Little boat, little boat

The wind howls through the gaps in the wooden floorboards, and the hinge of the door groans as the overpowering wind attempted to break through it. The naked lightbulb swings violently overhead, causing the shadows it cast to sway rhythmically.

I bend over the stove, desperately trying to light it. Each time the flame caught, a sharp breath of wind, having snaked its way through the walls, would blow it out.

After the fifth match splinters between my fingers, I swear, throwing down the box of matches and pinching the bridge of my nose with two fingers. Across the room, the door bangs open, making me scream.

Rain pours into the lighthouse; leaves snatched up by the wind fluttering inside. I run to shut it, using my entire body again the force of the wind.

I finally manage to shut it, an eerie silence descending on the house once the storm was locked back outside. In this silence, I can hear a voice.

"Mama!" It cries. "Mama!"

"Coming!" I reply, abandoning any thought of lighting the stove.

I make my way to the staircase tucked into the corner of the room, the bottom step creaking when I put my weight on it. I grasp the wooden balustrade before climbing upward toward the voice.

"Where are you?" I yell, stopping momentarily on the first landing.

"In Papa's room! Somethings wrong Mama!"

Shit.

I begin to run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I come to rest on the third floor, just outside a heavy wooden door cracked open just a bit. Golden light spills onto the landing.

"Anastasia?" I call, pushing open the door.

The room reveals my daughter, Anastasia, backed into the corner of the room, her eyes wide with fear. She was staring at the bed pushed against the wall, on which her father - my husband - lays ill.

Sweat glistens on his forehead, his face sickly pale. His body shakes violently, and he mumbles in gibberish, his eyes bloodshot and wide. He only stops muttering for a moment, in which vomit dribbles up over his chin.

"Alistair!" I cry, running to his side and rolling him over, so as to not let him choke on his own vomit. I grab the towel from the shelf above the bed, wiping his chin clean. Then I race to the set of draws on the opposite wall, conjuring a new shirt. After I change him into new clothes, I retrieve the antibiotics from the cupboard next to the bed, spoon-feeding him two mouthfuls. Within five minutes, the strength of the medication drags him under, his breathing slowing and the mumbling ceasing.

I wipe my brow with a shaking hand. I would call for the doctor, but there was no point, the storm was too strong.

"Oh Ali." I whisper, brushing his hair back from his face, placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Is Papa alright Mama?" Comes Anastasia's small voice from the corner.

"Oh, my love." I say, spinning around and crossing the room in two long strides. I wrap her in a tight hug, burying her face in my shoulder. "He'll be fine. Thank you for yelling out. You must've been terrified. I'm so sorry you had to see him like that."

"It's okay, Mama." She replies quietly.

"Let's go get you ready for bed, shall we? We can check on Sebastian as well." I take her hand, leading her out into the hallway, closing the door behind me with a click.

Together we descend to the second-floor landing, in front of another wooden door, this one painted blue. The room beyond is dark, the silhouette of a crib tucked into the far corner of the room. I flick on the light, an electrical buzzing filling the room before the two lights above flicker on. Anastasia is already at the crib, standing on her tip toes to see her baby brother asleep.

I join her at her side, the two of us gazing down on the tiny baby wrapped tight in a blue swaddle.

"Hello Basty." Anastasia whispers.

"Why don't you go get your pyjamas and brush your teeth?" I suggest. "I'll feed Basty while you get ready."

Anastasia nods before running to her bed on the other side of the room.

I reach down into the crib, gently lifting my baby from the mattress. He doesn't wake, at least not until I rest him on the change table and un-wrap him. He cries, the sound somehow gentle when compared to the roaring wind outside.

I sit myself and Sebastian down in the rocking chair next to Anastasia's bed. She comes running in from the small bathroom joining onto the main room, flinging herself onto the bed and wriggling under the covers.

I slip my right arm from the sleeve of my dress, exposing my chest. I cover myself with the blue swaddle, tucking Sebastian underneath it to let him feed.

"Sing the song, Mama." Anastasia asks, snuggled under her blanket.

"Of course, Darling." I say.

I take a moment to listen to the howling winds outside before singing.

"Little boat, little boat, washed on the shore, caressed by the waves of the bay. Your tattered sails are your scars from the war, from which you did sail away. Little boat, little boat, tell me your tale, of monsters and mermaids alike. Oh, tell me what did make you so very frail, perhaps a big lightning strike. Little boat, little boat, crushed on the shore, teased by the waves of the bay. Your battered hull will sail no more, instead warmed by the sun of the day."

I trail off, the last note hanging in the air like a haunting spirit. Anastasia has fallen asleep, and I sit there, Sebastian still feeding, watching my daughter.

Outside, the storm gives no warning of relent. If anything, it blows harder than ever, and its force reminds me of the song I just finished singing.

I had made up that song for Anastasia when she was a baby, it's inspiration for the little wooden boat wrecked on the sand of a cove a ten-minute walk from the lighthouse. It had just appeared overnight, splintered and broken, just after a storm like this one. There were no people, no bodies, no supplies, just the boat. It was almost as if it had been picked up and just put there, with no rhyme or reason to its sudden appearance.

My thoughts stray to Alistair one floor above. He hadn't been that ill in...never. The doctor said it was just an illness that it should clear up in a week. But a week had been and gone. Two weeks ago.

I'd called the doctor twice in the time that has passed, once when he was first sick and once after a week had gone by and I had seen no improvement. I was too scared to think that he could die, too scared of what it would mean for us.

Suddenly the room feels too small, the air stuffy and stale. I place Sebastian back in his crib, before leaving the room and climbing the stairs again, this time all seven floors to the top.

I step into the top room housing the giant light, which had broken ages ago and thus left the lighthouse for sale, granting us our home. I find the key to the small door leading outside, unlocking it and slipping out onto the balcony wrapping all the way around the lighthouse.

The wind blows harder than I've ever known, the rain drops falling so hard and fast I'm soaked within seconds. I grip the railing tight, my knuckles turning white. The cold stings my face, and it hurts to breathe. Out over the ocean, quick flashes of lightning illuminate the sky, followed by deafening cracks of thunder that seem to shake the ground. A few tears slip onto my cheeks, mixing with the rain in a way that makes it impossible to tell I am crying.

Below me, a few metres in front of the lighthouse, the ground drops off, the cliff face reaching all the way to the sea. Massive waves smash against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff, sending up giant sprays of water that reach half-way up the cliff-face.

I sweep my drenched hair from my face, sucking in deep breathes of freezing air. I scream, the sound lost in the wind, and the build-up of emotion inside me that made inside feel so small releases, dwindling so small I can't recognise it anymore.

But once the stress and fear is gone, it's replaced by a deep sadness, one I can't explain. It makes even more tears fall, and for a moment, I even think about flinging myself of the balcony. The thought scares me, and I let go of the railing, my chest heaving. Anastasia and Sebastian's faces flash through my mind, and I'm terrified, scared to death that I even considered abandoning them, leaving them all alone with a dying father. A sob escapes my lips, and I turn around, going back inside and locking the door. In a moment of desperation, of overwhelming fear, I crack open a tiny window, sticking out my arm and throwing the key away. I run back down the stairs, wanting nothing more than to get away from the terrible thought that scared me so much.

I find myself outside my own room, panting for breath. I open the door, going inside and collapsing on my bed. In a pathetic moment, I curl up in a ball and cry. Through the tears, my mouth shapes the words to the song.

"Little boat, little boat..."