Frazer Lee - The Lamplighters

“You mean death, don’t you?” Marla knew she was right. “The only way off this island is if you die?”

The old man’s eyes seemed to glitter wetly as he looked up at them both.

“Better get the stove burning again,” he said quietly.

A piercing chill had descended on the room, like a sharp winter fog.

It was getting dark outside, the dying sun a thin vein of crimson bleeding into the sea. Marla sat watching Pietro sleep fitfully as she listened to the wind whistling by the lighthouse windows. He hadn’t so much fallen asleep but rather blacked out, the shock of his injuries and the stress of being dragged to the lighthouse finally getting the better of him. She glanced over at Jessie, who had bedded down on a pile of old magazines and was finally getting some shut-eye beneath a thick woolen blanket. She had made a compelling argument; Fowler’s men were the very same people who’d mercilessly blown Pietro out of the water in the first place—but had they actually seen him before the boat blew? Perhaps it wasn’t an attack but an accident, a gas explosion or the like. Whatever the reason, the reality of Pietro’s injuries was undeniable. Looking at Pietro’s clammy skin and the bloodstained bandages barely holding him together, Marla felt sure Vincent was right. He’d lost too much blood to survive without proper medical attention. Marla was certain Jessie’s paranoia and fears were preventing her from thinking straight. Hopefully a few hours’ sleep would see her right and they could discuss their options in the clear light of morning. Too wired to sleep, Marla mopped Pietro’s brow with a damp rag and felt his flesh burning angrily with the beginnings of a fever. Her fingertips were dry and flaky and her hands bore mystery cuts that she couldn’t remember acquiring. She thought of her cozy summerhouse on the other side of the island with its hot shower, moisturizer, well-stocked larder and fragrant garden. Then she imagined Adam and the security patrols, their flashlights cutting through the gloom of the night to find her and Jessie’s beds empty. Spy cameras would show no lights on in the main houses, nor any sign of life at Pietro’s place, no chores being done. Then Fowler’s men would come looking for them. It was just a matter of time. She grew frightened, Vincent’s disturbing mantra looping inside her head like an old stuck record, only one way off this rock…only one way . With these fears weighing heavy on her already troubled mind, Marla fought to keep her eyes from closing and giving in to sleep. She imagined those awful hollow black eyes staring at her through Jessie’s kitchen window again, and tumbled into their depths.

Her own loud yelp woke her and she sat bolt upright, opening her eyes. Marla shivered and looked down at Pietro, still sweating in Vincent’s old cot bed. His eyes were closed and his mouth clamped tightly shut behind dry lips. He looked awful; sleep was the best place for him. The crick in her neck told Marla she had drifted off with her head hanging over him. Massaging her neck with a cold hand she got up carefully, not wishing to disturb their patient.

Crossing to the window, Marla saw the first moments of morning and the sky she’d fallen asleep beneath was in reverse. This time the sun’s rays were spiking upwards, creating watercolor blurs of yellow, green and muddy reds where they met the sky’s vapors. For a moment the surreal quality of her situation struck her—here she was taking shelter in a lighthouse on the other side of the world under an alien sky.

“Strange, the light this time of morning.”

It was Vincent. Marla hadn’t even noticed him, sat in his chair with his feet propped up on a rickety wooden stool.

“It’s beautiful,” she replied before crossing to sit in the chair opposite him. “You must have seen so many mornings like this one.”

“Oh I’ve seen ’em all right. Winter sun is best, sharp and cold as a shark’s tooth out here. But the seasons drag. Seen too many mornings and far too many nights.”

“How long have you lived out here Vincent? What brought you?”

Vincent reached over and picked up a pipe, filling it with coarse, dry tobacco as he gathered his thoughts.

“Truth is, in a way I was the first of the Lamplighters.”

Marla listened intently as Vincent went on to describe arriving at Meditrine Island as a young man in his early twenties, to take up the post of lighthouse keeper. The island was then, as now, owned and operated by The Consortium Inc. on the mainland. The great white stucco mansion houses had just been built back then and soon enough The Lamplighters had arrived to look after them. Fairest of these was a girl called Susanna, pink in complexion with flowing blonde hair and a Nordic lilt to her accent. Marla found herself smiling wistfully as Vincent described falling in love with Susanna on first sight of her as she gathered seashells in the cove near the lighthouse. She’d fallen pregnant not long after they began their courtship, her visits becoming more frequent as they conspired about their future together. They were both happy on the island and so approached the Master of the Watch, Chief of Security Fowler’s predecessor, to ask The Consortium’s permission for them to live in the lighthouse together with their child. After she gave birth however, Vincent never saw Susanna again. The Watchman told him she’d been sent back to the mainland, never to return to the island again, as punishment for breaking her code of conduct as a Lamplighter. Vincent’s own punishment was to raise their child, a boy, alone in the lighthouse until he was old enough to replace his father as lighthouse keeper.

One night, Vincent took a boat from the island determined that he and his boy should return to the mainland together and find the boy’s mother; his beloved Susanna. The Watchmen used his own lighthouse against him. By its light, they pursued him through the waves in a skiff and ran him and his son to ground. Their discipline was harsh and Vincent was told he and his son were confined to the lighthouse, their only contact with others being the sporadic food drops made by the security staff on their rounds. One or two of the men were decent enough types and showed some pity in the reading material they smuggled out for Vincent and his boy. With each box of canned food and powdered milk came a puzzle book, comic book or novel—the foundations of the mildewed library that helped keep the draft out in the control room today. The years passed and as Vincent’s son grew, so too did his desire to see beyond the lighthouse windows, to run across the beaches and explore the island’s coves. Vincent woke one morning to find his boy had snuck out during the night. He heard barking from outside and from the window saw the lad tearing across the sand in hot pursuit of a black dog. The animal was ragged and skinny and, as is often the case with such black dogs, proved to be a portent of doom. For as the beast was swept away by an almighty wave, as big as a house, so too was Vincent’s son. The waves crashed down on the rocks like heaven’s thunder, drowning out Vincent’s cries as he battled his way through the wind and spray. Upon his next delivery of supplies he sent solemn word to the Master of the Watch that he would remain at the lighthouse as agreed, but that his son would no longer be able to replace him. And here he had stayed for over forty years, amassing the books and periodicals his kind jailers bestowed on him month after month, year after year.

“I like puzzle books the most. Their solutions are always the simplest.”

He sighed dryly and Marla blinked a tear from her eye. The old man’s story had touched her more than she’d realized. Vincent stood, breaking the spell conjured by his oration, and busied himself making the now customary fresh pot of coffee. Only then did Marla realize Jessie had gone.