Wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, Ben paced the floor of the lighthouse cottage with their tiny, squalling bundle of joy. Moriah had tried to comfort the child until she was exhausted. Petey did not want to nurse, did not need new diapers, did not seem to be ill, but he was definitely not happy. Nor was he interested in going to sleep.
The baby honeymoon they had experience filled with awe and excitement had waned somewhat. It was amazing how a tiny scrap of humanity could show up and completely take over two people’s lives. Unless he missed his guess, Petey was not going to go down tonight without a fight.
With a sigh, Ben gave up pacing, laid the baby on the couch while he squalled and began wrapping the stretchy material around himself that Moriah often used to carry the baby. It was only a long length of stretchy fabric, but it involved an intricate wrapping procedure that he was only now getting the hang of.
With Petey pitching a red-faced fit on the couch, tiny feet kicking and little fists waving, Ben finally got the wrap securely tied, picked up the furious infant and tucked him down inside the wrap. Then he began to walk in circles, singing in a low voice.
“A mighty fortress is our God.
A bulwark never failing…”
He didn’t know any lullabies. His own bedtime songs, once his dad had gotten sober, had been hymns, so he figured that was about as good as any.
For variety, he sang the same verse in Yahnowa. Then Spanish and Portuguese. It was good practice for him, plus he thought maybe it would make learning languages a little easier for Petey when he got older. He thought the fact that Moriah had been exposed to Yahnowa at the age of five had made it a lot easier for her to pick up the language these past months. She had astonished the village as well as herself with her quick mastery. It was amazing how powerful things were that got imprinted early on a child’s mind—both good and bad.
He caught sight of himself in a mirror and nearly laughed out loud. He was grateful for the privacy of the lighthouse cottage tonight. There was no one to see him marching around with his hair on end, looking about nine months pregnant with the baby tucked inside the wrap. It was attractive on Moriah, but it just looked silly on him.
Whether it was the feel of being against his daddy’s bare chest, the womb-like security of the tight wrap, the comforting rumble of Ben’s voice against his ear, or perhaps having already worn himself out crying, Petey finally fell asleep.
Ben stood still and took stock. With any luck, his son would sleep maybe as much as two hours before needing to nurse again. Moriah desperately needed sleep. And an excellent way to make certain Petey started crying again was to disturb his slumber by removing him from this wrap.
Therefore, the smartest thing to do was to stay awake, watch over the little fellow until he awoke hungry, and give Moriah a bit of time to recuperate.
He knew exactly what he wanted to do with the next two hours. Their lives had been quite topsy-turvy ever since they’d gotten home, but tonight might be a good time to begin translating the diary that the furniture refinisher had found in the old lighthouse desk.
Ben had already taken a look at it. Eliza’s handwriting was as hard to read as everyone said. Especially since the ink had faded. So he had recently purchased an excellent magnifying glass.
With plenty of time to kill, he pulled a chair close to a table, sat out a fresh notebook and positioned a good lamp just so. Then, with Petey snug and content against his chest, he started to really examine the diary. Carefully, he thumbed his way through it all the way to the end. In the very back, inside of the back cover, he discovered a final and slightly more legible message written separately from the rest of the diary.
I am Eliza Robertson, a God-fearing woman. I am the third light keeper of the Tempest Bay lighthouse. Hard things happened within these walls. Let whoever finds this know that I did the best I could.