The Lighthouse Keeper

It was going to be a good day.

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Amidst the swells of a nameless ocean there stands a lone island. Its mass protrudes above the waves like the crown of a long-drowned mountain, with shores ringed by black sand beaches, and hills adorned with a patchy coat of blue-green grass. The island’s spine is speckled with the backs of wooly sheep, like specks of paint God hadn’t bothered to scrape away. A lone obelisk of mortared stone stands above it all, erected atop the tallest point on the island.

A lighthouse.

The island is just a few short miles north from the nearest coastal town, though you wouldn’t know that if you were standing on it. Ships pass it by day and night, polluting the air with the moans of their foghorns and the blast from their thruster engines. None ever come to moor. The lighthouse repels them, warns them to steer clear of its jagged cliffs, guiding them onward to more hospitable shores.

Life on the island can be dreadfully lonely. As the island’s sole inhabitant, Harron knows this better than anyone, though he knows little else. He surely couldn’t tell you his own name if he were asked, nor why or how he got there. It’s all an ignorant mystery to him. Harron was only given two rules upon his arrival. From whom? Well, we went over this already.

The rules were simple:

One: Keep the lighthouse running.

Two: Under no circumstances are you ever, ever, permitted to speak to the woman.

Harron had no qualms with the rules. He liked rules, in fact. They kept life simple — a small price to pay for shelter and security. As long as he promised to follow them, the island promised to take care of him in return. Even still, the rule about the woman was quite unnerving.

She was elusive, distant like the end of a rainbow, and harder to grasp than a fleeting thought. The woman was always there, standing just far enough away from Harron to avoid arousing his curiosities. She was an afterthought, nothing more than an accessory of the island — just as natural as the wind perhaps, or the clouds. In all his time on the island, Harron had never even caught a glimpse of her face. All he ever saw was the back of her dress as she stared longingly towards the far horizon.

Had he the inclination, perhaps Harron would have given the mystery woman a name, but the rules were clear, and Harron was not one to flirt with disobedience. It was easiest to ignore her if he kept his hands and his mind busy, which was simple enough to do, for the lighthouse and its demands proved to be more fickle than she.

If Harron wasn’t monitoring meters or logging weather patterns, then he was polishing lenses and wiping down windows. If those tasks had been taken care of, well then you could almost bet the compressor engines would need attention, as they were prone to breaking down at the most inopportune times. When the engines weren’t giving him fits, then likely something needed painting, or sanding, or more scrubbing.

On the rare occasion that Harron was able to find a few idle hours, well then you’d likely find him cutting back the grass, watering the sheep, or fishing off the top deck of the lighthouse.

It must be reiterated that Harron’s was a lonely life, but that was by design. It kept things simple, and that’s something he wouldn’t trade for the world. Simplicity was a sacrifice — one that was easier to make when you didn’t have other people sticking their hands in your business. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make for peace of mind.

Unfortunately, peace has an expiration date.

***

By Harron’s best guesses, it must have been late-summer — the worst season of the year for storms. The world outside had been painted a depressing shade of grey and blue. For a week now Harron had been locked inside the mess hall, watching as fat raindrops pelted the only window on that floor. Thanks to the low visibility, the foghorns had been blowing at regular intervals day-in and day-out, which meant the compressor engines needed more attention than ever before. It also meant that sleep, and silence, were in low supply.

The luminous hands on Harron’s wristwatch indicated it was five-o’-seven in the morning when the squalls first showed signs of relenting. The rain’s incessant battering slowed to a patter, then a trickle. On the horizon, the clouds began to break, and glorious sunlight began to peek through. Harron noted the change of weather in his logs, then smiled. The morning promised a day of warmth and sunlight. Perhaps even some fresh air, or a stroll around the island’s perimeter.

It was going to be a good day.

And indeed it had been, for all of an hour. Harron had just made it to the boat landing down near the shore when things made a turn for the worst. He’d been clearing away some storm debris when a gust of wind came ripping off the top of the ocean. The gale hit him like a backhand, taking his cap and nearly his mustache with it. Saltwater sprayed up from the cliffs below, stinging his skin like shards of glass. Had it not been for the end of the rope in his hand, Harron would have been swept clear off the island.

Mother nature, in all of her capriciousness, had done a take-back.

A stormwall darker than a black eye had been mounting to the north. Harron stared it down like a man before an avalanche. He’d seen his fair share of storms, but none like the one that stood before him then. It was moving fast. Harron scanned the horizon, searching for any passing ships. If he’d somehow missed this storm’s approach, then surely anyone out on the ocean had as well.

There was one.

A skimship — a small craft not unlike a catamaran, skated just over the water’s surface. This one puttered around with its sail up, not at all bothered by the advancing tempest. Harron’s blood went cold. He needed to get back to the lighthouse — he needed to warn the ship.

He turned, hurrying his way back up the path he’d just walked down. Harron had shut the foghorns down after the storms broke to give them — and himself — a break. Now he wished he hadn’t. Those horns were crucial at a moment like this.

Harron hardly noticed the woman as he crested the hill. She stood along the northern edge of the island, staring off towards the roiling shroud of darkness that had overtaken the sky. Harron shook his head, cursing the broad beneath his breath. He’d seen her weather many storms before, but never one like this. Harron paused as he took the handle to the lighthouse door, sparing a final glance for the woman. For the tiniest fraction of a moment, he considered calling out to her, warning her to take shelter. It was a fleeting consideration. There was no time.

CRACK!

The sky tore itself open; the world shook.

The thunderhead had closed the distance, blotting out the sky above. Harron watched as the rain fell like a curtain over the island, swallowing the northern half. The ship was still out on the water. He needed to get those foghorns running.

The wind nearly took the door off its hinges as Harron opened it. It took just about everything he had to pull it shut again. A flash of white struck just outside, rattling the window panes as another bout of thunder broke overhead.

Harron hurried down the stairs, racing to get to the engine room below. Muggy, steam-ridden air greeted him — a foul omen. The vents would need repairing after this was all over. He found the twin engines sitting dormant beneath the morose light of a crimson bulb. They were in a cooldown cycle after running for so many days straight. He’d need to start them manually.

He leaned over the first engine as he fumbled for its pull-start handle. It radiated heat like a cooktop stove. Harron shook his head, cursing himself for not checking on those vents sooner. His fingers found the handle and closed around it. Harron ripped the cord like a man possessed.

The engine coughed.

He ripped it again.

Another groan.

Harron growled, then pulled once more.

The engine shook to life, wobbling precariously on its stand. The machine jousted and jostled as it searched for its timing. A noxious white smoke bled into the room. The engine crackled, gave a final cough, then died.

Harron screamed. He beat his fist into the side of the engine, hoping somehow blunt force would resuscitate it. They had been pushed too hard over the last few days. If Harron was a betting man, he’d say it had blown a head gasket, and now coolant was dripping into the combustion chamber. Not something he could fix right now. He gave the machine a final kick, ignoring his stubbed toe as he raced upstairs.

It was ten flights to the top of the lighthouse.

Harron climbed the stairs two at a time, using the handrail to pull himself forward. Without a foghorn, the tower’s light was his only hope. His legs begged for mercy as he crossed the final step into the lantern room. The world outside looked to have been dragged beneath the waves themselves. Wind and rain danced through the air in a violent flurry as the salty sea boiled below. Harron could just make out the silhouette of the skimship below, outlined against the horizon by the tiniest sliver of daylight.

He began working the winch with his arms, adjusting the lens’s angle to direct the light towards the ship. He hoped it would get their attention, giving them enough time to flee. Surely they had to know a storm had come by now, right? Sweat dripped from Harron’s forehead as he cranked with all his might. Storm clouds flew by at alarming speeds, racing to reach the distant ship before Harron could. It was a race he would not win.

Harron saw it before he heard it.

There was a blinding light, followed by the deafening sound of ears ringing and the smell of something burning. Then there was darkness, and a deep slumber that Harron did not recall entering into.

***

Time passed, and Harron roused from his daze. He awoke staring down at his feet, or rather, across at them. He was on his back. Faint wisps of smoke trailed from the shoes which had been blown off his feet. Everything inside him felt dry-rotted. His mouth tasted like radio static. Sunlight flooded in from the surrounding windows, one of which had a hole punched through it.

More time passed before Harron could coerce his limbs to cooperate. He struggled up from the floor like a newborn lamb trying to find its legs. A breeze from outside carried the smell of seawater, which helped banish the stench of fried machine parts. The lantern bulb was shot. So was the lens, and the mechanism that spun it. Harron’s heart sank. It would take days, if not weeks to repair it, and that was if he could get the parts.

The sound of gulls outside stole Harron’s attention – a welcome distraction from the predicament he now found himself in. As he looked out over the island, he caught sight of something swaying in the distance just over the top of the hill. It looked like the top of a ship’s mast.

Memories washed over Harron. The wind, the storm, the thunder, the foghorn, the engines…

The ship. Had he been able to warn it in time? Was the ship at his dock now? Dread, like a nest of vipers, formed in the pit of his stomach. The right to do would have been to check on the ship, but Harron did no such thing.

For as long as he could remember, no ship had ever moored at his dock before. Never once had he had a visitor. It was not fear of the unknown that gave him pause. No, it was concern for the sanctity of the island – his island – which had now been sullied. This was his slice of solitude. He couldn’t share it. He wouldn’t dream to.

If Harron knew one thing about himself, it was that he didn’t care for playing host. Company meant complications. People have a knack for casting their burdens onto others. Perhaps Harron’s lack of hospitality would dissuade them from trying to stay. If he just ignored the ship, maybe it would go away on its own now that the storm had passed. Yes, that could work. Harron could stay inside, lock his doors, and simply wait this person out.

“Hello?” Called a voice from down the hill. “Helloooo?”

Harron’s palms began to sweat. He hadn’t planned for this.

“Hey! You, up there!”

Were they addressing him? Harron felt vulnerable then, realizing that his hiding place was made entirely of glass, and was really not so much of a hiding place at all.

“I know you’re up there! I can see you. Please, be a dear and come give me a hand.”

Harron had nowhere to hide now. He made the slog down the ten flights of stairs. Every part of him screamed defiance as he opened the door to the lighthouse and stepped outside. A man dressed in white waited there for him. He was tall, taller than Harron, if only by a few inches. His skin was oddly pale for this part of the world, and every follicle of hair on his body looked to have been removed.

“Ah yes, you must be this island’s tenant,” said the man. He stuck a hand out. “My name is Plinth, which is short for a much longer name.”

Harron stared at the man, then at his open hand, unsure of what to do in that moment.

“It’s alright, you can shake it. You’re supposed to, actually.”

“I– I’d rather not.” The sound of his own voice terrified Harron. The words felt foreign in his mouth, like a new tooth that had sprouted without warning.

Plinth shared a reptilian smile. “Fair enough.” He studied the lighthouse, looking amused by its presence. “A lighthouse, eh? How retro of you. I’ve been to a fair amount of these things now, and I must say I’ve never encountered a lighthouse before. Who’s the woman?”

Harron blinked, then noticed Plinth was looking over his far shoulder. The woman was still standing where she had been when the storm rolled in.

“I don’t know,” Harron said.

“Of course you don’t, you poor thing. I imagine this all must be quite confusing for you.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No, don’t be. There’s no shame in it. Now, are you going to invite me inside?”

***

Plinth pulled a chair up to the kitchen’s singular dining table. It was more of a side table, with barely enough room for one person to sit. An intimate spot. Far too intimate for Harron’s liking.

Steam curled from mismatched teacups set between them. Plinth munched on a saltine that hung daintily between his lithe fingers. He seemed disappointed in it, as if he could have expected more upon his untimely arrival.

“I must apologize for all of the, you know, theatrics,” Plinth said, gesturing with his cracker. “That last bit with the lightning might have been a touch too far, but yours was a hard nut to crack, my friend. It took just about everything I had to get here.”

Harron frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Ha! Of course you don’t. You never do. It’s one of the things I loath about you.” Plinth finished the saltine and washed it down with a sip of tea. “Perhaps this would be easier if I gave you something to help. A memory, maybe? Oh, but which one to choose?”

A thoughtful silence filled the kitchen as Plinth considered.

“Let us start with a question,” said the man in white. “Where are we right now?”

Harron looked about the room. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Do not dodge the question, sir. Can you tell me where we are?”

“In my lighthouse, on my island.”

“Bah,” said Plinth with a wave of his hand. “Superficial details. Where are we? What ocean? What continent? What planet?”

Harron tried to hide the panic that now began to gnaw at his mind. He didn’t know. Why didn’t he know?

Plinth bit his lip. “Hmm. I see. So you can’t tell me. Let’s start with something easier then. What’s your name?”

In an instant, Harron’s panic turned to horror. How could he not know his own name? His tiny island was beginning to crumble around him. He wished then that he’d been killed in that storm.

“Allow me to help you out here. Your name is Harron. Harron Marle. Ring any bells?”

Yes, that did sound like a name that could belong to him. Like a loose thread on a sweater, Harron could sense the name had a network of other memories tied to it — memories likely associated with himself. He dared not pull on it for fear of further unraveling his world. A deeper part of him spoke then, prodding him to snip the memory entirely. Cut it off and toss it away. No harm done.

“Why didn’t I know that?” asked Harron.

“Because you didn’t want to,” replied Plinth. “Now, does this raise any recollection as to where we are?”

Harron shook his head. He knew he could have known, but Plinth was right, damn him. He’d chosen not to. There was pain in knowing.

Plinth sighed. “So that’s how it’ll be. I must warn you, Harron, you’re not going to like the direction this conversation is about to go.”

“You could always leave.”

“No, I fear I cannot. I’ve a job to do, and an obligation to you.”

Harron pushed himself away from the table and made to stand. Plinth reached across and took him by the arm, stopping him. The man’s hand felt alien against Harron’s skin. He pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Please, Harron, sit. I advise it.”

Something in the man’s tone convinced Harron to comply. There was sorrow in his voice, regret. Harron sat, then took a shaky sip of tea while Plinth finished his own cup.

“Your island it located off the coast of Northern Tashank,” Plinth said. “At least, that’s where you imagine it to be. Technically this island should be along the Cobalt Coast, which is five hundred miles to the east, but the mind is full of inconsistencies.”

Harron found in infuriating that he understood none of this.

“If we really wanted to get technical, I’d tell you that we are not actually here right now, Harron. At least not in the physical sense.” Plinth grinned, taking joy in Harron’s befuddlement. “Oh my, did I say too much?”

“That can’t be right.”

“I’m sorry, Harron, but that’s the truth of the matter.”

Harron sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was done with whatever was going on here. “What do you want from me?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions, my friend,” said Plinth. “I just need your consent.”

“I’m not consenting to anything.”

Plinth pouted. “Oh, now that’s no way to be. Perhaps you want to rethink your answer?”

The world beyond the window froze. Harron could no longer hear the gulls outside, nor the sound of the waves. Something about the silence didn’t sit well with him.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Plinth leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “I’m not the one doing this to you, Harron. You are. You were the one who came to us. You asked for this.”

Harron shot up, furious now. “I did not!” He had no rationale for his anger, no leg to stand on. A part of him knew the man was right, but he couldn’t believe it. He refused to. This man, Plinth, was a threat. That much was clear to see. You can’t just barge into someone’s home, demand they play host, then tell them everything they know is a lie. Especially not with such authority. You'd have to be utterly deranged.

But then again, who was he to point fingers? Harron hadn’t even known his own name until just moments ago.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Plinth asked from beneath Harron’s shadow. “Trying to hold all those memories back.”

Harron shook his head. “You’re crazy. Absolutely crazy.”

“Perhaps. But you know I speak the truth, Harron.”

Harron couldn’t deny it. “How?”

“It’s my job to know these things. Like it or not, I know everything about you, Harron. I know what happened to you. I know why you came to this place. I know why you haven’t chosen to leave yet.”

Harron slammed the table. “You know nothing about me!”

It was Plinth’s turn to stand now. He moved with grace as he wiped the spittle from his cheek. “Three times,” he said.

“What?”

“Three times I’ve been here now, and three times you’ve acted like this. Most of my patients have no issues when I come to visit them. Only you, Harron.”

“Patients? I’ve never seen you before in my life!” Harron balled his hands into shaky fists.

“Look, normally I’d play along, but I’m having a bit of a rough day. I haven’t the patience for this. Now, I need you to cooperate with me so we can move on. This is a routine procedure. Please, for once, don’t make my job difficult.”

Harron stepped forward, drawing up nose-to-nose with Plinth. He’d never hit someone before, but he felt like doing it now. “You don’t get to treat someone like this. Not without consequences.”

Plinth drew away with a sigh. “You shouldn’t have said that, Harron. You really shouldn’t have. I’m going to have to break procedure now. I’m sorry.”

Harron tried to form his next words but couldn’t. It was like his brain had been severed from the rest of his body. None of his limbs obeyed his commands. What he felt then could not be described as fear. No, it was too weak a word to sum up the sheer terror that washed over him. It was animalistic, primal. He was nothing more than a rat caught in a trap.

Something wet began to soak through his socks. Cold. Electric. He could see the room begin to fill with water from the corner of his eye. It seeped through the floorboards and began reaching up his legs. Harron tried to speak — tried to yell. His voice was gone. All he could do was lock eyes with the pale man across from him. Harron hated Plinth then. It burned like a bonfire within him, fueled by the very real possibility of drowning to death.

He tried closing his eyes, but even his eyelids disobeyed. What kind of cruel game was this? The water continued to rise, taking with it everything that wasn’t heavy enough to sink. Bowls, papers, and boxes of food floated along the surface, level with Harron’s navel now. The water kept climbing, crawling its way up Harron’s chest, crossing over his collar bone. Soon it closed around his neck, like icy fingers with intent to strangle.

All the while, Plint watched with smug satisfaction as he too was submerged.

The water passed Harron’s chin, then his lips, lapping now at his nose — his last line of defense. His diaphragm worked frantically beneath the water, pumping as much oxygen as it could to the rest of his body. Harron took a final, defiant breath before his nose and eyes were submerged.

He always knew that if he were to die, it would be the sea that took him.

Harron held out for as long as he could, never once breaking eye contact with Plinth. His body began to spasm as the carbon dioxide levels in his blood rose. It was uncontrollable. Harron wanted nothing more than to rush for the window — to break out and find the precious oxygen beyond. Soon his lungs began to shrivel, clawing for any shred of air they could find.

An involuntary spasm caused Harron to gasp. The water that filled the room now filled his airways. It rushed its way down his throat, taking residence in the bottoms of his lungs. Any thoughts of fighting back soon fled. Death had come for Harron, dressed all in white, and he let it take him.

Drowning is an odd way to die. It’s serene. Almost peaceful. Once you’ve run out of air, your body simply… drifts off to sleep.

***

Harron found he was still submerged when he awoke. A metal sarcophagus encapsulated him now as he floated weightlessly. The sensation of water in his throat had been replaced by that of a surgical tube. Another device was clamped over his nostrils, feeding him air from a compressor. His limbs felt thick, as if the blood in his veins had been turned to gelatin.

It was hard to see through the water’s filmy haze. Light poured in through a single porthole that sat eye-level before him. Fuzzy details moved just beyond the glass, hinting at a larger, busier world beyond.

Harron remembered who he was now. Or rather, he never forgot. He was simply a man – a son, a friend, a husband… a father. No, no, please not that. Anything but that. Grief struck him like the pain of a chronic injury. Harron closed his eyes and was transported to another place. He saw flames. They consumed everything he once loved. Smoke and tears stung his eyes, while the animal cries of people being burned alive filled his ears. No, please no.

It was better to be dead than to go back there.

Harron’s eyes shot open. He needed to get someone’s attention. He shouldn’t be awake right now. No, he should be in fugue, away from the pain of his past. What were they doing to him?

A face looked in at him through the porthole, angular and completely devoid of hair. It was Plinth. He smiled and gave Harron a little wave. His lips mouthed words that Harron could not hear, but understood nonetheless. I told you so.

***

“Welcome back, my friend.”

Harron blinked. Plinth sat across from him, refilling his cup with tea. They were back in the lighthouse.

“Did you have a fun trip?”

“What was that place?”

Plinth smiled. “The High Citadel of Selene. You’re in a rehabilitation program.”

“So none of this is real?”

“Only as real as you make it, Harron.”

Harron nodded, accepting the fact. Anything to keep him from going back to that place with the tubes. “Who are you?”

“I am your attendant,” Plinth said with a wink. “I’m charged with watching over you while you’re in this fugue state. As I’ve already mentioned, I need your consent.”

“Consent to what?”

“I knew you’d come around! I need consent to continue your treatment. We must renew your verbal contract every five years so as to maintain compliance with the Dominion’s personal autonomy laws. It’s Citadel policy. I trust you’re up to speed now?”

Harron nodded again. “Yeah, I’m up to speed.” His children screamed in his ears. He remembered the feeling of their charred bones crumbling between his fingers. The memory made him want to vomit. He’d agree to anything if it’d make him forget.

“You’ve always been my most difficult patient,” Plinth said, still smiling.

“Sorry.”

“No bother. I understand what it is that you’re running from. A terrible thing, truly. Not something a man should ever have to witness. Are the treatments helping?”

“Yeah, they help.”

“Good, then let us not delay. I’m sure you’re itching to go back under. All I need is your verbal consent, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Harron’s mouth twitched. “I consent.”

Plinth stood from his chair, taking care to straighten his coat. “Easy enough,” he said. “Well, I shall leave you to it. You’ll resume your session upon my departure.” The man turned. His eyes found something in the distance, just outside the window. “You know, you’ve never told me who she is. The woman.”

Harron flinched. Plinth had hit a raw nerve. “She’s my wife.”

“Ah,” said Plint. “Yes, that would make sense. Would you like to keep her memory this next go around? You don’t need to live on this island alone, I can program her in for you. You can have her—”

“No,” Harron said. “No, I can’t. She’s not mine to have anymore.”

“Very well. Misery loves company. Or… doesn’t, I suppose.” Plinth stopped at the door. “It's been a pleasure, Harron. I look forward to our next little soirée.”

“Plinth,” Harron said before the man could leave.

The attendant stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“Don’t be such an ass next time.”

He laughed. “No promises.”

***

The luminous hands on Harron’s wristwatch indicated it was five-o’-seven in the morning when the squalls finally relented. The rain’s incessant battering slowed to a patter, then a trickle. For a week now Harron had been locked inside the mess hall, watching as rain battered the lone window. The clouds had broken on the distant horizon, and glorious sunlight began to peek through. Harron noted the change of weather in his logs and smiled.

It was going to be a good day.

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