Sophie and the Seagull

Yesterday, Sophie’s fussy and overbearing mother left her at the train station, pressing a Hershey bar and an orange into her palm. The chocolate was an extravagant treat 100 years ago, even among the well-to-do. She wished her daughter well and walked with her to the platform to board the train heading north, promising to be waiting for her in this very spot one week from today. Sophie couldn’t remember a time in her young life when she had ever defied her parents, but this time she decided she had to grab the opportunity to prove to her overprotective family that she was strong and capable, not just another aristocratic, self-absorbed debutante preoccupied with new dresses and parties. She was, after all, an adult who could make her own decisions.

Today she was enjoying her independence and totally in her element. She was standing on the catwalk high atop the lighthouse tower, gripping the iron handrail that encircled the lantern room. With joyful exhilaration, she watched the storm clouds rolling towards her over the Atlantic ocean, her long brown hair whipping unfettered, the wind having scandalously undone her proper Gibson Girl bun.

At the turn of the 20th century, young ladies were expected to settle down with a good husband and raise a family. And come June, that’s exactly what she was going to do. But now, longing for one last adventure as a carefree 22-year-old, there was no time like the present to accept her brother’s invitation to stay at the Owls Head Lighthouse where he was caretaker, while he and his wife tended to business in another town. They would only be away five days. And since the lighthouse was not in service to mariners at the time, her only responsibilities were to feed the chickens and gather the eggs, keep the place warm with the cast iron cookstove, and look after their border collie, Bridgett, and her six newborns—four girls and two boys. 

Sophie’s mother had been strongly against her going, fearing the salty sea spray would spoil her complexion for the wedding. But she felt compelled to go. Her fiancé was a wonderful man and she loved him, but he was an incurable city boy, and she would never convince him to spend time at a place like this. In contrast, she and her brother loved the wild coastlines of northeast Maine. It had always been his dream to be caretaker of a classic and historic old lighthouse in the most remote and inaccessible setting he could find. He’d been fortunate to find a wife who shared his passion.

Thump! The disoriented seagull crashed hard against the glass storm panes behind her and fell at her feet, its neck broken. She felt sorry for the poor creature and picked it up gently, then cast it over the railing mere feet from the cliffside. On the beach far below, she knew the waves would carry its lifeless body out to sea where it belonged.

After descending the narrow iron spiral staircase, she was back to her small living space near the stove, and with a storm brewing outside she was grateful for its warmth. Her brother wanted her to stay in their cottage a few yards from the lighthouse, but she was insistent on sleeping in the lower service room of the tower with the puppies, who at the moment were sleeping huddled together in their cozy, straw-lined wooden apple crate. But where was Bridgett? Sophie had to feed the chickens and collect the eggs, so perhaps she would find her there. Being a border collie with no sheep to herd, she satisfied her instincts by laying for hours at a time watching the roosters and hens wander around the property and herding the strays back into the fold, especially those that ventured too close to the cliff edge.

Sophie left the sleeping puppies and walked up the gravel path to the chicken coup, hurrying to beat the approaching rain. She didn’t find Bridgett, but she did spot something that raised the hair on the back of her neck—a faint four-toed print smeared in the mud next to the path. Too big for a dog, and no claw marks. She knew from her father’s exaggerated hunting stories that this was not a case of a fox in the henhouse. More like cougar, and a big one. What had begun as a pleasant and safe pre-wedding adventure had now taken a chilling turn. Bridgett was probably waiting for her to let her in to the pups, and the chickens could fend for themselves until morning. Night was falling and the storm intensifying. Sophie couldn’t get back to the lighthouse fast enough.

But Bridgett wasn’t there, and the puppies were now whimpering and hungry. She stirred a pot of stew on the stove and set a teapot on to boil, expecting—praying—to hear Bridgett scratch at the door any moment. Sophie had been so looking forward to enjoying her lovely stew and sipping hot tea while she listened to the storm rage outside, followed by burrowing beneath her cozy down comforter on her featherbed cot. But the dog didn’t come. She’d been a devoted mother to her six pups. Where could she be? 

Sophie desperately did not want to go outside, but she had to find Bridgett. What if she was hurt, or . . . she didn’t want to think about the track she’d seen near the chicken coup, but she had no choice. So, during one of the Maine coasts’ legendary nor’easters, Sophie reluctantly ventured out into the squall in raincoat and rubber boots, swinging a sputtering kerosene lantern and calling to their beloved border collie to come inside. Her brother and sister-in-law had no children, so the pup was infinitely precious to them. 

She had hoped to explore the grounds more thoroughly the next day, but at the present, Sophie was quite unfamiliar with the rugged terrain surrounding the lighthouse. And with darkness, wind, and a driving rain, her situation was beyond treacherous.

Boom!!! A deafening clap of thunder, followed by a jagged bolt of lightening, both startled Sophie into dropping the lantern, and momentarily illuminating her perilous position at the very edge of the precipice.

***

The lovely stew boiled over. The teapot whistled in vain. And the cries of the hungry pups and the bride-to-be went unheard amid the howling gale, as waves carried the lifeless bodies of Sophie and the seagull out to sea. 

THE END