The Lighthouse

Shadowed by the veil of night well beyond the shore was a small boat incoming. Its name and other distinct qualities were worn from the ocean's hand and stained with the calcium of barnacle's.

A small thing it was, cursed to hit against and be swallowed by the waves, threatened by their strength like hands grasping at its belly. In the vessel, a man sat where no man should be when the black water grew into thunderous rolls. It was so dark, the point between the sea and sky was unrecognisable. Instead, the man was trapped in the space between the open water and sky, as if in purgatory. The only constant was the unadulterated wind against his cheeks, burning his face with its icy breath. As lightning cracked against the sky upon the onset of a storm, thunder drowned his cries. He begged between each strike of electricity that someone would hear him and save his soul.

After some time, the air changed, the waves calmed, and he knew that land was nearby. He knew because the waves were no longer going in one direction, dragging him deeper to the middle of nowhere. With a grateful sigh, he looked into the darkness and willed a lighthouse to come alive, gripping with anticipation what he believed were starboard and port with a force that broke his fingernails. His arms had grown weary from the tireless paddling, and when the storm picked up, he could not break the hardened surface against the water’s twists and turns, so he allowed the ocean to take him and his boat wherever she wanted.

He felt death swimming close when no light broke the void. It clawed at his boat. A voice whistled along the surface of the ocean, whispering to him that rocks were nearby. He imagined them now as tall, jagged, and sharp like the Devil’s teeth. He prayed silently in protest to his fears. He covered his ears with the palms of his hands. There was no warmth or comfort in the action. He merely begged the whispering to stop.

He did not want to be forgotten or taken by the black water, so he called out his name, giving it to the fish who were far too afraid to swim to the surface. He called it again to the birds who had long since sought shelter from the downpour. And he called it one last time for the gods above, begging that mercy was in their agenda.

He was Morris, and his boat was Polly. Nothing save for his oar and his soul were inside the small vessel. The emptiness of his surroundings was like an omen or a promise that nothing was worth recovering should he capsize and sink to the depths.

As he ceased his cries, a lighthouse awoke from deep slumber, at last illuminating the open sea. The shadows swam away from his boat, releasing their grip on the wet wood and diving below the surface of the water with a hiss.

Morris’ eyes adjusted, and he saw the shore, breathing freely for the first time in what felt like days. It was a soft sandy haven. Thank Poseidon it is not rocks, he thought, remembering the Devil’s teeth and dripping with saliva brought on by hunger.

I am safe.

Morris began to cry. Just as the sea and sky had been indistinguishable, his tears, the ocean's spray, and the rain now blended together atop his cheeks.

Morris picked his oar up with calloused hands, raw from the splintered woods and resumed his laborious paddle. The lighthouse spun its light in slow circles, scanning and twisting to shed light on its domain.

As he paddled, forcing his muscles to move despite their sore protests, he noticed the light of the tower wane and thin, slowing even more to focus on his lone vessel edging closer to the sand, the anticipation of land was sweet on his feet. Before he could think, What an odd thing for a lighthouse to do, he heard a groan and then a crack, splitting the air as lightning does; however, there was no burst of electricity painting the clouds. He looked to his right, twisting his torso to keep his sea-fared legs balanced on the base of the boat.

The lighthouse watched him.

The keeper, in good jest, illuminates the shore for my convenience, he told himself.

The lighthouse blinked, forcing Morris to suck in a sharp, cold breath. Shock gripped his spine with long fingernails, paralysing him. The centre of the lighthouse’s eye dilated like a shark at the scent of blood.

Morris locked his knees, steadying his legs for Polly’s sake, and rubbed his eyes. Sea sickness…the water…that was why he witnessed the lighthouse move. Another trick he willed himself to believe.

A long, ugly groan forced his eyes to the base of the lighthouse. The rocks rumbled before tumbling away as two wooden arms sprouted from just above the island’s terrain. It pushed the rock, dirt, and moss away.

The movement forced eager waves in his direction, crashing against the side of Polly and hurling Morris overboard.

Morris broke the water’s surface with his back. The cold sobered him, numbing his limbs as adrenaline took over. He began thrashing wildly to escape the tower which lifted one bent, ugly arm and crawled in his direction, twisting against the rocks and dragging its nails along the sand, scarring the wet sand.

Morris pulled himself up for air, forcing his limbs through the thick, frigid waves that pulled him toward the shore. He begged his fate were not so.

The lighthouse blinked again, momentarily darkening Morris’ slowing movements. He felt his feet drag against hardened sand, and a grim expression bore into the lines of his face. The storm swelled again, rumbling with unsatiated hunger.

With that long wooden hand, the tower reached toward him, sinking its spread fingers into the water and pulling Morris onto the shore.

Then it dragged him over the rocks while thunder drowned his cries.