Lightkeeper

Blue water runs up the white wall of my entrapment. The tide is low this evening.

If I were duller, I might take the sea up on its invitation. However, I don’t have the time nor the death-wish necessary to battle the waves.

As a lightkeeper my duties are simple: keep my tower clean and watch for fog and worrisome weather during the day then keep the lantern lit at night. Every six weeks my shift ends and I am relieved by Bud Kelley, a stout Irish man who may have one day had red hair before time had its way with it.

Bud’s a good man. He does his job well, keeps the space tidy and the light on, but, as always, he operates on his own time.

Sunday, 06:00. Never changes. Yet, somehow, I won’t catch him sneaking up the stairs until 19:00 at the earliest. Monday morning at the latest.

Still, even in spite of his misgivings and inability to keep time, I like Bud. It should be considered that he is often the only person I see after six weeks of mindless solitude.

I check my watch.

14:00

Much too early to expect Bud’s apologetic bearded smile, but just late enough for the first pangs of frustration to settle into my spine.

I should be pulling into my drive by now, settling in for the first of 41 days of mimicking my same routine but on level ground, only imagining the rush of the sea against the white painted walls of my house.

Something shiny flashes into my eyes from the water. It’s out about a hundred yards. Just a speck like a glimmering raft, bobbing in the sapphire blue.

I watch it, allowing the rhythmic movement to tick away the seconds. There is a pair of binoculars sitting on the main observation table upstairs, but I like the mystery. It’s nothing of note. Nothing to write down or in need of aid. Just a bid from the divine that if nothing else I shall be entertained whilst I wait.

—

I can’t make out his eyes but I’m positive he’s looking at me. Through the small circular window I can barely make out his silhouette. Short messy hair and a small stature.

My body freezes, recalling everything taught to me by my father, and his father before him. My grandfather, in his dramatic way, had said to be one with the wind, the waves, and you’ll be able to slip away unscathed.

So I do as I was told. The wind rustles my exposed hair, the water bobs my torso with the waves. But the man does not look away.

—

A good two hours pass and still no Bud. I debate stepping away to brew another pot of coffee, but can’t tear my eyes away from the water. I’ll admit, my curiosity is getting the better of me.

I take one last look out at the sea, my little glittering friend, and the shoreline before heading to the bath. There’s no telling if Bud’ll make it before the night shift so it’d be best to settle in. Follow the routine.

The water is dark out of the tap. It rises slowly, slapping like the tide against the white basin. I typically don’t lock the door, but Bud has had a habit of barging in so on last Sundays I prefer not to risk it.

My body sinks down to my ears, allowing the water to drown out the sounds of the incandescent buzz. This is my favorite part of my routine. A quiet moment before another sleepless night. I rest my eyes and plunge further. Air bubbles out through my nose until I can’t hold my breath any longer.

I push up, freeing my face to sensation again. The slight breeze. The slapping of water against the tub. The howl of the wind, huh, I don’t recall leaving the window cracked.

My eyes snap open and I almost lose my breath again. The water that surrounds me is filled with salt. The faucet, replaced by the white tower I was just in. I try to grab onto something, anything, but all that surrounds me is water, then I get a look at my hands.

They’re blue.

Webbed.

Shimmering, like that raft I watched all evening.

Then I see it, or rather, me. Standing, backlit in the window of my bedroom. Staring at- whatever it is I am.

I lift a webbed hand up, motioning for, well I don’t know what exactly. The man, me, lifts his hand up to the window, following in line with the movement of mine.

I scream then shut my mouth as the man’s face contorts in a horrible mimic. My hands run over my wet face and I don’t need to look to know he’s done the same.

I plunge below the surface, the fear of seeing my body puppeteered too much to handle. I try to swim, but am stopped by a continuous wall of porcelain.

I’m up and dripping water in a messy path all the way to the window where I see it. The glimmer in the darkened sea. Only now I can make out the slight shift of something that could be hair. The unmistakable hue of blue that was my skin only a minute ago.

My legs bound the stairs to the observation deck and I almost break my nose with the force in which I bring the binoculars to my eyes, peering out against the falling night to my glimmer.

There he is. A creature staring right up at me.

The binoculars fall to the floor in a loud bang, along with my knees.

I scramble across the wooden floor to the edge of the deck, taking a breath before peering over. My eyes scan the dark, and there’s nothing.

My sanity has not shattered after all.

Oh!

There at the base of the lighthouse, head cocked back, eyes glowing up at me, is the creature.

There on the open floor of the tower, head bowed over the railing, is the man.

We stare at each other and stare at ourselves and at no point is it clear who is who.

Water and open air surround my bare body.

Wind rustles my hair.

I see Bud’s truck lights from the shore just as I hear him bound up the steps to me.

An urge pulls my body forward, towards the staircase, over the railing. I get one leg up when I am stopped.

Bud’s hand is firm on my shoulder. “Thinking of taking a swim?”

He scans me wearily, and I realize my condition. Bare naked on the observation deck. I cover myself as best I can.

“Maybe you should head home, it’s already getting dark.”

I follow his orders, redressing half-mindedly and pulling away in my truck.

I watch myself drive away before dipping back into the water, just as the light atop the tower casts its first glow around me.

Without an audience, I take my chance to slip away, but before I’m out of earshot I can just make out Bud’s voice.

“Poor bugger, not yet ready to face himself.”