The Lighthouse
written by: Sharon Frame Gay
@sharonframegay
Maine, 1922
There are those who find the song of a foghorn mournful and foreboding. To me, it was a lullaby. I’ve been a lighthouse keeper all my life. I was born in the keeper’s cottage in 1880, next to the tower that clings to a cliff in Maine. The rhythmic bursts of light and sound that brought home lost sailors lulled me to sleep each night.
Father, and his father before him, maintained the lighthouse for over seventy years. As a child, I peered up the spiral staircase, watching Father high above as he polished the massive searchlight. I longed to climb those stairs and see for myself what lay beyond the great expanse of water. When I reached the top rung, it was stunning to discover the ocean seemed to go on forever. A great swirling body of green thundered and crashed on to the cliff below. White foam sprayed over the rocks like lace petticoats, dusting the shore in ever-changing patterns.
High atop the cliff, it seemed as though the rest of the world was lost, and our job was to find them. One can only imagine the despair as the storms struck, sending towering waves over a ship. It turned and churned like a toy boat, until it didn’t know port from starboard, bow from stern. Then, far in the distance, was the low-throated call of the foghorn. A thin beam of illumination pierced the darkness, showing the way to a safe harbor.
I grew leery of the cold Atlantic. Others saw it as a means of transportation, perhaps to warmer climes or exotic lands. I knew it as a great petulant monster, waiting to catch a sailor unaware and devour him, spitting his bones into the reef, his dreams into the great abyss.
Imagine my relief as a young boy to discover that behind the lighthouse, land stretched out as far as the sea. The idea of grass, trees, and mountains filled me with a joy that was unexplainable. I set my sites towards the west and the Great Plains, where the only waves were grain.
The lighthouse had other plans. It enveloped me, clinging like tentacles, coaxing me to linger beside the bay. My life was firmly planted at the base of the old building. I grew into a man on this jetty of land, never venturing beyond the first set of hills that rose from shore.
I took over for my father when his eyesight failed, after he searched the sea for decades. After Father died, and Mother moved to Illinois to live with her sister, loneliness struck me like a rogue wave. What was once a soothing aria, the foghorn now sounded like a bleating goat on its way to slaughter. The great light itself seemed puny and helpless, reaching across the waves into oblivion.
Had I not met her, I would have resigned my job and moved inland. Perhaps follow my mother to her side of the family ensconced on the prairie.
***
On a warm July day during low tide, I noticed a beautiful girl perched near the edge of the cliff. With a look of great concentration, she drew the handsome features of the lighthouse with bold strokes on a fluttering page. There was something about the breeze ruffling her hair, and bare feet peeking from the hem of a billowing skirt, that sent me out the door. I pushed through my habitual shyness and approached her, offering a tour of the landmark. I was delighted when she said yes, asking me questions while we strolled about the grounds.
Her name was Isabel. She smelled of saltwater and offshore breezes. Ebony hair tangled about her face like seaweed. Isabel spoke of the ancient Atlantic. We talked of seals and latitudes, tides and pelicans, her green eyes glowing with delight.
Later, we sipped tea, sitting on the floor beneath the staircase of the lighthouse. My heart lifted and spiraled up towards the light, wishing the afternoon would never end. She rose at high tide with promises to return. That night I barely slept, then spent every waking hour for days thinking of her, peering through the windows, searching.
When Isabel returned, summer was gone, and with it any warmth. Autumn came, early snow spitting against the rocks and windows. She appeared at my cottage door as though she’d never left, her hair damp and skirt dripping. We spent hours talking about the sea and sharing hopes and plans. I knew without a doubt this was the woman I wanted for all eternity. Her visits became more frequent, and we fell in love.
Ah, it was heaven to bring Isabel home to the lighthouse as my bride. I dreamt of our future on this spit of land high above the churning water. We lay in the darkness each night as the searchlight probed the sea, content in each other’s arms until daybreak. Isabel often brought chowder to the lighthouse in the middle of the day. We sat together looking out at the ocean, exclaiming when dolphins danced across the waves, or tracking ships with great interest as they roiled and rolled along the horizon. Isabel helped me polish the lens and wash the windows. Then she nestled in my lap as I kept watch over the sea, holding her as though she were my lifeline. For the first time in years, I no longer wrestled with thoughts of leaving the lighthouse and heading inland.
On warm days, Isabel sat outside in a small chair with her pastels and paper. She drew the great Atlantic, the lighthouse, and the brave little flowers that set up life between the rugged rocks. Isabel wore a wide-brimmed hat that fluttered in the breeze, her face hidden in shadows. Sometimes she looked up and found me staring down at her. She blew kisses, and I caught them to my heart, pretending to swoon. Then she’d rise from the rocks and walk to the lighthouse and into my arms.
My young wife smelled of sunshine and wind. I sank my lips into the base of her throat, then lifted her up and hurried down the path to the tiny cottage and our humble bed. I poured myself into her, and her to me, following the tide.
Years went by. I was a happy man. However, I noticed from time to time when Isabel climbed the spiral stairs she gazed at the ocean with a look of longing. It tugged at my heart and filled me with apprehension. She sometimes turned and glanced at me sadly. Then a sweet smile formed on her lips. But her eyes were stormy and distracted. She became distant. At night, I often found sand in the bed. I shifted from side to side, avoiding the grit, wrapping myself deeper in damp blankets.
Isabel’s hair grew down her back astonishingly fast, tumbling and twisting as she walked. Tiny shells and bits of flotsam tangled in the tendrils of her ebony tresses. Even in winter she wore no shoes, her footprints leaving damp trails on the lighthouse floor as she paced in circles. Sometimes I found her near the cliff, her back to the howling north wind, eyes closed as though dreaming. Often, I woke in the middle of the night and found her missing. She returned to bed before dawn, smelling of the sea, her body slipping next to mine when the sparrows sang. Her lips tasted salty as she traced my chest with her mouth and curled next to me.
Over time, Isabel grew pale as the November sky, hands chaffed with cold. Even rubbing them between mine, they remained stiff and icy. I begged her to see a doctor. She’d never left the lighthouse before. I could not abandon my post to accompany her, so I drew a map to town. Isabel started out one morning, leaving a trail of sea water along the cobbled path.
Hours went by. My worries increased with each passing moment. I wondered where she was and what the doctor told her. Trying to stay busy, I pulled up the last of the summer’s vegetables and stowed them in the cellar. I swept the walks and groomed the garden, all the time looking for Isabel. Clouds scudded in, and with them a fierce wind and shards of pelting rain. On the horizon, waves gathered and tumbled towards land.
I climbed the steps to tend the searchlight. Peering out the window, I spotted Isabel standing on the edge of the cliff, as she did so many years ago. The wind was whipping her hair and tearing at her clothes. I made haste to polish the great lens, then hurried down the stairs. The north wind shrieked and gnawed at the building, sending a shudder through my soul as I struggled with the door and hurried out into the coming storm.
When I reached the cliff, Isabel was gone. Her tattered cloak lay abandoned on the ground, heavy with wet sand. I cried her name, screaming into the wind in cadence with the foghorn. There was no sign of her.
In desperation, I left my post for the first time in my life in the middle of a squall. Wrapping my coat around me, I hastened down the rocky path into town. I scuttled along the sidewalks like a frightened crab, feeling off balance away from the churning waters. Up ahead was the old brick building where the doctor hung his shingle.
It was a relief to find a light still on in the office, and I crashed through the door, the wind slamming it behind me, startling the young lady at the desk. I babbled with fear and apprehension, asking about my wife. She excused herself for a moment, then reappeared with the doctor in tow.
I told him who I was, and that my wife had been there earlier in the day. Isabel must have been upset after her visit, because she had gone missing, I explained.
The doctor looked surprised and said, “Mr. Beckwith, you’ve been the lighthouse keeper all these years. You have seldom come into town. I didn’t know you were married. I’ve never seen your wife, nor met anyone else who might live in the lighthouse.”
I goggled at him. I was astonished he would say this! Isabel has been a part of my life and the lighthouse for years!
“Doctor, there’s a mistake! Perhaps she didn’t seek you out today. Is there another physician here in town? Might she have seen someone else?”
“Mr. Beckwith, please sit down. You’re clearly agitated, and I’m concerned. Let’s summon the police to assist you.”
I crumpled into a chair, head in hands, praying.
The police were no help either. They listened to my story, shaking their heads in wonder. They too said they thought I lived a life of solitude in the lighthouse. The sun was setting, so we hurried home, and hastened to search the rocks and shoreline to no avail. I showed them Isabel’s tattered cloak, and the men examined it.
“Mr. Beckwith, this cloak is very old. There is a name sewn inside, but not that of your wife. It’s your mother’s name.”
Again, I was taken aback. “I don’t understand why she wore my mother’s cloak. Perhaps it was on a peg, and she borrowed it. Let us not waste time here and continue our search!”
The police officers looked at me with suspicion and suggested they search the lighthouse and cottage for further clues. I felt violated as they poked and prodded their way through my home, opening drawers and cabinets. All they found were tiny shells and bits of seaweed in my bed, along with gritty sand and a damp blanket that had fallen to the floor. They climbed the winding stairs of the lighthouse, peering out the windows into the sea as it lashed at the rocks below.
“Mr. Beckwith, we always thought you lived alone. Might we venture to say perhaps you’re confused, and you only thought there was a lady here?”
I shook my head in despair. “Please believe me!” I screamed. I pulled at my hair and sobbed, knees buckling as I collapsed in anguish. They helped me up and out of the lighthouse, and away to a hospital further inland. I repeated my story again and again for some months. Finally, the words grew tired on my lips. I accepted that Isabel was lost forever, and gave in to profound grief.
***
It was a chilly day in March when the hospital released me. The nurse patted my hand gently, reminding me to take the packet of small pills nestled in my coat pocket. It was time to return to the lighthouse. I approached my lifelong home with trepidation, wondering what I might find.
The lighthouse perched on the edge of the cliff, empty and untended. The searchlight had burned out, the foghorn disconnected. I shook my head and wondered how the sailors found their way home from the sea. A pelican took shelter on the rocks below, the north wind ruffling its feathers. Two fishing boats sailed close to shore, bobbing in the waves as they curved around the jetty.
The door to the tiny keeper’s cottage was ajar. Leaves had found their way into the kitchen, huddled by the stove like wayfarers. The cabinets splayed open, picked clean, perhaps by passing wanderers with nowhere to sleep.
I walked toward the lighthouse with a sense of foreboding. The door, loose on its hinges, gave way in my hand. I stepped inside and peered around. Outside, the wind was picking up, causing the old building to creak and moan. Without the foghorn, the lighthouse was an empty space, cold and forgotten. The silence was deafening. I walked towards the circular stairs that led to the searchlight.
In the middle of the first rung was a single small shell, as if someone placed it there. I picked it up and held it to my lips, tasting the ocean and her. The shell vibrated in my hand.
The waves were treacherous that night, pounding on the sea wall like angry fists as I returned to the simple cottage and lit a lantern. I set the shell on the window ledge beneath the waning moon and crept into my solitary bed.
The next morning when I arose, the shell was gone.
***
Years have gone by. Every day I climb the spiral stairs, searching for signs of my love. I beg the waves to throw Isabel back on to shore. The foghorn cries out in anguish through the lonely nights, the light swallowed by the undulating darkness of the sea.
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