The lighthouse keeper stood outside the door, wrapped up warm in his thick coat, bonnet pulled tight on his head. The wind was loud but he knew its tune and he could hear what lay underneath it. The cracks, the splintering, and the shouts. He was a man of experience, he had heard those sounds before, and he knew what his responsibility was now.
The lighthouse keeper lived alone in the tall building, in his lighthouse north of Heilam. It showed the way for sailors coming into the sea loch, going to the port of Challaid. He was so close to the city, but he couldn’t go to it, his job demanding absolute commitment. For months he would sit alone and wonder if any in the world knew his name, if they spoke of him or thought of him. A name unspoken was not a name, a man unmentioned was nobody. His work made it possible for so many to safely arrive at and leave the city, but all of those people thought nothing of the one who helped them. Sometimes he was angry to think of it, but on other days it was to his benefit.
The weather had been poor all day, a fog that was swept away by strong wind and heavy rain. There had been few boats coming into the loch. In the night he sat by the window and looked out to sea, watching the light of a boat rocking back and forth, rising and falling, moving slowly toward the lighthouse. The lighthouse keeper watched for a time as it got closer, able to identify the boat as a large cutter, making a run for shelter. The lighthouse keeper could see what was going to happen, knew the water and the weather, knew the rocks and knew the wrong light that shone.
Now he stood outside the door to the lighthouse and listened to the noises underneath the wind. There was the sound of the wood breaking on rocks, of a mast cracking and falling into the water. The song of a boat breaking apart in the sea was one the lighthouse keeper had orchestrated often enough to know well. The cutter would be mostly underwater, none of its crew on board. They would be in the cold water, the swell pulling them under or pushing them onto the rocks. The sea always claimed its share.
He had the musket tucked under his arm as he walked carefully to the edge of the cliff and picked his path down toward the small shingle beach. The lamp was still shining on the post by the cliff edge where he had placed it, a lying substitute for the lighthouse light. He knew the cliff and the beach; he knew every path and climbing route that could be used in this area. While a stranger would struggle to find their way up in good weather, there was no danger for him going down in the storm.
His boots crunched across the shingle as he made his way to the rough water’s edge. The lighthouse keeper hadn’t heard a human shout for some minutes, but he heard one now. As the cold water rolled as far as the toe of his boot, the lighthouse keeper made out the figure of a man trying to stand, desperately crawling in the water as he made his way for shore. The man saw the lighthouse keeper, struggled forward until the water reached only his knees. He stumbled the last few feet and landed heavily beside the lighthouse keeper, looking up at him. “I am the only one,” he said in shaking gasps. “The sea took the rest. It is only me.” The lighthouse keeper smiled, aimed the musket and shot the man in the head.
Over the following two hours the lighthouse keeper carefully moved all valuables that washed ashore to the small basement of the lighthouse. It was a good haul, interesting items he would examine carefully over the rest of the week. He took two hours and stopped, even knowing there were some boxes left on the beach. He switched off the lamp and put the lighthouse light back on. Enough time had passed for people to miss the cutter, so he began the long walk down to the north of Challaid to raise the alarm. The little-known lighthouse keeper, doing his sad duty.