Chapter 1
"It is said that when the sea loses a soul to the shore, the heavens will surge forth to reclaim him." John Sergham had heard that before. Where, he wasn't quite sure, but the words, probably from some minstrel or bard, had stayed with him. The song, for he remembered now that it was a song, had crooned on for too long in too large words mourning a "bereaved symbioses". What that meant he hadn't a clue, it wasn't in his nature to know such things, but that single line of profound speculation had stayed with him to trouble his nights atop the lighthouse.
Tonight the sea was steady, as always, but the fervor with which the waves made ground belied a greater motivation than usual. The source of such motivation was evident in the seething clouds that decorated the oceanic landscape beyond. The horizon was split in a terrible rift of beauty, the west setting sun dazzled the amber clouds and the boiling western front of darkness marched against the golden-red remnant, pushing it inevitably downwards. With the sun and its color gone, the clouds sparked with sudden light of their own, blasting the sea below with incandescence. John had never seen such violent beauty, and he was pleased to observe that the storm seemed to be moving parallel with the shore, rather than towards his perch.
Darkness encroached and the steady cadence of the spinning beacon behind him began to gradually slow. A normal person probably wouldn't have noticed the decline for a few more hours, but he was the lighthouse keeper, and contrary to deciphering large words, it was in his nature to know such things. He turned to the opening in the platform, stepped down into the lighthouse and began the spiraling walk down. John kept his hand near the wall during the ill lit walk and let his fingertips slide over the smooth stone blocks until they grazed the telltale groove he had scratched years ago. The rough hewn indent let him know when to duck his head under the horizontal pipe that was so inconveniently placed over the stone stairs that line the walls. At the bottom, he found and lit his oil lamp before trekking outside.
The lighthouse's keeper dutifully retrieved kindling from the stack he kept under an awning along the outside circle [crescent?] of the lighthouse. The wood was dry, kept off of the ground by a tarp and he stacked three appropriately sized pieces in the crook of his left arm to take back inside to the steamer. Stationing his lamp in a position that left him as much light as possible he pulled the squeaking hatch of the steamer open and straightened his left arm, effectively launching the three pieces of wood into the opening. After some quick work with metal and flint, a small fire flared. He reached above to the grey silver wheel and gave it a full bodied, one handed heave, opening a valve and allowing water to flow through a pipe into a larger metal canister above his new fire. John cranked the valve closed and after a few moments, the water began to whisper a constant sigh of unrest before raising its full throated voice in a bubbling tremor of resistance.
John waited for the fruits of his labor to reveal themselves. Slowly at first, the gears began to turn, winding springs and tripping levers all through the jumbled, gleaming organs of the great beast that was his livelihood. The power of the vaporizing water churned through the intricate metal workings, lending a slight boost to the rotating signal. The winding machinery increased its rhythm by steady degrees, rose to a crescendo then slowed abruptly, shaking with off tempo convulsions before groaning to a finale. The revolutions of the beacon would need no further prompting for a week or so; when the lighthouses machinery was operating efficiently, this was the extent of John's job.
He liked to think of the lighthouse as an owl, a loyal pet that he would feed, keep healthy and prod from time to time, reminding it to preen the filth from its feathers. It would obey, startled that it had let itself fall into such an unkempt condition, then go back to work, revolving its watchful eyes in constant surveillance.
John extinguished the lamp and placed it where he would be able to retrieve it without light and began climbing the stone stairs again. He wasn't quite tired and it had been a while since he had been able to watch a storm play in the night.
The tromp back up in the dark was more difficult than going down. The odd heights of certain steps could prove perilous if one wasn't wary, but there was no one more familiar with the nuances of the old lighthouse than John, and he resumed his watch in front of the beacon without a single falter.
The storm was moving away now, leaving only a moist residue of mist on the green, copper safety railing. The cloudy mass was being lethargically dispersed as the conflicting winds sweeping off the land redirected it; the former ferocity of the tumult now only a memory.
With the spectacle on the horizon now one, John let his gaze drop to the shoreline. masses of weeds and algea, unsettled by the storm, grouped on the beach and dark circlets of the same swirled in the low water beyond. John allowed the tranquilizing effect of the steady waves gradually pacify his mind. He was almost ready to retire to his bed when he saw the unmistakable silhouette of a person, prostrate on the pale sand.
He nearly forgot to duck under the pipe in his reckless rush down the stairs.
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