Gruman's Lighthouse

George Gruman sat down heavily on the rickety chair, his arthritic knee making him topple forward in pain and nearly land in the bowl of unflavoured tuna he had dumped on the table. “Thanksgiving,” he harrumphed. “So much to be thankful for.” His rheumy eyes misted with some emotional irritant. He let the scrawny, almost hairless old cat claw at his jeans. Gruman picked at the tuna with his fingers and offered some to her. She purred like a well oil diesel engine; Crooked tail twitching with pleasure. Her own arthritis made catching mice hard.

Gruman cared for the lighthouse which rose tall among the squat boulders that formed its fortress. Its welcoming beam of light flashed back at the beaches of the mainland and over the cliffs covered in purple and blue wildflowers and then back out to the ocean, deep and wild and unpredictable. His lighthouse was a short dingy ride back to the mainland but he kept no boat. He lived completely alone, save for the mangy cat that he had rescued from the water, clinging to a piece of driftwood, mewling and crying on that darkest stormy night. It was another like that tonight. The sea was heaving and smashing itself against the boulders that protected the island, trying to get at Gruman and drag him beneath the sea with the fishes, he thought. The cat leapt up on the mantlepiece and wove her skinny body between the framed pictures up there. Gruman’s eyes followed her while he shovelled tuna into his mouth, chewing by grinding his toothless gums against the meat. The cat stopped next to the photograph of his daughter. Little Lucy, very little for four years old, was standing by a fence. The goats on the other side of the fence were trying to eat her straw hat. Lucy’s face was a mixture of uncertainty and wanting to please Gruman by smiling for a nice picture. A lightning bolt struck somewhere close by, immediately followed by a deafening clap of thunder that rolled into the next lighting strike. The cat stayed up on the mantlepiece, cleaning her paws and licking at her own chest.

He knew it would happen tonight. But he was so old now, even the cat wouldn’t run. Gruman thought he heard a keening noise above the wind. He looked up at the spiral staircase he would have to climb in order to check the light. His knees complained before he even heaved himself out of the chair. Gruman wiped a handkerchief over his bald head and grasped the rail. The keening noise had gotten louder. He had to check the light. A full moon on thanksgiving was a rare occurrence, he thought but the moon was covered with thick clouds. There was no change of it happening just now. Grasping the steel rail with gnarled hands, he heaved himself up the stairs, resting halfway, before sending himself on again. The lighthouse light was fine. There was no strange noise coming from the mechanism that sent the lifesaving light around and around, warning seafarers of the rocks that lay below the churning waters. Lighting struck again, illuminating the beach for an extended time. Extended enough for Gruman to see a figure on the beach and hear the keening noise again, almost a howl. Surely a person couldn’t be making the noise? He was so far away and the storm was so strong. The lightning stuck again, lighting the figure who raised a hand in greeting. This time the keening, the howling, seemed to come from inside his own head. The rain slowed, the thunder lessened and the clouds parted, allowing a stream of full moonlight to pierce through and fall upon him. Gruman immediately began the change, the curse. His limbs lengthened. Grey hair sprouted in tufts all over his body. His emaciated frame buckled and bent to be the wolf. The wizened, old alpha whose golden days were long ago. He trotted down the stairs to the ground floor of the lighthouse and waited, seated on his haunches for his visitor to arrive. His toothless gums and broken claws would be of no use. He resigned himself to his fate. A scratching at the door meant his guest had arrived. The cat leapt off the mantelpiece and shimmied over to rub against his fur. He swatted her away. The door swung back silently on its hinges. Immediately her scent hit him. Lucy. They rubbed nuzzled each other, Gruman’s heart filled with wonder and questions at how she had found him when he had been gone for so long. The moon dipped below the horizon with the sun rising. They both transformed back into their human selves.

Lucy had cleaned the old gas stove and was combining food from different cans with the greens she had managed to eek into survival in the vegetable patch. Gruman watched her stir the pot from the rickety old table. The cat wove between his legs.

“What’s going to happen now?” he asked. His heart was leaden. He was sure she was going to suggest they both go back to the mainland. He felt so old. He simply couldn’t face the hustle and bustle of a normal life.

“We stay here together.”

Gruman looked up at her in hope. “You will get sick of this place. Sick of me,” he shook his head. “You should be finding you own pack. Don’t be a mutt. The others will seek you out.”

‘They’ve known you’ve been here for years Dad. There is a new alpha. He is new school. Mutts are accepted. They often join packs now.

“He isn’t the Alpha until he comes to kill me,” Gruman shook his head.

“He doesn’t believe that. He is a bit evolved, I guess.”

“Am I the last of the true kind then?”

Lucy nodded and went back to stirring the tins on the stove.

“So, you forgive me for it? For killing her? Your mother?” he stumbled over the words but they had to be said. Lucy had to be sure of how sorry he was. “It was an accident. I never meant to.”

Lucy stopped stirring and stared at the wall behind the stove.

“I forgave you for that a long time ago,” she said quietly. “What I can never forgive you for is running away. Making me go through foster home after foster home. A lot of things happened to me because you couldn’t face what you did.”

“Lucy, I… I’m sorry. I don’t know how you can forgive me.”

“I won’t,” she roared. She turned mid-stride and was wolf by the time two steps were taken. She sank her teeth into her father’s throat and tore it from his neck. Blood pooled beneath him and she paced back and forward, heaving. The cat began to lap at the crimson puddle. Lucy trotted up the lighthouse stairs and howled out into the sun. A series of howls issued from the pack that had settled on the beach. She picked out Sam, his alpha coat gleaming in the setting sun. You are alpha now my love. My father is dead.