Waves

There have been waves crashing, their long tongues layering onto one another. Within their mouths, which opened widely when meeting the shore, the white lace of foam has been concealed. In the air, which moved freely the sand was carried, with the cold, given to the land by the roaming body of water. The ground’s vast body, as long as it stretched, bore existence only to two shelters, one slender and tall, painted with glimmering whiteness by the day, and a singular movement of silent light in the night-time. The other one was a modest wooden cote, so plain in sight, you wouldn’t let your eyes fall on it for more than a couple of seconds. Yet for the purpose of the story, this has been the home to our heroine, which currently left it to its own endeavours. 

Harriet has been climbing, tightly sheltered with grey cloth from the wind, the pathway made of steep stones, leading towards the lighthouse. From time to time she would pause her journey less from fatigue and more from the desire to delight herself with the view of the sea. Gazing onto seemingly unending terrain, she was reminded how small she was, how her life futile. Tentative to the time during which such a reflection would touch her mind, it could be grim and helpless. Yet today it gave her freedom to release her struggles, like entrapped birds in a cage, to which the doors have been finally opened.

The house interior, which led sailors to their home by the glimmering in darkness signal, was cramped and almost as murky as the night in which its machinery came to live. Harriet’s steps were muffled by the rugged wooden floor. She gave way for her still voice to probe through covered with dust furniture, before her figure would have done so. There has been no answer to her call, just as she anticipated, and what throughout the weeks has become almost a custom of two people, each taking a part in a carefully crafted play. As usual, before climbing carved in a metal staircase she would inspect with casual air the whereabouts of things, being drawn to the idea, that perhaps when one wasn’t paying them much attention, they took off from where they have been placed, to a more suitable location. 

Ascending towards the top of the tower, Harriet has come across the lighthouse keeper’s silhouette, still against the rapid movement of water, many levels beneath both of them. With his hoarse voice, she has been asked whether she would like some whisky to drink? She didn’t wish for any, and so she was given a ginger tea, without being asked any more questions. The basket of apples, which she took with herself as a gift, has been placed on the floor. Mr Carmichell sipped, the amber coloured liquor, and as he progressively drank more of it, he started  

“In the solitude whispered by gathering dusk, there are, flickering, shadows, which have escaped our touch. They look at us, their faces which have been blank by life, now grinning, to be seeing our struggle. When the wind comes and is tremendously high, they expand their fingers, wanting to grab the skin enfolding our flesh, wanting to throw us, helpless, into the tremulousness, in which they are entrapped. 

She is waiting for me. In the howling wind, her steps will appear, and I will hear them, her tune distressed, longing. There is no embrace in the dark, she whispers, Hold me. Towards my senses, is thrusts like a group of hounds, her abundant smell, showering in the air. Although the light is sound asleep, no witness to my struggle, she glimmers, in the places we held most dear. We walk between two opposite forces. Each of us, pulling their end of the rope, the question of our survival hanging by the end. I am to be bewitched, for she does it so softly, and for some time when the distance between us is safe, I will allow myself to play in these games, that life and death, has prepared for us to entertain.

The spirit is not of this world tells the mind, and I believe its voice, yet these instants I remain helpless, my strength had abandoned me. Thus I remain by her side, tormented, twisting within myself, like trees being crushed by the hurricane. Not coming too close, not daring to leave.”

Between folds of silence, clasped are two people, and although no word would pass between them, they understand one another deeply, showing one another compassion, in their similar experiences.

As the night approaches, and the scenery changes to the one painted by stars, Harriett deserts from the sea tower, hurriedly taking her steps towards her shelter. Beyond the wooden border, the sighing water can still be heard, its music has often taken a young woman to sleep, carrying her to the dreamland, one night portrayed softly, the other with harsh teeth. There is no telling in which one tonight she will be implored, and for that reason, to grasp what still lingers from the passing day, Harriet takes a seat beside the venerable desk, its enormous legs confining her small figure. On the thin walls, through which wind can enter and leave without prior warnings, is woven its black contour. She starts writing.

“Dearest

The sea has taken you away from me, and I have to witness it each and every day. For that reason I am filled with cruelled contempt towards it, as if it were a living, breathing thing. Against those ravaging sea monsters, I feel very small and helpless, and the knowledge that what I am witnessing is only a small fracture of what the roaring waves are capable of terrifies me dreadfully. Your love for adventure has become my curse.

But then I always remember, how much you admire it, and with how much warmth you have spoken of it, to me, when we still were granted time together, and with reluctance I forgive it the wrongness of keeping you, all to itself - because of you, because of the happiness which it gives you.

It is not as lonely here as I have anticipated. I have made an acquaintance of the local lighthouse keeper, and we keep ourselves company. There is a deep consolation when you’re fate has become recognised by another, as similar to what they have carried through life, and such a thing happened between me and Mr Carmichell. He has been haunted for almost twenty years by the ghost of his wife, which has decided to take her own life. One can only imagine to what feelings might such a situation lead. I am happy we have stricken this unusual friendship, as we share our struggles, and in this way, the suffering which otherwise we would have to lift all by ourselves becomes a little lighter.

Come to me at last, or I might start to believe that I am dealing with a ghost too.”

The letter has made it to the drawer, landing on top of other crafted with care, and tightly packed letters. They would be never sent, for how can you send something to a boat, which is always moving, and therefore which whereabouts are non-existent, as they are always changing? Harriett only hoped, there would come a time when she could read those to the sailor, who came home from a long journey. She sighed, and the light has been turned off.

The following morning, between songs which have been floating from seagulls throats, came mail. Harriett has been more than stunned to see a neat package concealing a message. Upon opening it, her first impulse was to think of her family. Perhaps they wished to inquire about her well or not so well being? She has left them in a rather haste, after all. Yet this wasn’t the correct deduction, as inside was written only one sentence. It read as follows:

“I’m coming to you, wait just a little bit longer.”