Ch. 2 – No. 5: The Lighthouse
Clove visits the lighthouse to carry out an errand for Betula. She meets its keeper, with whom she finds more than one unusual shared experience.
In the distance, the silhouette of the lighthouse rose from the ascending rock like a sentinel, dramatized by the waning western sun. The day’s intermittent rain was retreating as the clouds dispersed overhead, dusky sky appearing from behind rapidly dwindling wisps. A sharp sliver of moon peaked out and then hid again as clouds marched and morphed, and the damp coolness of the air took on a greater chill.
Clove enjoyed this weather – conditions hovering around the dew point such that fog was imminent; the cool air which offered reprieve from the heat of summer and carried with it the beloved scent of petrichor mingling with that of the dank lake; the ephemeral nature of it all. As she walked north along the lakeshore footpath toward Talon Point where the lighthouse stood, lanterns illuminated the windows of the village homes on her left while lake critters hummed and buzzed among the shore’s reeds and fronds on her right.
And, curiously, small, sparse orbs of light sailed through the sky, their trajectory leading to the lighthouse’s high, glowing beacon.
“Strange…” Clove mumbled to herself. Having reached the rocky jut of Talon Point, she began ascending the gradual incline that led to the looming structure. The loamy lakeshore path now snaked around a few large boulders and cut through scraggly trees, shrubs, and grasses, the terrain of the Point characterized by a wilder state than the heart of Yonderwood through which she’d just passed. The path reached a plateau upon which the lighthouse stood, and though darkness was falling quickly, the beacon offered ample light.
Something on the breeze caught Clove’s senses. As she approached the structure, familiar airborne fibers snaked toward her. She reached out for them. Disappearing into her hand, the translucent, chaotic fibers wiggled arrhythmically, emitting a modulating and unpredictable hum.
“Limina…,” Clove whispered, casting a look of suspicion toward the lighthouse, as though the structure itself had something to explain. “Is this where it’s been coming from?”
The windows on the ground floor glowed dimly. Approaching the weathered wooden door, Clove struck thrice with the thick metal knocker that hung in the center. Footsteps could be heard inside, and as the door opened, a slender figure emerged, silhouetted against the light of a few lanterns illuminating the room beyond.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you this late in the evening. I’m running an errand for Betula – she asked that I return this to you for her,” Clove produced the book from her satchel and, suddenly feeling intrusive and out of place, intended to terminate this interaction quickly.
“Oh, not to worry! I’m a bit of a night owl,” a surprisingly jovial voice reassured her, with the hint of an accent that she couldn’t quite place. “Please, come in,” the figure beckoned with the wave of a hand, stepping aside. Clove, whose sense of awkwardness waned slightly now, considered that while she’d only known Betula for a couple of months, she held a firm sense of trust in the innkeeper. A life on the road had given Clove the keenest of eyes for reading people and places, and her well-honed sense of self preservation told her that Betula would not send her into danger. And, should Clove’s intuition fail her, three slim daggers hung at her hip beneath her jacket, not unused, and coated in finely crushed nullweed; a strong and swift tranquilizer. Nobody ever expected the sly, scrappy creature that she became at the first whiff of peril.
She stepped across the threshold into a small, dimly lit foyer.
Directly across from the front door was a wall bisected by an ascending stairway. To the left, the foyer opened up into a small but cozy living space, beyond which Clove could just see the beginning of a modest kitchen. To the right, a small hallway curved away in a manner that reflected the cylindrical nature of the building, and two doorways on the right-hand side of the hall were visible from Clove’s vantage point. In the first one, she could see the edge of a tall, completely full bookshelf. It seemed that the ground floor was oddly sectioned off into several small spaces for domestic use.
The lighthouse keeper hummed a faint melody and shut the door gently. He had an affable, spirited air about him, appearing genuinely delighted to have a visitor. There was something familiar about him, and Clove suspected that she knew why.
“You’re the one who restored the ruined house beyond the woodline, yes?” he inquired.
“That’s me,” Clove nodded and handed the book over, though she found herself distracted by the array of odds and ends visible from where she stood. Stacks of books stood here and there, on the floor and atop random flat surfaces. A full bookshelf stood against the outside wall of the living area. Two art pieces hung on the far wall, one on either side of the entrance to the stairway; rather large surreal charcoal works on wooden boards, both appearing to share a creator.
“I’m Zander,” the lighthouse keeper held out a hand, an intricately stamped silver band hanging at the wrist.
“Clove, pleasure to meet you,” she reciprocated a firm handshake.
“I’ve glimpsed your house from the Forest Road – it’s remarkable the transformation,” he said in a tone of honest amazement. “Where were you from prior?”
Sensing true, keen interest, Clove decided to give him the long version of things. “I’ve been nomadic up until now. Grew up in a family of traveling merchants; my parents, my aunt and uncle, and their two kids. I peeled off with my cousin and we traveled together for a bit. They went their own way, and I wandered around on my own for a couple of years, then joined a structural artisan’s caravan as their sustainer – obtaining and prepping foods, looking after health concerns within my realm of knowledge, things like that. I’ve extensive knowledge of plants, herbs, and spices, and how to find and prep them for food and medicine. It’s my family’s trade…
“Anyways, the caravan was hired here to do repairs on Betula’s place. I came across the house’s ruins while fishing and foraging in the woods. I’d always wanted to settle down, out of that lifestyle. I had a crew of skilled tradespeople – not to mention good friends – at my disposal, and a handsome payout from a recent endeavor smoldering away in my pocket.
“So…here I am. Starting anew.” She waved her hand vaguely in conclusion.
“Oh, many congratulations! You know, I settled here after a life in motion too,” Zander remarked excitedly, and Clove perked up at this.
“I understand fully the…relief, I suppose is an adequate word. Achieving a mighty aspiration that always felt out of reach…having room to breathe for the first time,” he reflected.
“On the other side of that coin, though, is apprehension and strife. Change, even that for which you long, can be so very difficult…fraught with internal and external struggles alike…
“Forgive me! I’m rambling,” he exclaimed with a chuckle.
Shaking her head, Clove smiled. “Not at all, it’s quite nice to hear my own thoughts reflected by another who’s also had this…rather specific, unusual experience…
“…an isolating experience.” She gazed down, momentarily lost in the herringbone arrangement of the worn floorboards as she allowed herself to properly reflect, perhaps for the first time.
Meeting Zander’s gaze, Clove’s train of thought shifted from wistful to curious. “You were a nomad too?”
Zander shook his head. “No, a sailor.”
Before Clove could inquire further, he pointed upward and asked eagerly, “Do you want to see the birds? They just got in.”
“Birds?” Clove looked around, perplexed.
“Follow me,” Zander turned and ardently beckoned her to the stairs.
Reference Materials:
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