Abby Geni - The Lightkeepers

“Many things. So many.”

There was a current running beneath our conversation — a tremor of electricity, of secrecy. It was as though he was trying to tell me something through code. I could not discern what that was. I could not figure out his mood, much less his intent.

“Do you understand?” Galen said. “I’m talking about Charlene.”

“Oh,” I said, a slow exhalation.

“Seeing her like that.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Poor little thing. It’s been a tough day. A terrible day.”

“Yes,” I said. “It has.”

“I brought her here,” Galen said. “That’s the problem.”

I swallowed hard.

“I choose who comes and who goes,” he said. “It’s my decision. I approved Charlene’s internship. I approved your residency. I signed off on everyone here.”

“I know.”

“I’m responsible for you all.”

I nodded. I believed this too.

“It can be a burden,” Galen said. “Not always. But sometimes. Tonight it feels that way to me. Tonight it’s a dreadful burden.”

I thought I understood what he was driving at, though I could not be sure. His state of mind seemed to be in flux, shifting from anger to calm to sorrow with all the unpredictability of the weather on the islands.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“What?” he said.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeated. “What happened to Charlene.”

Galen gave me a look that made me quail. It had the force of a thunderbolt hurled from a mountaintop. Once again, I was reminded of Greek mythology. He might have been an angry god of the sea reprimanding a lowly mortal.

“Fault,” he said. “An interesting word.”

“Mm.”

His eyes glittered. “If an elephant seal eats a fish, whose fault is that? If a shark eats the seal, who is to blame?”

I thought about saying, You tell me. I did not dare.

“The islands are a dangerous place,” he went on. “For humans and for animals. Should I be held accountable for what happens here? Should Charlene? Should you?”

“I don’t know,” I said helplessly.

“Noninterference,” he said. “That’s my job. Watching and studying. Never intervening. If a seal pup drowns, I make a note of it. If a white shark is wounded, I take a photo for my files. That’s my job . Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“But this—” he said. “Charlene—”

He broke off. An unspoken question seemed to hang in the air. Galen was watching me as though waiting for an answer. I did not know what to say. I could not follow his logic. I could not decipher the pattern.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator gave a wrenching groan. Galen and I both jumped. This was a common occurrence on the islands — the fridge was old, and its mechanism always came to life with an angry cry — but now it sounded like a thunderclap. It rattled for a minute, then quieted to a hum.

“I’m disturbed by recent events,” Galen said. “That’s my point.”

“Charlene is my friend,” I said, finding my voice.

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m upset too. What happened to her makes me sick.”

“And what did happen?” Galen said fiercely.

I stared at him with my mouth open.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me in your own words.”

“An accident,” I said. “Another accident.”

He got to his feet in one smooth bound. I had noticed before how youthful and athletic his movements could be. Years of spartan living on the islands had kept him lean and wiry, a pillar of muscle. He strode across the living room and took up a sentinel position by the window.

In the tank, the octopus ballooned upward. His flesh was decorated with a patchwork of hues — ochre, green, splotches of pink. He was as multicolored as a firework. It was unusual to see him flaunt his abilities like this. I wondered if his coloration was indicative of his mood or if he was simply flexing his muscles. Perhaps his capacity for camouflage required this sort of practice.

At the window, Galen spoke.

“That doctor,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“That damned doctor. He remembered me. I remembered him too, but I wasn’t going to say anything. We don’t talk about the past here.”

I was still catching up. Galen was apparently referring to the gray-haired teddy bear of a man, the bespectacled medic who had accosted him and claimed to recognize him. I had more or less forgotten the whole encounter. It had been eclipsed entirely by Charlene’s condition and my own anxious state.

“He knew my wife,” Galen said.

“But you said—” I began, then faltered.

“My wife. He knew her. What are the odds?”

I gazed at him for a moment in consternation.

“I didn’t realize you were married,” I said.

“She died. Eleven years ago. She died.”

“Ah,” I said, stunned.

“ Damn ,” Galen spat out.

He sprang into motion again. As I watched, he paced to the hat stand and back to the bookshelf, making the most of the little space.

“I don’t mention it,” he said. “I never bring it up. We don’t talk about—”

“The past here,” I said. “I know. But sometimes, maybe, it’s okay to—”

“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes.”

Even his hands were restless, moving through the air as though manipulated by a puppeteer — a novice unaccustomed to the delicate wiring. Fingers drifting. Palms turning upward. Elbows akimbo.

“Will you tell me what happened?” I said.

“She drowned.”

“Oh.”

“We were on a fishing trip. We lived in San Francisco then. We had rented a boat, just for the day, with friends. A squall blew in. Choppy seas. She shouldn’t have been on deck. I told her to stay inside — I told her. She never listened to me.” Galen gave a tight, pained grin. “She lost her balance. Hit her head. She was unconscious when she entered the water. We couldn’t get to her in time.”

“I see,” I said softly.

And I did see. Many things were falling into place.

Something had driven Galen to the most godforsaken, far-flung place on earth. Something had induced him to stay indefinitely. Until this moment, I had been unable to comprehend it. It had been one more puzzle of the islands, too difficult to solve.

Now, however, I understood. He was still pacing, the glow from the lamp tangled in his white hair. I took in his agitation, his brisk stride. Outside, the breeze howled like an irritated child. A shutter bumped against the wall. The elephant seals were making noise now, grunting and squealing. I was doing mental arithmetic. Eleven years ago, Galen’s wife had passed away. Ten years ago, he had left the mainland for the Farallon Islands, never to return. The pieces fit together at last.

“It was a one-two punch today,” he said. “Charlene on the stretcher — barely even breathing—” He broke off. “My wife had red hair, like hers. It all came back.”

“I understand.”

Outside, the wind smacked the glass. I held still.

“An accident,” Galen said. “Another accident.”

“Yes.”

He rapped his knuckles against his thigh. Then he said, “How long have you been on the islands? How long exactly?”

“Oh,” I said, a bit thrown at the abrupt shift in topic. “Six months.”

“And what do you think of it?”

“It’s my favorite place,” I said. “And I’ve been to a lot of places.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Despite everything that’s happened.”

“Despite everything,” I said firmly.

On the coffee table, the octopus oozed into view again. His skin was now the color of blood. He had circumnavigated his tank and was beginning a new revolution. All eight arms grappled against the glass, the suckers splayed.