Page 5 of The Lighthouse Keeper and the Mermaid
And they laughed and laughed with stories of monsters completely forgotten.
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Daria opened her eyes and instantly regretted it. The brightness of flashing lightning hit her like it wanted to take her back out again, and the normally relaxing roar of the sea sounded as if it wanted to drown her. Thunder crashed and it was as if it were thundering in her very skull. She felt sick.
There was a loud splash and only then did the confusion hit. Was she…outside?
She shot up to sitting—and regretted that a bit too. But the confusion overruled the pounding in her head and the swirls of nausea, and she looked around.
She was on a sandy beach, and based on that jetty, it looked to be the one a mile from her lighthouse, and a storm was raging, the waves so large most of the sand had surrendered to them.
Fear leapt in her heart as she remembered what was going on. The men—she was rescuing a crew of ten men about a mile from the coast. She’d found four and then…?
There was falling, and then, then nothing. She must have gotten hit by something in the turmoil of the waves.
And now, the rain still fell like she was under a waterfall. The sky was still as black as night. The waves still heaved like they wanted to confiscate the shore, and she saw neither man nor boat. How was she here? Last she remembered, she was more than a mile offshore and the only people who could have saved her were inches from capsizing their second boat of the night. Not to mention, she saw no boat here and no men nearby. She was entirely and completely alone.
If they had capsized, she doubted any of the men would have had the strength to swim her back—not as an unconscious dead weight—no matter how guilty they had felt. She doubted most of them had had the strength to swim back only themselves.
But it was the only scenario she could come up with. Presumably it would have had to be the first one she had saved. He was the only one that looked to be in halfway decent shape, so maybe he had rescued her and then gone back out to collect the others?
But she had seen how exhausted he had looked. She knew how much she was herself from fighting those waves. No, she was sure neither she nor he could have swum back themselves, let alone another person, let alone go back for more.
But what else then was she supposed to believe? That the unfeeling waves had mercy? That it was an act of God? No doubt that was what the people in town would call it.
If it wasn’t for her head thumping like it was trying to kill her, she would think it was all a dream.
She stood and was quickly met with a swirl of nausea and dizziness, but with a breath, she steadied herself and looked out into that churning sea for signs of life. She watched it for a while—easily over twenty minutes standing there drenched in thedownpour—but she saw nothing. Part of her was tempted to go back and see if she could see anything from her lighthouse, but without a boat, it was a dangerous climb even if the rocks weren’t wet and her head wasn’t spinning. And who knew if the water had even receded enough for her jetty to be passable at all?
Her best bet was to go to town. She could report what had happened. She needed to tell the carpenter to make another boat, and hopefully the clerk of the trading company would agree to commission it. They often covered things like this. No doubt a few village men would also go out and see if they could find anyone else. But by now, unless there was another act of God, all they would find were corpses.
She started walking. She could feel the cold settling into her bones, and that was dangerous enough. Yes, it was time to go, but somehow it felt wrong, like leaving that beach without sight of them was condemning them to death, even if she was sure they had already perished.
It hurt her soul. She had never lost anyone she’d come face to face with before. To see them so full of life, to see their fear and trepidation in the glow of the lightning, and then to know their eyes would shine no more…it was heartbreaking. The redhead was so young. The dark-haired so full of life—and gentlemanly for a sailor. She had expected much more resistance from him. And the blond had seemed kind from his eyes. And the captain—
She froze. Was it the knock to her head or had she seen something in the water? Like an angel but with red eyes and silver, nearly transparent hair. It was clearly no reflection—not with her dark-auburn locks.
She almost laughed. Was that why she had had that silly dream of her father telling her stories? How ridiculous. Even for all his attempts, he had never gotten her to believe in monsters she couldn’t see. Dolphins, sharks, whales, stingrays, porpoises, yes. But untold monsters?
She smiled fondly. She never understood why he had felt the need to try and scare her, even if secretly she had come to love thwarting his attempts.
The walk was not an easy one. For the most part the coastline was rocky with only tiny pockets of beach nestled here and there, so she had to climb up and walk where the trees were. Even that was not an easy hike. The bush was sometimes too thick to pass. The rocks sometimes had collapsed and she had to traverse over broken boulders. And other times the cliff simply rose and she had no choice but to golower again and cross on the broken bits of wall as she fought off the splashes of errant waves.
It was at least two hours of this before she saw the first fishing shacks, little wooden things that were built on a rocky outcropping. They were scattered here and there, nestled on the rocky shore above the waterline so that even storms such as these did not threaten them.
Thoughts of town had left her. She was so cold; her jaw was trembling so much she doubted she could speak. In fact, even her arms and hands were shaking like she had been stricken as the old sometimes were.
The fifth house was owned by a man named Lionel Starkson and his wife. He was a good friend of her father’s and she did not hesitate to pound on the door.
There was no response at first—no surprise really. She wasn’t sure what time it was, but she was sure it was well past sane men’s waking hours, especially a fisher’s who would rise before dawn.
She pounded again and heard stirring. There was smoke coming from the chimney; she could already imagine its warmth.
One more pound and the door flew open to an irate Lionel. “Damn to—oh, Daria! My God, girl! What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Daria?” came an older woman’s warbled voice. His wife peeked out from behind the door. She had her nightcap on and was holding a lacy, white cloth over her sleeping clothes—for cold or propriety, Daria wasn’t sure.
“I’m cold,” she stuttered out, stepping inside before they invited her. “Can I stay by your fire for a moment?”
