Richards Lighthouse Keeper

A Story of Mind Mastery
1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-0983-0146-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 200 Seiten

What do you do when you know you aren't living the life you want? Sam has come to that place. He embarks on a journey, only to discover that journey is going to be one that forever changes his life, if he can survive.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Richards, David

Leseproben

CHAPTER ONE THE APPRENTICE
B lack Eagle Lighthouse sat atop a small cropping of rock a few meters above sea level. It reached up from the ocean floor like a hand, the dark, jagged appendage of some earthly celestial, its fingers spread wide, the fingertips disappearing into the sea on the island’s eastern side. The waves made splintered assaults into the grooves between the fingers, crashing against the rocks in their ceaseless assault. On occasion, reached more than half the lighthouse’s height. On the back of the hand sat Black Eagle Lighthouse. Slightly less than fifty meters high, it was painted in equal thirds of navy blue, white, and navy blue again before surrendering to the catwalk and lantern. A single door on the southern side supplied entrance to the lighthouse, which could be accessed by way of a small dock on the leeward side to the west. Once docked, one followed steps which had been dutifully carved out of the rock as they meandered their way up to the entryway. A few miles to the west, the faint glow of the mainland and the nearest town beckoned in the greying day. It was dusk. Save for the flickering, distant lights from the town, there was ocean as far as the eye could see. A small boat navigated the agitated waters and headed west into the waking night, making its way towards the lighthouse. The boat carved a purposeful path, cutting through the waves and spraying their remnants across the bow, drenching the crew in the process. Dark, pregnant clouds murmured overhead, flashing alarm in stuttering bouts, illuminating the boat’s crew, who sensed they were racing the storm clouds to their destination. They worked with seasoned precision in the familiar waters. The boat’s captain held steady on the course, even as the boat strained against the strengthening storm. She would deliver the day’s goods and have her crew safely home in time for a late dinner. The cargo they ferried was of the standard fare: dried foods and a few frozen steaks…a treat for the lighthouse keeper. There were two weeks’ worth of fresh fruit; there was milk and cheese, and some bars of chocolate. They carried with them a cord of wood for the lighthouse fireplace. The captain knew the keeper had rain barrels, but had brought a few gallons of fresh water for good measure. There were newspapers and magazines from the previous weeks, and enough toiletries to last a month. There were other odds and ends, including empty trash cans, which the crew would exchange with the lighthouse keeper for his full ones. There was all this, and something the captain brought only rarely on previous trips; a passenger. The passenger hadn’t said much, this young Seagrim fellow. Hadn’t brought much for that matter, though the captain didn’t know for how long her passenger planned on staying at the lighthouse. Or how long the keeper would let him stay. She knew precious little about her passenger. He was medium height, with shoulders that drooped slightly. Curls of blond hair escaped from underneath his red watch-cap and his face was clean-shaven, if he had a need to shave at all. She didn’t think he would fare well at sea… not without some more meat on his bones. An older man had accompanied him to the dock, but had not hesitated to turn and leave as the younger man boarded the vessel. They hugged, and with a swift, firm pat on the back, the older man was gone. As the apprentice boarded, he tipped his cap and said, in a voice not yet bereft of youth, “I am the lighthouse keeper’s apprentice.” It was an excessively stuffy and inflated introduction, and she popped it out of the air with a vigorous handshake. She noted his hands were slightly calloused, enough so that she quietly reassessed him and his seaworthiness. She introduced herself as Captain Stenson, to which Seagrim inquired if there might be a spot for him belowdeck so as to keep out of the way of the crew. He politely refused her offer to assist with his duffel bag, which even now threatened to topple him onto one side. She took him to the small room next to her quarters. The room was lit with a kerosene lamp, which swayed with the ocean’s mood. Seagrim threw his duffel bag and smaller bag down on one of the room’s two benches and sat down next to them. They exchanged smiles and she closed the door behind her. Stranger still, the captain had only come to know about Sam Seagrim thanks to the lighthouse keeper. The previous month, her crew was short two men, both out sick. She’d left the wheelhouse, and the tedium of completing her log book, while they were docked at Black Eagle to assist in ferrying supplies into the lighthouse storage room. The lighthouse smelled of wet stone and electricity, the combination of which created a sense of alarm. There were dank, dark places within the lighthouse that never saw the sun. The generator hummed its constant note while the waves crashed against the windward side of the tiny island. For the discomfort the place emanated, the generator sound was entrancing which, in turn, only exacerbated the feeling of unease. Outside, there was the crescendo of wave smashing into rock, followed immediately by the wave remnants raining down on the side of the lighthouse and surrounding walkway. She wanted to find it peaceful, but could only manage depressing. How did someone find peace in this kind of life, she wondered. Inside the lighthouse, the ocean sounds bounced off the walls in large, vacant echoes. Somewhere inside the lower level of the lighthouse, there was the steady sound of water dripping. The store room was on the third floor, and she left the boxes she hauled at the base of the stairs for one of her crew to carry the rest of the way. On her final run from the boat, the keeper had gently grabbed her arm and told her that the apprentice would be at the docks with the next month’s supply run, and that he would be grateful to the captain for bringing the young man safely to Black Eagle. Armand was something of a hermit, she surmised. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d been seen in town; four months at least. When it happened, the news raced through the shops and bars faster than a sprinting jack rabbit fleeing a hound. If he struck up conversation, it was never more than a few words, a handful of head nods, and a sincere, deep smile that Stenson thought might contain the slightest trace of madness. He was present, but utterly detached from what was happening around him, she thought. People never referred to him by name; it was always “the keeper” or for those who liked a little drama, “the keeper of Black Eagle”, as if it was a title bestowed upon him for some noteworthy cause by the unseen royalty of the deep. Some of the older people from the coast called him a wickie, but as long as she’d known of him, Black Eagle had run on electricity. His entrance into a tavern was enough to quiet the crowd until he made his way to the bar and ordered his usual; a glass of water. She had discovered his name by accident. “Armand” was scribbled on a parcel she’d once delivered years ago. The first time she called him by his name, he seemed surprised at hearing it. He must lead a hollow, barren life, she thought. Alone, on purpose. By choice. Other captains had mused that lighthouse keepers were a tranquil lot, especially now that most lighthouses had moved away from oil lamps, which were labor intensive and called for multiple keepers per house. These speculations were issued side by side with stories of catches of fish too big to haul, mermaids, and other maritime tales. As these captains saw it, the rhythmic, enchanting sound of the waves, broken occasionally by a gull or, on rare instances, a humpback, must be nature’s tonic for the drudgery of a landlocked existence. For the keeper, gone were the days of wicks and fuel, gone too, the need for teams of men to man the houses. All that solitude, the present thinking went, what could be better other than being captain of a ship which, of course, they agreed was the height of good fortune. Captain Stenson didn’t share their sentiment. She loved her life and enjoyed her privacy, but reveled in the moments, both good and bad, with her crew. What was life without friends, without family? Hollow, the word came back to her. Hollow like the echo of waves inside a lighthouse. Armand had a rowboat moored to the dock, but Stenson sensed every time she made the supply run that the little boat hadn’t been used at all in the time since her last visit. Who would he visit? At best, it was good for fishing away from the island. If it were needed to get back to town in case of an emergency, the journey alone would be precarious and fraught with peril if the sea were angry. Seagrim stayed below decks astern, duffel bag and knapsack alongside him, book opened and held a few inches from his face. He kept his red cap on. In the lamp light, she could better see his brown eyes, pudgy nose, and just how young he looked. Shortly before they left town, supplies loaded, she had gone down to check on him. He had been playing some inane game with a ball on a string, trying to catch the ball in a little wooden cup. It was the kind of trinket one picked up at the fair. He declined her offer of water, the grey peacoat he wore nearly swallowing him up. She checked on him again at the midpoint of their journey. He been playing the game again, quickly set it aside when she opened the cabin door, and reached for a book laid face-down on the table in front of him. She noted the book was The Lighthouse at the End of the World by Jules verne. She thought of checking again, more for her own benefit she realized, and decided against...