Chapter 4

While it madeAlba itch to put down even temporary roots anywhere for long, he would trust whatever his mother had planned. The distance from shore and the high vantage point of the lighthouse's lantern room would help him see what was coming, at least, should Marco or anyone else sniff him out even in a place as remote as that.

"You'll be the only keeper out here for a time," Eugene said as they approached the lighthouse rocks, floating in a small boat that wobbled with every swell of the water. Overhead, rain broke through the thick clouds, and Alba was grateful for the chill in the air. He was sweating under his coat, either from the warmth of the drinks from the bar or the anxiety bubbling under his skin. "Can't leave a boat with you 'til we get another crafted, neither. Last storm wiped out a handful of ‘em against the rocks. But someone will fetch you once a week or so to come into town and stretch your legs and get supplies."

"Alright."

Eugene Michaels worked the handles of the oars with knowing strokes, with strength that betrayed the age of him. Alba's eyes lingered on his worn knuckles and aged tattoos again, wondering what the man saw when looking at Alba in return. If Alba gave off the appearance of an experienced sailor like he claimed, or more like someone spinning tales for a chance at the impressive wages offered for the work.

He knew some parts of him proved he didn't lie about his time at sea, but there were other unavoidable ones that always drew unwanted curiosity when stopping for the night in random northern ports. His unlucky red hair, the narrowness of his shoulders, the shape of his brow, the indisputable lack of even a shadow on his jaw that he often worried betrayed his claim to manhood. He'd learned long ago that avoiding eyes was the simplest way to avoid those words he hated so much, but couldn't blame in their curiosity. You sure you're a sailor? Somethin' about you looks more like a lass.

Instinctively, Alba wrung his fingers around his wrist where a white woven bracelet used to hang, decorated with pearls his mother once said would bless him to grow into the masculinity he wanted. They're magic bits from the sea. They'll make you as much a man as anyone else so long as you keep wearing it. Save sprouting a member, but a cock never made a man anyway. Should even keep your blood away if you're consistent.

It'd been only a few months since it snapped off and disappeared into the sea, though Alba was surprised it lasted even that long.

"Place needs some work, too. Last keeper did their best, but didn't stick around long. Disappeared like the rest of ‘em." The man chuckled as he said it, like he knew exactly why his wickies ran off before ever getting paid. Alba knew as well as anyone else how plenty of lighthouse keepers vanished in the night, either from madness or loneliness or disillusionment, sometimes clearly running for greener pastures or simply ceasing to exist by morning.

He glanced over his shoulder at the approaching rocks, watching as the shadow of land emerged from the frothing water. Moon Harbor, Whitesand Cove, whichever name they preferred, indeed had two lighthouses like he noticed upon first arriving, emerging from the dense fog like titanic creatures looming out of the sea.

At their base emerged a modest single-level structure with a peaked roof and shuttered windows, likely the keeper's living quarters, no bigger than the Marsh home back in Welkin had been. It was accompanied by a handful of surrounding out-buildings that Alba could guess the purpose of without having to see up close. He wasn't lying when he said he'd tended to lighthouses in the past. Wouldn't even need a tour, if the old man didn't offer one.

"The taller one—the older sister, we call ‘er—retired ages ago. Lantern wore out," Eugene explained while slowing their approach to the waterlogged rocks. "Use ‘er belly mostly for storing goods and things for the town, now. The smaller one, the younger sister, is the one you'll be tendin' to. Don't bother thinking you can fix up the older one, neither. Don't need another wickie crackin' their head open ‘cause they don't look for the gaps in the stairs. S'the reason I hold on to the only key, so don't poke around all by yourself."

Alba grimaced. "You don't have to worry about that from me, sir."

"Young'un's lantern is brighter than the older one's ever was, anyway. Does all the work with less fuel. Got a new oil basin in ‘er, too, so you only gotta fill ‘er once a night then mind the counterweights. Needs windin' every two hours on the dot."

"Gears need wettin'?"

"Not her. She's a special sort. The fuel we use drips down from the mantle and greases her up as she turns. Special stuff from a manufacturer up the coast, don't rightly know what it's made of. Whale fat and some extra science."

"Sure." Alba managed a genuine little half-smile. Eugene Michaels was definitely a sailor if Alba ever knew one.

"Don't get a lot of ships comin' in and out of the harbor, neither…" the man added as the dingy reached what Alba assumed was the rocks' promise of a dock, though it was hardly more than a few metal loops hammered into the stone and blocks of wood pressed into the steep cut of the muddy shore. Eugene paused as Alba clambered out over the slippery stone, and Alba bit back a throb in his hip while focusing on remaining upright. "…so don't worry about loggin' the ones that come and go. Weather doesn't change much, neither, ‘cept once or twice a month, so don't worry about tracking that, either."

"What's the purpose of keepin' a log book then, sir?" Alba asked, half joking. Eugene's response was as serious as ever.

"S'pose it's better suited for things out of the ordinary."

Alba grunted as the bag of supplies was tossed into his chest, nearly losing his footing and dropping his cane.

"Out of the ordinary like what, sir?" he asked with a wheeze.

"Don't let your imagination run wild now, boy," the man chuckled, grabbing the oar and shoving off from the rocks without another moment's hesitation. "If you've truly spent time at sea like you've said, you'll know what I'm talkin' about. Nothin' any stranger than that happens ‘round here at all. Suppose it's mostly to keep ‘ya sane while trapped on this here rock."

"Oh," Alba said. Wanting to add more, knowing there should be more, but he could think of nothing. By the time anything came to mind, Eugene Michaels was already disappearing into the fog back toward the shore, and Alba was alone.

The lighthouse rock'sliving quarters were smaller than those he'd lived in while tending to Warren-owned lighthouses, but better-kept.

Straight through the front door opened into a small kitchen, a staircase to the sleeping loft above on the right, a door to the washroom to the left, and a handkerchief-sized sitting area alongside that. A single table sat in the middle of the kitchen with two chairs tucked neatly into it, a thin layer of dust coating the surface just like it did the counter, the sink basin, the floorboards.

Eugene mentioned they'd been without a lighthouse keeper for at least two weeks, and the light dusting of missing inhabitants in every part of that house proved it. Alba had almost asked how the lighthouse continued to function without anyone out there to wind the weights and trim the wicks, but decided not to prod in the moment.

Regret tingled the back of his throat as he left his sparse things at the foot of the stairs and took a closer look around. The constant clanging and humming of turning gears from the lighthouse filled the back of his ears once he paused to listen, both unsettling and comforting in its predictable rhythm. Eugene had also mentioned her newer oil basin, and perhaps it wasn't so out of the question that they'd rigged some sort of automatic reel to wind the weights. But such a thing would never last forever, hence the need for a keeper.

Either way, Alba sighed. Closing his eyes for a moment, he traced back through the events of the previous few hours to recall if there was anything else he should have picked up on sooner. Frustrated with it all, relieved with it all. Unsure how he felt to still not know where his mother was—to not even know if he was in the right place, despite all signs pointing to yes.

He pulled his hair from the braid keeping it together down his back, shaking out the strands and running fingers back through it. Sweaty and stiff from the long journey, knowing the rest of him likely smelled the same way. He would wash off as soon as he was done gathering his bearings. He didn't want to look so bedraggled when his mother came knocking, whether it be later that night, in the morning, or… sometime. Just, sometime soon. God, he hoped she really would.

The sitting room was sparsely-furnished with smoking chairs, bookshelves, hand-washing basins on side tables, a moth-eaten rug spread over the floor; in the kitchen there was a single copper sink basin and butcher-wood countertops, dinner table barely big enough for its two rickety chairs underneath. The cabinets were well-organized but empty of anything that didn't have a perpetual shelf-life, which he was used to.

The simplicity of the kitchen reminded him too much of home, especially with every small repair he picked out during his observation. His mother had always been a simple, no-frills sort of woman, even in the things she wore, the way she pinned up her dark blonde hair, whether it be to scrub the floors or replace shingles on the roof.

Asking for help risked adding on to the debt they owed to the Warrens, who owned the livelihoods of every family in town while their loved ones toiled away on ships. Every time Alba was graced with a night at home, the first thing Edythe did was proudly show him all the things she'd fixed up while he was away, oftentimes taking hours as she rambled on and on about how difficult something was, how she had to ask Agnes down the road to borrow some tool or another to get the job done, how she had to chop her own wood or collect sap for makeshift glue. He hoped she'd have more of the same to show him of wherever she was hiding.

Limping his way up the stairs to the lofted bedroom at the top, Alba tossed the bundle of supplies onto the farthest of two wooden trundle beds, stripping off his jacket next and throwing it over the head of the bed frame closest to him. The room was smaller than the kitchen below, two beds separated by only a few feet against opposite walls. Stormy blue light came in through the window at the mouth of the A-frame ceiling at the end of the room, cracked open to allow the chilly fresh air inside. A door leading to a cramped closet hung cracked next to the foot of the opposite bed, though Alba wondered how anyone was meant to store anything inside of it. It explained the single trunk tucked in the corner.

He collapsed face-first into the nearest bed when the wind whistled particularly hard through the window. The frame squeaked and groaned under his weight, and he groaned back, allowing himself the briefest moment to close his eyes and pretend like he had a chance to drift off to sleep. But even there, on that rocky spit of land obscured by the fog, a mile from the shore where such a secluded little town sat untouched by visitors in what he guessed to be at least decades—Alba felt nerves prickle the back of his neck every time the house leaned against the weather picking up outside. Nerves fueled by the anxiety of being found, the anxiety of being in the wrong place altogether.

Anxiety made sharper by the fact he'd just taken a job known to be physically demanding and wholly exhausting, even for two or three wickies overseeing a single lamp. He might die of exhaustion before his mother ever came to see him—and she would never forgive him for it.

After unpacking the bundle of supplies, tucking the plain work clothes away in the trunk, storing the temporary foodstuffs in the cabinets, Alba went to seek the cistern in one of the out-buildings—but stopped when the front door clattered loudly upon pulling it open. A string of pink and white seashells dangled from a piece of twine on the exterior knob. Right away, he searched for who might have left it, but saw no one. Pulling the clattering string away, he looked a little more closely.

"Hello?" He called out next, but no answer came. Deciding he must have simply not noticed them upon first arriving—not thinking too hard about how he wasn't sure how that was possible—he left the string on the coat rack and made his way back out again.

Scanning the rocks for a visiting boat, listening for chattering voices, Alba couldn't help the newest pinch of apprehension at the back of his throat. Just swallowing hard against it until it finally released and let him get back to the task at hand.

Checking the brick rainwater cistern on the side of the house, Alba was relieved to find it still relatively clean of mold from the last wickie who'd stayed there, dumping in a scoop of chalk from the dry-box under the eaves for good measure. Returning to the house, in the bathroom, it took a number of cranks on the iron hand pump before water spluttered into the polished-steel washtub, brown at first before clearing up, smelling like rain and mildew in a way that reminded Alba of home as much as everything else did.

He worked the pump until a few inches of fresh water lined the bottom of the tub, finally kicking off his muddy boots and stripping off his sweat-stiff shirt when something rattled beneath the floor, startling him.

For a moment he was sure the storm was about to sweep the house away, then prodded at the pump handle to see if it came from the pipes. Leaving the washroom, he paused as the rattling continued, then followed the cacophony, the vibrations beneath his feet, to the opposite side of the kitchen where a door lead to what he assumed to be a storage pantry.

There, he found the source of the noise, raising an eyebrow and crouching down for a better look. Flattened beneath a heavy crate full of piled trawling nets, overcast daylight beamed between the cracks outlining a trapdoor cut into the floor. The hatch itself rattled violently, seemingly even moreso with Alba's attention. He could only imagine some sort of crazed gull or a harbor seal trapped in the cellar underneath.

Not wanting to deal with a hole in the floorboards or the stench of something dead and rotting, he grabbed a broom from where it leaned against the wall, pushing against the crate blocking the opening until the netting inside spilled and the whole thing toppled over. The rattling subsided in an instant, and Alba paused another moment in waiting. Sure he must've frightened whatever animal was trapped underneath.

When nothing came crashing through, he searched for the latch to heave the door open—only to find the metal beaten within an inch of its life, pinning the trap door locked shut.

There was no way of knowing if the latch was bent from age, or a previous wickie going mad and hammering it to hell in an attempt to stop similar rattling, but Alba's curiosity compelled him back to his feet. He limped around the room, searching the sparse shelves for anything he could use to pry the hatch open. Settling on a rusted iron chisel and hammer, he knelt back to the floor to whack at the bent loop.

After a few strikes, it gave way, metal ring flinging upward—and the wooden cover snapped up with it, nearly taking Alba's head off. A cyclone of wind blasted through the opening, whipping Alba's hair back before settling again, allowing him to lean over and peer inside. A swirling inlet of seawater greeted him down below, making his mind spin trying to recall what the keeper's quarters looked like from the outside.

Leaning slightly more, he draped his head through just enough to get a better look, finding that that small leg of the house sat on raised stilts over an edge of rocks that curved inward from the shore. He hadn't noticed from the direction they arrived, but the immediate realization that he could fish and dump crab pots from right there next to the kitchen was enough to make him practically cry out and praise god.

The wind whistled up through the hole to tangle his hair as if in agreement. The water churned in its narrow inlet as the tide pushed and pulled against the rocks, tempting him to jump in and feel how refreshing it could be. But Alba knew better than that; he knew how to tell a trick from the sea.

Pulling himself back onto solid ground, Alba thought back to the other out-buildings, wondering where he might find crab pots or fishing line, perhaps netting that wasn't as unwieldy as the trawling nets piled there in the storage room—only to pause as his hand touched the edge of the hatch a second time.

The underside of the wood crunched with a layer of barnacles that blinked at him like a thousand eyes, wondering why their world had been suddenly turned upside down—but they weren't the reason Alba stopped. They weren't the reason his lungs squeezed his heart, making it stutter. With deft movements, he pinched between a cluster of the wriggling creatures, holding his breath when he realized.

Throughout the barnacle nests, some flaking off with the movement, others encapsulated, grown into the thick shells—were chipped human fingernails.