The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  “Actually,” I whispered to the transformed light-keeper, purely for wee Hughie’s benefit, as the boy was listening, “I was going for the opposite of thorough—something perhaps closer to: sloppy, inhumane, boyish zeal. But perseverance is perhaps more encouraging for your new little friend.”

  Willy Campbell flashed a wry smile in my direction. “Actually, culling sheep takes a great deal of perseverance, Miss Stevenson. And, for what it’s worth, killing your first ram is no easy task.”

  “Oh, and you have experience killing such things, do you?” I replied a little too loudly. As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them terribly. His congenial smile faded. He looked across the table and, holding the boy’s father in his gaze, replied, “In that line, Miss Stevenson, I’m afraid I outstrip you all.”

  He was about to get up. I could feel his defeat, the tenseness in his body straining as he made to push back from the table, yet no matter what I thought of him, I had no wish to see his plan of manning rescue boats—even if he had resorted to blackmail of a sort—fail. I grabbed his hand under the table to quell the notion. And squeezing forcefully, while smiling bravely for all to see, I said sincerely, “Please do forgive me, Mr. Campbell. Why, of course you do. How foolish of me to forget.”

  His pale eyes held to mine, looking almost frightened, uncertain where I was going with my apology.

  But for once I was on his side. Mr. MacKay was a fine, charismatic man, enjoyable company even, but he held to a different set of rules where lives of sailors were concerned, and I, for one, being wholeheartedly in love with a man of the sea, could not abide such a selfish notion. And squeezing even harder, unable to let the keeper pull his hand from my grasp—as he so desperately tried—I continued, “But I’m certain your record of distinguishing yourself on the battlefield, however bravely you may have fought, still cannot compare with slaughtering sheep. Though your record is impressive,” I added with a look of adulation. “My father spoke of your bravery often. Quite admires you, I believe, which is saying a lot since he’s a man who admires very little. There is nothing to be ashamed of when one takes so many lives in the name of king and country.”

  “King and country,” Hugh MacKay reiterated, as if he found the notion amusing. Yet there was also approval there—in the way he beheld me—as if admiring my ability to lie so glibly.

  “Ye were a soldier, Mr. Campbell?” Mary asked with unfeigned interest. Her son leaned across me, positively gawking at the keeper with newfound respect.

  “Apparently” was his bold reply, though his reproving eyes never left mine.

  “I had no idea,” she marveled, smiling kindly at the light-keeper.

  “You wouldn’t,” I replied, breaking the chiding gaze to look at our guests. “Mr. Campbell is a very modest man, and keeps such personal exploits and horrors to himself.” The hand, so firmly in my grasp under the table, jerked away. And at once the coldness settled in.

  “Really?” came the skeptical challenge from the visiting Highlander. Yet before the two men could square off once again, Robbie was quick on the draw and pulled from the cupboard the “big gun.”

  “Ladies, gentlemen,” he began, placing the bottle of single malt whisky and six glasses on the table. “I was going to save this for later, but I think now would be the perfect time. Will ye drink a toast with me?” He poured a measure in each glass and handed them around. I had to wrestle mine from wee Hughie. “May the past stay in the past …” he declared, holding his glass high before him, “… while the future looms brightly before us! To Cape Wrath,” he declared. “Slàinte!”

  “Slàinte!” all replied, and then attempted to drown the past—which was obviously harder for some than others—with the heady tang and burn of single malt whisky. Some, I noticed—particularly the adult male contingent—required more than one glass to accomplish this feat.

  The meal, and the entire visit surprisingly, ended on a hopeful note; hopeful for Kate and me because we now had a commitment from Mr. Campbell that would allow us to visit the MacKay croft on a regular basis, and hopeful for the light-keepers because as Mr. MacKay shook hands to leave he conceded, “I guess I’ll be seeing ye gents at the jetty come the tenth o’ March.”

  • • •

  I waited until I heard the bell, and then I waited some more. At last I heard his footsteps traverse the floor of the hall we shared. But he didn’t pause before my door this night. Perhaps he had nothing to say to me, no interest in my motives whatsoever. He went straight to his room; and I waited until I heard the door close behind him. I was nervous. I had never visited a man’s room before in the dead of night, especially a man who seemed to have a dark curse hanging about him. And so I stayed awake in my room, dangling my feet off the edge of the bed, thinking of every reason under heaven why I should leave him alone with his own demons. But I couldn’t. Behind his dark, brooding exterior there appeared a glimmer of kindness that showed through every now and again. But he was afraid of kindness. That was evident. Whenever kindness appeared he cast it aside, covering it with cruelty. That he was toying with wee Hughie MacKay was also a certainty, for I did not believe a man like Mr. Campbell cared a fig for children. Yet he was good at pretending. His manner appeared genuine, and he had a way of reeling a person in without them ever knowing it was happening. He had done it to me on several occasions, and just when I was beginning to let my guard down, he cut me again. I hated him, truly. He was a vile and debased creature. Yet strangely I wanted to see him succeed in this one mission of manning lifeboats. And so, with this final notion, I set off on my task.

  He had been in his room a good half hour before I gathered the nerve to go by. He should have been asleep, the light coming under his door should have been extinguished, but it wasn’t, and so I was obliged to knock. The door sprung open immediately, startling me with its abruptness. He was standing before me, fully clothed yet disheveled, with a glass of spirits in his hand and a pen between his teeth. “Come,” he uttered with a jerk of his head and stepped aside to let me enter. Puzzled and unnerved, I obeyed.

  Crossing the threshold of his room was like entering a foreign country altogether and it was with great trepidation that I did so. What struck me first was the smell. It was not a bad odor, just a wee bit pungent, earthy even, with a decidedly male muskiness to it. The room was nothing near the immaculate state of the observation room. In fact, it was the opposite side of that coin. Clothes were scattered harum-scarum about the place, a discarded shirt rested on the post of the bed here, breeches draped over the back of a chair there, boots and stockings kicked off before the fire. He had what looked to be a chest, very like one a sailor might use, along the far wall, with names burned into the top of it—ships he perhaps had served on? A basin rested on a stand in the corner beside the chest, along with a razor and strop, and a tiny mirror hung on the wall above. Sketches adorned the walls, drawings of ships, each with a name under it and looking as if he had perhaps drawn them with his own hand. I next came to the desk, which was also an organized mess, all cluttered with books and papers. Samples of various plants, taken from around the Cape I presumed, had been tacked to the wall and sat drying on little hooks. Why he had such a collection was beyond my powers of deduction. On either side of the desk were bookcases, perfectly overflowing with well-worn volumes. And on the top shelf of each of these cases sat jars—clear glass jars—containing hideous creatures of various forms, suspended in grotesque postures as they loomed from their aqueous prisons. The mere sight gave me a start.

  “Do they frighten ye?” he asked without the slightest hint of curiosity while setting his glass on the desk. He placed the quill pen back in its holder. “I figured they might.”

  “What are they?” I uttered.

  “Just beasts I’ve collected over the years.”

  “Did … did you kill them?”

  “Some. Others were gifts.”

  “Oh how very charming,” I replied with a lack of enthusiasm and saw the corner of
his mouth twitch in response to this sarcasm.

  “Perhaps I should have covered them before ye came.”

  “How were you to know I would ever come?”

  “Oh,” he breathed in a voice that held the edge of darkness, “I knew you’d be coming to me tonight.” He turned to face me then and leaned his powerful frame against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest in a gesture that exuded conceit. “That was, once ye mustered the courage.”

  I could feel my face go red. “You were expecting me?” I asked, incredulity thick in my voice. “But that’s impossible!”

  “On the contrary, my dear, I was counting on you. A woman of your spirit and driving curiosity is hardly able to let such a chance pass by.”

  “What? What’s that supposed to mean?” He obviously knew that this predictability in my nature—one that was so smugly pointed out—would embarrass and chafe me. And he looked mightily pleased with himself for the discomfort he caused me, perhaps more so than the delight he took in my slavish commitment to my curious nature. The look on his face, the sardonic satisfaction, made me despise him even more. “Well,” I said, mustering all the resolve I had left, “I’m not staying, so don’t get your hopes up. I only came to apologize, and I’m not certain I even want to do that anymore. I was going to say that I was sorry for what I said at the table, and for making up that preposterous lie about you being a brave soldier and all … covering for your morbid proclivities.” I cocked my head, mindful of keeping a safe distance from the man, and taunted, “Do you even want to know why I did it?”

  “One can only imagine,” he replied laconically, and I found his cruel smugness infuriating.

  A burning desire welled up in me, one that insisted I taunt him, causing the same discomfort he caused me. And then I too smiled a smile that did not reach my eyes. “I think I’m going to tell you anyway. I don’t normally lie for other people, Mr. Campbell, but I lied for you today because I … I happened to overhear you in the light-room.” There, it was out. Now he knew that I knew his secret, and I held it over him, smirking and growing ever prideful.

  “Happened to overhear me?” he repeated, his cruel smile returning. “Dear lass, a woman like you doesn’t happen to do anything. Hearing the conversation between MacKay and me was your original intent. Am I correct?”

  The man was either a remarkable guess-maker or he knew more about me than I cared to fathom. Either way, I felt my short-lived bravado crumbling. “So, you knew I was listening to you?”

  “I suspected ye would; I might have even been a wee disappointed in ye had ye not. Anyhow, my suspicions were confirmed when I saw your face after ye asked had I much experience killing things. Ye knew the answer to that very well. Yours, dear lass, is a face that cannot lie.”

  “I believe I lie very well, Mr. Campbell,” I parried a little indignantly, grasping at whatever I had left to me. “I’ve experience there. I’m shocked by what you tell me. However, it was no love of yourself that forced me to it. I listened because I was curious, yes. But it was your plan to man rescue boats in order to save the lives of drowning sailors that induced me to lie. Mr. MacKay has his reasons for opposing you, of that I’m certain. But your plan, however it chafes me to admit it, is a good one and I have no wish to see you fail. I will tell you plainly, I think your effort to be noble, no matter what sordid methods you choose to employ.”

  “Really? What a coincidence. A woman who would risk so much just to peer through the lens of a wee telescope, hoping against hope to see the face of her lover—a man, might I add, who left her in a shocking predicament—on board a passing ship, would approve of such a scheme?”

  “How dare you mock me!” This time he had gone too far.

  “Mock you? On the contrary, lass, I applaud you. Ye, Miss Stevenson, are a woman of extreme passion and strong conviction, however misguided it may be.”

  “Misguided? I’m seldom misguided, Mr. Campbell! I know very well what I’m about! You have no right to say such things.”

  “Be that as it may, did you also happen to hear the part where Mr. MacKay reminded me that I’m cursed?”

  “I did,” I admitted plainly. “But I don’t believe in such nonsense as curses. You’re a troubled man, Mr. Campbell, we all know that. But what troubles you is more of a perversion than a curse, I’d say.” Although the thought of getting that off my chest seemed fine while I was speaking, in reality the effect my words had on him was frightening.

  The magnificent, piercing aqua eyes burned into mine with a mixture of pity and loathing. And then, slowly, he uttered, “That’s very interesting. I suppose you don’t believe in ghosts either?”

  “No. Again, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. I’ve never seen a ghost, therefore I do not believe in them.”

  He pushed away from the desk and began walking slowly toward me. I backed away just as slowly. He kept coming. I hit the wall and was forced to stop. “Let me tell you a little secret, Miss Stevenson,” he whispered dangerously, standing a hairsbreadth away—much too near for comfort. “I believe in ghosts. Call it a perversion, if ye like, but I see them all the time … the ghosts of those who were once flesh and blood, constantly reminding me they are no longer. And as for curses, you had best believe in those too. You may think my attempt to save mariners’ lives noble. But MacKay’s right. It’s not the saving of lives that concerns me. I’m merely seeking redemption, for I cannot stand the sight of the ghosts that haunt me any longer.”

  “When … when you say you see ghosts, sir,” I began tentatively, “I hope … I pray you are speaking figuratively?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Perhaps you should cut back on the liquor?” I suggested in an earnest attempt to be helpful. “I’ve known cases where those who imbibe too much begin to see things that aren’t really there.”

  He placed his hands on the wall, flanking either side of me. I flinched. “I wish it were the case,” he whispered thickly. “But I do not drink much. And when I do, I never really get drunk enough. That is another curse altogether.”

  “If your intent is to frighten me, Mr. Campbell, you can rest assured,” I uttered softly. My heart was pounding with a fierceness that threatened to undo me, yet I found I could not look away from the startling eyes in so tormented a face. “You have succeeded in frightening me since day one. All I wanted tonight was to help you, you know. Why must you insist on being so horrid all the time?”

  There was a moment of silence—of contrary reflection—and in one great pained gasp he admitted: “Because I like you, Sara Stevenson; I find I like you very well and have no wish to see you end up like the others.”

  The others. I recalled the book again, and all the sketches of those poor women, dead and mutilated. I swallowed. “There may have been a time when death had its appeal for me, but I assure you, that time has passed. I have my child to think of.”

  “Aye, ye do. That is why ye need to take extra care. Cape Wrath … it is an unchancy place here. I will not attempt to explain it to you, but why is it do ye think that ever since man has lived on the Isle of Britain no one has ever dared live on this point … until your father thought to put a lighthouse here? There’s a reason for it. Unholy things dwell upon Cape Wrath.”

  “You’re mad,” I stated, and attempted to push him away, but my body was quivering uncontrollably.

  He remained steadfast. “Perhaps,” he agreed without emotion. “At times even I believe it myself. But I’m also very sane too. I came here for a reason; I chose to be here. But you,” he shook his head, “I cannot figure it out.”

  “You … you know very well why I’m here!” I protested in a somewhat stunned utterance. My hands unconsciously moved to protect the budding life within my womb.

  “Aye,” he breathed, looking all the more puzzled, scanning me from head to toe with his pale eyes. Then, abruptly, he raked his fingers through his dark hair. “Aye,” he repeated again and backed away. He went to his desk and took a mighty swig from a bottle
resting behind some books, totally ignoring the glass. “The conversation in the light-room, I meant for you to hear.” He took another pull on the bottle then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned to me. “I wanted to see how you’d react to sending men out into the breakers, risking their own lives for the sake of others. Men have died here, Miss Stevenson. Many. My reasons for taking such risks are selfish, what about yours?”

  Reasons? I thought about it. Was my willingness to help this creature driven by some general benevolence toward humankind, or was it instead only a perverse desire—a grasping attempt in case one of the sailors pulled from the breakers someday should be Thomas? I gasped suddenly, realizing it was the latter.

  “I thought so,” he said, seemingly able to read my thoughts with his pellucid eyes. “So singularly driven! Absorbed in naught but your own desires! Indeed ye are your father’s daughter. Perhaps we two creatures, cast from society, are not so different after all?”

  “No. No, you’re wrong there. I’m nothing like you,” I affirmed desperately.

  At this he smiled, though it was a smile of bitter irony. “No. Indeed not. Whereas I’m merely a harbinger o’ death, ye, lass, ye are a giver of life. I just pray that the forces that drive you are strong enough to defy the curses here.”

  “I don’t understand you, Mr. Campbell. What is it you want from me? Why do you toy with me so?”

  “Because I believe, Miss Stevenson, after observing you for the past few months, that we might be able to help each other.”

  SEVEN

  The Letter

  It was before dawn when I awoke, coaxed gently to the surface from a blissful dream of Thomas. I didn’t want to wake; the dream was so vivid and pure, so satisfying in every way, and the evanescent vision of him smiling lingered in my imagination as I came to consciousness, filling me with a resounding peace. I was aware of emitting a soft sigh as my eyes opened, staring into the darkness. And lying there, bathed in the memory of happier times, I brought my hands to my tumescent stomach under the quilts and gently caressed the restless little life within me. “Did you see him too?” I whispered, imagining that the little life we created—those many months ago—actually had. It was a busy thing, seeming to always flutter and roll whenever I was at rest. I toyed with the idea of going back to sleep, yet knowing such a dream would be impossible to recapture, and knowing that the entity in my stomach was awake, I sat up, threw on a dressing gown and left the room.