation.  I don’t think I can keep my composure around the town.  They don’t realize it, but I do.  I was responsible for the whole ordeal, so diving in was the least I could do.  I don’t think writing this down is putting to rest that side of me.  I don’t know what will.  Wind E at 3 knots.  Barometric reading of 1015 millibars.

 

Oct. 22      Again, Ms. Fairweather visited me, as she did each Sunday, giving me a polite but warm hug.  At first I was delighted to see her, but then I noticed that she had brought others.  I vaguely recognized them as the sailors.  Each of them thanked me again.  It seems that no one else survived the storm.  There had been fifty-six men on that vessel, so that meant that forty-nine were lost at sea.  It was a disconcerting thought.  With each man who shook my hand and awkwardly embraced me, I felt a withering shame.  All those years of studiously doing my job, and the townspeople and sailors never personally thanked me… and yet here I was… forty-nine of these men’s brothers… dead--because of me.  Yet each had only praise and gratitude to show.  The day dragged on, long past when I usually slept.  I still haven’t slept and night is almost upon me; but somehow I don’t feel like sleeping anymore.  The men all gathered around the small foyer of the lighthouse, each trying to make small talk; each wanting to know more about the man who had saved them.  Fortunately I did not have to answer many of the questions, Ms. Fairweather eagerly answered them for me.  I must admit, it surprised me what she knew; some parts of my life she seemed to remember better than I.  It was awkward.  Well, obviously the gathering… but also the kiss.  As the sailors each left, to make their way back home I would assume, I was left alone with her for a brief moment.  She looked at me seriously, and told me “You take care of yourself.”  And then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek, and a tight hug.  I didn’t know how to react, but I had not felt this way for a long time--for as long as I had been a lighthouse keeper.  It may not be the romantic scene in the books I have read, but it was enough that I could die satisfied.  I stood there, like that… silent, for several minutes after she left.  I am still reliving that moment in my head.  The sea is beautiful… I should really do another painting.  But somehow… I just can’t.  There is little to no wind.

 

Oct. 29      I have not been doing a good job with keeping up with this journal…  It doesn’t really matter, I don’t have anything to say.  No one else will read this.  I still haven’t got around to repairing the shattered window, I don’t think anyone has even noticed.  I am in no rush, I have never felt so connected to the ocean before, with its salty air lulling me to sleep each night.  Miss Fairweather visited again today--an average Sunday.  Except this time she also gave me a light kiss, and again told me to take care of myself.  It feels odd, to have someone say that to you.  It isn’t bad, it’s actually a nice feeling, but I don’t know how to react.  It just seems strange that after a decade of weekly visits, she only starts telling me these things after I make a mistake.

 

          It was hard not to smile at the memory, that moment her composure had slipped.  It was something she only regretted had not happened earlier.  He had been an odd man, but always so sweet…  With a chuckle she confided in herself, she had been every bit as awkward as him.  All those years and he had always seemed so composed and aloof; she had felt the foolish maiden.  How was she supposed to know that her heavily scarred and damaged body didn’t repulse him?  She finally laughed, a pain-filled sob, at the irony of it all; their awkward conversations, each afraid of showing themselves to the other--years wasted.

 

Oct. 31     Just another day.  I couldn’t bring myself to paint… not even her.  So instead I contented myself to just reading one of the books.  I don’t think I can take another night sitting in the loft, so tonight I am going to sit out on the cliff instead.  Maybe a change of pace will do me well.  The air is cool tonight, winter is approaching.  Wind is SE at 5 knots.

 

Nov. 1      I think spending the night on the cliff-side has done me well, I feel a clarity settling over me.  Somehow it feels like I have put that part of me to rest, perhaps writing it down helped… but I think a change of pace was more important.  I can see storm clouds approaching from the horizon.  Barometric reading at 986 millibars.  I hope a ship comes in tonight… I have decided that saving people feels good, a nice change of pace.  It felt good…guiding in ships, so that I can again, be a saving light.

 

 

          She didn’t know why, but for some reason, she was crying now.  Tears flowed from her eyes; she finally understood, even if she couldn’t explain.  Looking out the window at the sea below, she finally felt she could let the memories go.  He had finally found himself, in a change of pace.  She needed to do the same.  While she was sure he would have been touched to know she had left flowers on his grave every Sunday for these 538 weeks; she also knew that the same man who had worried about her picking vegetables with her injured leg would not want her… to keep doing this.  Wiping her eyes, she made her way to the furnace, and opening the door, she tossed the notebook inside--a memento of him.  Hesitantly at first, but with renewed determination, she then cast each of the canvases in as well; saying farewell to each reflection of a beauty she had forgotten, silently thanking him.  She stared at the furnace for a long while, far longer than she should have; but farewells are not so easy to leave.


Something was off… Squinting, and lowering herself, she looked into the furnace’s iron bowels. The furnace, it was clean… immaculately so--no soot--not at all how it should be.  Reaching into the furnace, she gingerly pulled the journal back out and re-read the last line.


I hope a ship comes in tonight… I have decided that saving people feels good, a nice change of pace.  It felt good…guiding in ships, so that I can again, be a saving light.


With sinking realization she understood what had happened that fateful night.  Quietly she whispered to herself, "You poor man."  Solemnly she whispered, "It's not so wrong..." and placing the makeshift journal back into the furnace, she finally lit it.  The canvas burst into flame: burning away the past, burning away misguided passions, and burning away his feelings for her.  


A blinding light filled her gaze; stumbling back, she fell to the bed--bewildered.  Looking up, she saw a fierce beam radiating out of the beacon, its furnace lit at last.  She slowly raised herself up, and looking out to the ocean, her back to the light, she could see her shadow spread across the dark rolling sea.  With a smile, she realized that she couldn’t wait any longer.


And so, the old woman left that lighthouse, walking back along the dark path to her small cottage.  Gazing back at the lighthouse, which shone for the last time,  she realized she would never return to his sea.  And for a moment she understood this ocean he had seen; then, with a light kiss on the wind, she finally let him go.



© 2018 Nusquam Esse


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Featured Review

Sad and painful. Your narrative invokes the real emotion the reader always feels when characters miss an opportunity. I like the bit about seeing "his ocean", as though another's perspective creates a different space in the land with which one is familiar. The only things to seem unlikely: that the woman has only just now visited the lighthouse yet enters without hesitation, and that she happens to open the keeper's journal to the exact point that details the mystery of his life. And I couldn't help but want to tear the paintings out of the fire! Other than that, this is a great and vivid story full of unconventional conflict (am I human? am I a hero or a monster?) that I honestly enjoyed reading.

Posted 10 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.




Reviews

Sad and painful. Your narrative invokes the real emotion the reader always feels when characters miss an opportunity. I like the bit about seeing "his ocean", as though another's perspective creates a different space in the land with which one is familiar. The only things to seem unlikely: that the woman has only just now visited the lighthouse yet enters without hesitation, and that she happens to open the keeper's journal to the exact point that details the mystery of his life. And I couldn't help but want to tear the paintings out of the fire! Other than that, this is a great and vivid story full of unconventional conflict (am I human? am I a hero or a monster?) that I honestly enjoyed reading.

Posted 10 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

what can I say that others haven't? outstanding! top-notch narrative. a great story with flawed believable characters. your descriptions are as always spot on. the breaks with the journal entries were a wonderful way to bring the past back. great story!!

Posted 10 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Wow, I'm lost for words. It's was brilliant, amazingly written.

Kaze~ :-D

Posted 10 Years Ago


Congratulations on besting me in the short story contest.
http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/Short-Story-Contest/49452/
I can see why you where voted as the best story, it is fantastic it's an honor to be bested by you.

Posted 10 Years Ago


Very good, the journal idea has always been a tough one for me. I feel like anyone who can create one character living in another character's world, is a talented writer indeed.

Posted 10 Years Ago


Absolutely beautiful! You truly are talented and your descriptions are so vivid. I'm going to save this one in my library. The original painting was not a problem for me. In fact, I wanted to read on for an explanation of what happened in the shipwreck. As you might guess, the story of missed love will truly stay with me. As will sadness at the burden of guilt he carried all that time. I really don't think I'd change a thing. You seem to say you're uncomfortable with writing about deep emotions, but you convey them very well here. Bravo!

Posted 10 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

I do not like these kinds of stories, but this was very good. The story flowed well and the journal entries helped move the story along. I like how you blended the past and present into a nice seamless whole. I think that first canvas she looked at was a bit confusing, I had to read it a few times to get it was a painting about the lighthouse. It may be better to reword that one part since it distracts. Also the number of weeks she had traveled all changed from 537 to 538. I am not sure if it is meant to or not. I also like the premise of a missed love story. A tragic love story.

Posted 10 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

This one is serious write, I would say bold, daring and same time stylish. The old lady her walks and journal looking forward to read more of your work. You my friend are extremely talented writer and I would say one I would like to read more..

Posted 10 Years Ago


Truly a hard medium to write in. I've only had minimal success myself trying my hand at this. Read this..it might help to get you along the way and there are several examples of this kind of work that you can link to read. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistolary_novel I am intrigued with this story. :)

Posted 10 Years Ago


1 of 1 people found this review constructive.

Nusquam Esse

10 Years Ago

Your advice helped immensely, even if it was simply to point me to wikipedia, to remind me of other .. read more
Raymond Federle

10 Years Ago

I am glad you found the info useful. I always endeavor to take what others that have gone before me .. read more

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Added on February 19, 2014
Last Updated on May 23, 2018


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Nusquam Esse
Nusquam Esse

Ogden, UT



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****I have disabled RRs, since I just don't have the time and energy to continue returning every review. I have enough on my plate without nagging feelings of obligation; so please, do NOT review me .. more..

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