Keeper of the Light

I see the lighthouse. 

So many feelings around that old structure compete with one another. I can see the huge lens from where I sit, and it makes me think of the all-seeing eye from Tolkien’s masterpiece. It’s bloody scary and thrilling at the same time. Particularly because I know about that lens and its special qualities. Be damn well sure I know. Bought sense is best sense as me dear old Mam said, and knowledge is deepest when you’ve paid your price for it. Even sitting still and unlit, it exudes a power that is palpable even at this distance.

It seems that the lighthouse sees me too.

Well, I know that dawdling about will only make the sculling longer. I spin about to begin the last pull into the island. Just as the heat prickles of effort begin to turn to real sweat, the boat grounds on the shale and pebble beach. I step out and attempt to pull the skiff higher onto the beach. The look of the narrow strip of land below and the grass hummocks all tell me it is damn near high tide. When it is hard to pull and the slapping churlish waves no longer lift the keel, I drive the beach anchor in a good whack and tie her off. Good and set for the evening, I’m sure.

The wind never really stops out here but it's light and straight off the mainland this afternoon. That means I get it at my back as I hike the hundred yards from the small beach and up the triple run of stairs to the white, cut-stone base of the tower. There was some talk of checkering the whole damn thing some years back, but sanity prevailed, and she remains a pristine white princess with a sturdy black cap.

The pull ring on the door feels like a familiar handshake as I open the door. The smell of baking bread fills my nose. My sack goes on the table, my hat and coat on their hooks and off come the old overshoes. I reckon I am back. Back home, I suppose but, also something else.

“Time to light it soon,” I say. My words fall out a bit flat, but solid in the rounded acoustics of the “great room”.

I hear a shuffle above and a head pokes down to peer at me. 

“Nary a tick to be spared, Keeper,” says Runky.

The small stout troll hobbles out and I get a good look at him. His left ear hangs a good bit lower than his right, so he tends to catch it with his hand on occasion as he speaks.

“Ye need me to fetch de other?” he says as he steps into the light.

“Nay. I’m certain he will be here shortly.”

As if on cue, a breath of wind and a bright flash of light comes in with Alpy as he returns from the goat shelter with a bucket of milk held precariously on his tall flat head.

“I’m fer checkin’ yer sack, aye. Worstest of the shoppers ya is,” he says.

The bucket comes off his head and onto the table. Alpy leaps easily from floor to chair then to the table as quick as thinking. He sticks his head in the sack and begins muttering and stacking the items I brought from the mainland.

I replied, “Mind the making of the bread today, Alpy. I don't want a repeat of the cake.”

Alpy replies with annoyance in his voice, “Long bloody time ago it was, and I had a time glass set which yer damn cat knocked about. As ye well know, ye bugger.”

He continues stacking the goods upon the table, moving with grumpy efficiency.

“Sure, and sure, but the Lady’ll take you back with just a word from me as ye well know.”

I strain to keep the smile out of my voice as I ascend the spiraling stairs along the wall. I hear Alpy muttering low and foully under his breath. 

As my eyes come level with the floor of my “master suite”, Runky stands awaiting me. He is fairly dancing from foot to foot in anticipation, with the storm lamp lit and a wick in his hand. 

“Oh, the light wind will hold the fog late and late. We’ll be on for hours and hours for sure.”

Runky loves few things more than eating, but the light and lens are among those things he loves best.

“Aye, all in good time my friend,” I replied.

Many turns and passing through storerooms, past the mechanism, finally brings me to the light walk. The rags sit ready as I search the giant clamshell lens and its twin Fresnel bullseyes for damage or filth. None there, but I check it anyway. Habits are hard to break and have their own comfort. The fuel source is topped off on the fairly new Funcks lamp; so, we are ready.

I look out toward the mainland and see the bright disc of the sun touch the skyline and know we have waited until the last minute. I nod to Runky and he hands me the wick, bright with fire. The lamp comes to life and I adjust the light to the optimum. The thrill of power sings through the tower and I reach for the windlass. The crank handle turns, and the cogs of the capstan head click rapidly as 275 pounds of lead weight comes swiftly up through the center of the tower and locks at the top.

Runky walks round and peers keenly for any obstruction or signs of dry spots in the greased mechanism. He smiles, nods and bumps his elbows together, which I have come to know as the trollish equivalent of a thumbs up. Ah yes, the mannerisms of trolls are quite unique.

He steps down and I release the mechanism, allowing the weight to begin its slow descent. The lens and its occulting metal plates begin their quarter minute dance around the top of the light station.

As the sun sinks and the shadows lengthen, we begin to see “them” illuminated in the slowly rotating beam of light. This is the beginning of the magic. 

The ebb and flow of the Fae world begins to sing in the falling night. The dance of ancient powers revealed to my mortal eyes by the sweep of this special beam. The way is lit, and the portal cracks open between the other world and the one I have known all these years as home.

Full night falls and the spin of the light flashes at me from the lighthouse on the other side. It sits so close and yet so far away. 

The ships begin to sail past, stately and ghostlike under their full press of sail. I see there, willowy forms of the Fae crews as the fleet arrives. They are loaded down with dreams and small miracles for the good people of our land.

Like my father before me and fathers back through the ages, I guide the night’s dreams from the land of fairies into our own. With the assistance of my trolls, of course. And, like all those fathers and father’s fathers, I am saluted by the Captain of each ship as it passes. If I step outside, I will hear the musical voices calling.

“Hail. Keeper of the Light!”