The Keeper

It was a dark and stormy night. Really stormy.

Amos had never seen a storm like it in all his years. Thunderous waves crashed against the rocks as he fought to secure the boat against the pier. With every wave and gust of wind she tore against the ropes, wrenching to be free. He did his best, the wind whipping the constant rain into his face and blinding him. It would do. It would have to do. He could do no better.

He looked up at the light beaming from the top of the lighthouse, followed its steady arc across the water. The dark of the storm was powerful, but not as powerful as the light. Where there was chaos, the light was steady. Where there was danger, the light was safety.

Amos nodded at the light. Aye. All was well.

He picked up his lantern and climbed the stairs towards the lighthouse, fighting the wind to move at all. He could see no more than two steps ahead until the arc of the beacon passed over him and lit up the stairs like daylight, before just as quickly passing on and leaving him in darkness.

The wind howled and tore at his clothes, blowing his macintosh open. He put the lantern on the step to close and fasten his coat again. Suddenly, a gale near blew him off his feet and lifted the lantern as easily as a fallen leaf in the breeze.

Amos watched the light float weightlessly up, curve twice, and start to fall towards the rocks below before being lifted again and hurled into the top of the lighthouse tower. He heard the distant crash of glass as one of the windows shattered.

He crawled up the last of the steps on all fours. The voice of Old Lawrence, the previous lighthouse keeper, echoed in his head. “Take it slow. Rushing makes for accidents.”

As he reached the top and felt his way to the door, the beacon of light passed over him again.

Aye. All was well, for now.

He had to use all of his body to push the door closed on the storm. Finally safe inside, he took off his wellington boots and hung his macintosh and wet weather hat. They dripped water onto the stone floor. He took the towel, almost clean, that hung nearby and wiped the rain from his face and hair.

As he had been trained him to do, he updated the logbook.

Boat secured to pier. Beacon room window broken in storm. Lantern destroyed.

He pulled on his knitted woollen cardigan as he made for the stairs. 20 years ago Old Lawrence had warned him, “Never run up the stairs. No matter the emergency. Take it slow. Rushing makes for accidents.”

Amos had made the mistake of ignoring this advice only once, and never again. The stairs were steep and narrow and any misstep could cause a long and nasty fall. His hip still ached in weather like this, and every time it did he was reminded. Take it slow. Rushing made for very painful accidents.

So it was that it took several minutes for Amos to reach the beacon room and inspect the damage. As he neared the top of the stairs, he could hear the wind howling through what should have been a solid plate of glass. If the storm broke the huge kerosene lamp, the light would go out.  

He opened the trapdoor into the beacon room and, as always, was briefly blinded by the brightness of the light.

Aye. All was well still.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw the broken glass on the floor. Thankfully, only part of the window was broken and most of the pane of glass remained in place, although with ominous cracks through it. What was left of his small lantern lay battered and bent near the fuel pump. The wind whistled loudly through the hole in the glass, and he could feel the whole room shaking in the strongest gusts of wind. Rain pelted sideways through the window onto the giant lantern that provided the light for the beacon.

Amos methodically made his way around the lamp, inspecting it closely for any damage. It was basically the same as his little handheld lantern, which now lay unrecognisable at his feet, only at a much larger scale. He caressed the gas chamber, fuel line and kerosene gas tanks with his fingers, feeling for cracks and leaks his eyes would not see. Slow. Take it slow. It was essential they were not damaged, or the lamp would dim.

The lamp could not dim.

As he inspected, the focal lens continued to rotate, lighting up the sea through the storm and periodically lighting Amos at his work. He would close his eyes each time it passed over him, as Old Lawrence had taught him to do, so it didn’t blind him. He was so in tune with the rhythms of the light, it was like blinking to him.

He turned his attention to the window. With every gale force gust of wind, the whole lighthouse tower moved and the cracked pane of glass shook. It would not hold through the night. The window would break and the full force of this storm would assail his lamp. The light would dim.

Amos wiped the rain from his face as he sought for an answer. This light had burned for 99 years, it would not go out on his watch. The wind howled, shaking the pane of glass, the cracks threatening to shatter everything. Can’t replace the window. Even if he had a pane of glass big enough, which he did not, it couldn’t be done in this storm.

Old Lawrence’s training came back to him. “If it’s broken, fix it. If you can’t fix it, patch it up until you can.”

Patch it up, Amos thought. Patch up a six-foot-high pane of glass in a torrential storm. How do you patch up a pane of glass in a storm? Tape? Tape could cover the cracks, maybe they might hold. Maybe not. But the hole. How to patch up the hole? Something large enough, and strong enough, and it must be waterproof.

He thought of his macintosh, dripping on its hook downstairs.

Another gust shook the tower, and he watched one of the cracks stretch and reach the pane. Now. No time. He must hurry. Save the lamp.

He turned quickly towards the trapdoor and tripped on the unseen broken lantern lying at his feet. As he fell, he reached out blindly to find purchase, save himself, and his hand desperately gripped the first hold it found. The pump handle attached to the two large kerosene tanks that powered the lamp fell with him, tearing the pump mechanism from its machinery.

As he hit the floor, his eyes rested on the kerosene lantern, it’s glass shell now lying shattered on the floor, the still burning flame of its wick exposed.

He smelt the kerosene gas.

He heard the ‘whoooosh’.

He knew what came next.

Aye. Should have taken it slow.

XXX

Inspector Lawrence Todd stepped off the pier and looked up at the charred pinnacle of the old lighthouse.

What in the name of all that is holy happened here?

“They say you could see it 60 miles away,” Jeffery said behind him. “Like a comet, they say. Even the storm couldn’t dim it, and that was some mighty storm we had.”

Inspector Todd, or Old Lawrence as most of the keepers he supervised called him, hadn’t seen this old lighthouse or Amos for almost 5 years.

“Amos was a good man, and a good lighthouse keeper,” he said. “Check the logbook. He will have made records.”

“And take it slow,” he called as Jeffery rushed up the stairs to the lighthouse. “Rushing makes for accidents.”

Old Lawrence made his way slowly up to the beacon room. Take it slow, he remembered, just like Old Thomas had trained him all those many years ago.

He opened the trapdoor into what should have been the beacon room but was now open to the bright blue sky. What was left of the beacon assembly was blackened and charred, the smell of fire and smoke heavy in the air. Old Lawrence took a knee and gently touched the charred remains of his old friend.

Jeffery popped his head up through the trapdoor.

“I found the logbook,” he said, handing it to his senior officer. “Wow. The whole lantern assembly has gone up!”

Old Lawrence opened the logbook to its last entry.

Boat secured to pier. Beacon room window broken in storm. Lantern destroyed.

“Well. That about covers it, Amos,” he thought.