Abby Geni - The Lightkeepers

Galen was already on his feet. It took me a while to extricate myself from the couch cushions. It took me even longer to get my flea collars around my ankles. I have reached the stage of my pregnancy in which bending over is complicated.

On the porch, the first thing I encountered was Kamikaze Pete. Weeks of unceasing battle had diminished his physical person, but not his spirit. He was thin and bedraggled. He had not taken the time to care for his plumage, feathers jutting out any old way. One eye was permanently squinted shut. Still, he launched himself as vindictively as ever at my skull. I ducked low and made a break for it, skidding down the steps. Kamikaze Pete did not chase me. He stayed on his own turf, shrieking threats at my retreating form. Galen followed me down the stairs.

Lucy was already halfway across Marine Terrace, leading the way. I saw Mick at the water’s edge. He was shadowed against the brilliant shards of light strewn across the surface of the sea. Threading through the birds was not easy; I had to be cautious. Chicks of various sizes bobbed everywhere, tumbling onto the path and squawking up at me. Their parents were not as welcoming. They whacked my shoulders with their wings and emptied their bowels onto my poncho. Their cries rose around me like fog, thickening the air, making it hard to keep my bearings.

I glanced up. I saw Lucy in motion. I saw Mick swinging a rope in both hands. I glanced down, checking my progress. Then I looked toward Mick again.

A group of gulls had come out of nowhere. Even at a distance, I heard the screech of their voices, nails on a chalkboard. Wheeling in formation, they plunged out of the sky. Mick lifted his arms, batting the birds away. But there were too many of them. He was encircled by a tornado of feathers.

What happened next is etched on my brain like ink on photo paper. I remember every instant of it, every action, every breath. I will remember it forever.

There was a sharp crack. Mick lurched to the side. One of the gulls had made contact with his hard hat. Another swooped in, slamming against the plastic dome. Before my eyes, the thing broke apart. It seemed almost geographical: an earthquake splintering the hard hat into shards. The pieces exploded outward. Bright plastic, white birds. Mick was without armor. He was defenseless.

The gulls did not hesitate. Pecked in head —their favorite kind of violence. They beat at Mick’s face, disorienting him. A large female took aim. Her beak glinted. I saw a splash of blood. She had sliced off a wedge of Mick’s ear.

He screamed. There was no time for me to take it in. There was no time left. Beaks swiveled around him like knives. Slashing at his forehead. Tearing his throat. Pulling swatches from his poncho. Ripping his fingers to the bone. The birds were decorated in blood now, marked and smeared with war paint.

In what seemed to be slow motion, Mick twisted in midair. He was scored all over by wounds. The gulls had tattooed his wrists and hands with abrasions. One ear was gone. A crimson hole. His Adam’s apple poured a waterfall down his neck, streaking his poncho. The birds swooped around him, unrelenting. His hand rose in a helpless gesture. A trail of red mist followed the movement, drifting behind his arm like an afterimage. He was standing too close to the water.

A slip. A stumble. That is all it takes to claim a person’s life. Mick fell inside a cloud of wings. He disappeared behind the rocks. A splash rose against the shore, glinting in the light. The birds rose too, triumphant.

Something touched my arm. It was Galen, gripping my elbow to steer me forward. We stumbled frantically through the rookery. We reached the shoreline together. His grip was causing me pain. It was hard, at first, to make sense of the mix of glare and darkness. Dazzling coins were spangled across the water. My eyes adjusted slowly. There was a long shadow inside the wet glow.

Now, in retrospect, I am aware that I did not want to understand what I was looking at. I took it in without registering its meaning. Denial is a powerful thing: it can alter what we see, help us forget the moments of transgression and pain in our lives, keep us unaware of violence. Mick’s body bobbed limply on the ocean. Facedown. I held my ground, waiting for the scene to resolve into something else. Any second now, he was going kick his legs. He was going to surface, gasping for breath. He was going to start to swim. I was calm and curious, nothing more.

A moment later, a gull landed on Mick’s back. Its beak flashed, and a spatter of crimson coated its feathers. It took flight with something in its mouth — a hunk of quivering pink. A second bird followed suit. It perched quizzically on Mick’s arm, its weight dipping the limb beneath the surface of the water. It peeled a strip of skin from the back of his hand. Then another bird landed. And another.

At my side, Lucy was sobbing. She waved her arms in vain, trying to scare the gulls away. Galen had his fingers buried in his hair. His mouth was contorted. The birds were growing bolder, circling in a pack. They yanked tufts of Mick’s hair out. They stabbed at his poncho, penetrating the fabric, wrenching mouthfuls of wet flesh from his torso. They smacked one another with their wings, battling over who would alight on the body next. They shrieked in what seemed to be elation. Mick was a sodden mass, oozing coils of blood over the surface of the sea.

I don’t know how long I would have stood there, unwilling to believe what I was seeing. Forever, maybe.

It seemed as though the noise of the birds was growing louder. The roar became unendurable, thundering in my ears. I had an impression of motion and wind, of something rising around me, as though all the gulls on Southeast Farallon had taken flight at once.

Galen grabbed me as I fell. The last thing I remember is the expression on his face — eyes haunted, mouth open — and the vise of his wiry arms.

I WOKE IN my bedroom. I kept my eyes closed for a bit, inhaling the familiar odors of dust and mildew, feeling the light from the window on my cheek. Somebody else was there. My heart leapt. I wanted it to be Mick; I was sure that it would be Mick. He had always been the one to care for me when I was ill.

“How are you feeling?” Lucy said.

I opened my eyes. She was leaning over me. Her hair swung in its usual braid.

“I’ll get you some water,” she said, turning toward the door.

I flung out a hand to stop her.

“What happened?” I said.

She sank onto the bed, frowning. I was struck anew by the hale solidity of Lucy. Her whole body spoke of matronly good health. But her face had a dewy aspect now. Her eyes were swollen.

“You know what happened,” she said.

I was still hoping she might come up with an alternate solution. Maybe Mick had been rescued just in time. Maybe the kiss of life had saved him. Maybe he was downstairs now, shrugging off the last vestiges of hypothermia. Maybe he was fine. That was what I wanted to hear: Mick was absolutely fine. It was the What If Game all over again.

Lucy brushed a lock of hair wearily from her face.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

At once, I pushed myself upright. With a frantic gesture, I reached for her, pulling her into a bear hug. I saw the shock in her face. My belly knocked the wind out of her. She patted my back, and I gripped her rib cage with all my strength. This was not a benevolent instinct. I wanted to force what she was about to say back into her throat, through her lungs, down through the soles of her feet. I wanted to prevent her from saying Mick’s name aloud, from saying drowned or gone or, God forbid, accident . I did not want her to say a word.

I AM LEAVING THE islands. It has not been a question, to go or to stay. Galen has arranged the whole thing for me. He has radioed the mainland, contacted Captain Joe. On Friday afternoon, the ferry will take me away.