Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  ‘…This port isn’t what it used to be and I’m not what I used to be, either. I’ve decided people are using me. I won’t have it.’

  The crowd shifted.

  ‘…Samuel would never ask it, so I will…’

  People shuffled.

  ‘Show me a ship, up close. An important one. When it makes the proper acknowledgement, I’ll light it. And the rest out there too. There’s the deal. That’s all.’

  They stood together like statues. Then, Samuel stepped down, his face stricken. When he made to leave the platform, they separated, allowed him through. Hunter reached for his shoulder as he passed and clasped it briefly.

  They waited for more as the sun climbed. The lighthouse swallowed its sheltering shadow. When the bitumen flung the day’s heat up against their calves and the light bounced squint-bright from the tower’s walls, the crowd dispersed.

  #

  All through the remaining day, the swimmers and walkers, footballers and sunbathers on the town’s main beach were distracted by the drumming circle gathering beyond the sand. Hunter greeted the arrivals. Directed. Manoeuvred and arranged.

  He sat a knot of six in front of the rocky groyne which separated the crowds to the south from Belongil, the deserted beach to the north. They started a simple rhythm.

  Lubdub… lubdub… lubdub…

  As more drummers arrived, singly or together, Hunter sent the novices to fill the path running between the foreshore and the park, playground, and surf club. They settled into the beat under wide-brimmed hats.

  Badum… badum… badum…

  Hunter shepherded expert players onto Belongil’s sand, put them side by side behind the tidemark.

  Tutump… tutump… tutump…

  A stone’s throw across the water, glassy right-handers were breaking over the wreck of the SS Wollongbar. The pride of the North Coast Steam Navigation Company fleet had been torn from its Old Jetty moorings while taking on passengers in a cyclone sixty-seven years earlier. Captain James Hercules Hunter had disembarked everyone, made a run for the open ocean. A line had fouled a propeller. The Wollongbar’s exposed rudder tiller now reached for the sky. Waves crested, peaked, and barrelled around it.

  Kershussssssshhhh… said the waves.

  The day cooled into afternoon. The shoreline filled.

  Lubdub… lubdub… lubdub…

  People remarked on the quality of the playing. There were no solos or drum dialogues. No variations in volume from individuals, and no deviations from the established rhythm. The pulse the expanding circle made grew louder as more drummers arrived. It washed over the memorial pool, into the township behind. It called out Byron’s children who found smooth-topped boulders on the groyne, sat, and studied the gathered players.

  ‘They’re making a heartbeat,’ said one.

  More drummers arrived.

  The beat wafted out to Julian Rocks. It drifted over foam-laced waves to the Wollongbar, where it wrapped itself around the blackened steel protruding from the break, tickled its way beneath, and embraced the barnacled remains on the sands below.

  Hours passed before the first phosphorescence appeared as a blue-green speckle on one of the wreck’s boilers. By dusk, a glowing had spread from bow to stern, traced a fine line along what was left of the sunken ship’s hull.

  Hunter urged the drummers on.

  The sky muddied into its second consecutive, thickened dusk.

  The townsfolk searched for the flash of their absent light.

  The Pacific sent a series of fresh swells past the headland. The waters pushed at the wreck. The currents grew the gleaming green, spread the shimmering blue. The waves mixed the colours together.

  Badum… badum… badum…

  The beat rolled over the breakers.

  Kershussssssshhhh… said the waves.

  Luminescence slipped over the wreck like a glove. It probed the ruins, searched for the ship’s missing sections, and filled the space they should have occupied.

  Tides pushed and pulled.

  Slowly, the encasing glow defined the Wollongbar’s long ago decks, derricks, masts, and wheel house. It freshened the lines of the forecastle and the ship’s lost funnels. Above and below decks, all was recreated in ghostly detail — bulkheads and bulwarks shaped, propellers and mooring gear sculpted, the butter, bananas, bacon and other sundries the Wollongbar had been carrying remade, and stowed in the holds. Refrigerated air whispered around them.

  On Belongil, the tattoo on Hunter’s forearm burned. He grimaced, kneaded the anchor’s central shank with its ring and its arms and its stock. He hugged his arm to his chest, and watched the waves over the wreck brighten.

  The ship lifted slowly from the ocean floor, raised whorls of sand. It made a tilting ascent, broke the surface unevenly and all in a rush, emerged broadside to the waves. Water flooded from the decks. It heaved, pitched and rolled, sucked the sea into eddies as it struggled to find an even keel.

  Hunter gestured at the drummers around him. Keep on. He abandoned his djembe, went to the water. It lapped at his ankles. As the ship hunted for depth, he peered at the bridge, searched for a glimpse of something.

  Kershussssssshhhh… said the waves.

  There was a thrumming as the first, high-pressure steam from the boilers passed through the engines, and exhausted to the condenser. Billows trickled, then poured from the funnels — trailed over the stern as the twin propellers rotated, and gripped.

  Kershussssssshhhh… said the waves.

  The Wollongbar shuddered, and turned. Tracing a phosphorescent wake across the bay, she started along the route she had failed to find on her last run. She tracked some seven hundred metres north toward Julian Rocks. She avoided the bay’s central reefs to starboard. At the ten-metre depth line, she swung right. Hunter saw her head due east, past Clarke’s Beach and the knobbly outcrop called The Pass. He kneaded the ache in his forearm as he watched her go.

  As the ship passed Watego’s, residents around the cove called to one another.

  Come and see…

  They stood together on their verandahs.

  Look…

  They curled their arms around one another’s waists, clasped each other’s hands.

  Flashhhhhhhhhhhhh… said the lighthouse.

  It’s rose-red, short-range light glowed as the Wollongbar moved between Julian Rocks and the cape, followed the line of the coast, turned into the open ocean and tracked back along the shore. Where the sea floor fell away sharply from the cliffs, she slowed, turned her bow toward the open ocean, and stopped. Working her propellers, adjusting her rudder to match the nudging swells, she maintained her position.

  Above the waterline, she glowed moon-white. The shining she sent into the water below picked out the shapes of manta rays. They schooled around her like moths to a flame.

  #

  Samuel was standing with his hands pushed deep into his trouser pockets on the patch of grass before the keeper’s cottage. In the distance, where the town fronted the bay, the open space was flame bright.

  Torches? Candles? Campfires? He wondered what the townsfolk were doing. About the reason for the congregation. He watched the pinpricks spill slowly from the hub of whatever the occasion was. Like glittering ants, the lights trailed along the beaches either side of the groyne. Samuel squinted into the northerly wind as it combed its fingers through his hair. In the distance, the shimmering trickle continued. The shoreline glowed.

  Badum… badum… badum…

  A pulse was running with the wind. Earlier, the breeze had pushed the sound through the open window of the kitchen, where he had settled to correspond about the current outage…

  To the Commonwealth Lighthouse Service: I have kept a good light. I now take responsibility for the interruption of this station’s unbroken service record…

  The words looked up at him. He had signed the letter, and set it aside.

  To the Australian Maritime Safety Authority: …every measure was taken to ensure the rein
statement of the light at the earliest opportunity…

  He had reminded himself there was no marine traffic expected during the coming night, and that the weather was forecasted fair. Small comfort.

  To the Cape Byron Headland Reserve Trust: …we have been the brightest jewel in the necklace of lights running clear down the coast of Australia, and with the permanent demanning of the station which has been so hotly debated… he was unable to resist this last… and which has been imminent since the light was last manually extinguished in 1986,… the morning was indelibly etched in his memory… I commend the station into the care of the Trust following the cessation of my tenure, and my imminent departure from the precinct…

  His pen hovered over the page.

  The boats need their lights. But the lights don’t need their keepers.

  He pushed the thought away.

  Tutump… tutump… tutump…

  Distracted, he had looked up, set down his pen, then quit his writing to investigate. Stepping into the dark outside, he had found the throb carrying up the cliffs, moving like mist across his grass, travelling over the cottage to the lighthouse.

  Briefly, he had closed his eyes. Concentrating and listening, he was now so engrossed in the puzzling of what he was hearing that when the evening air filled with something — for an instant he imagined the sky had been torn, like thick silk — he raised his arms to protect his head.

  The lighthouse had switched on its lamp.

  The lens’ four hundred and ninety crystal prisms had caught the reinstated light, thrown it out, forward and behind. The beam’s first cut of the dark rolled from the lantern room, over the cottage and grass, then washed over Samuel from behind. He staggered a little as it passed.

  Frictionless in its float bath, the lens began to turn. The beam gathered momentum. As it settled into its characteristic signature — flashing at fifteen-second intervals — the night crisped. The constellations brightened.

  Samuel stood agape. ‘Just like that…’

  Lubdub… lubdub… lubdub…

  The pulse from the township reasserted itself.

  Samuel returned to the cottage, collected the lighthouse keys, and moments later, was unlocking the cedar door. The air inside had sweetened.

  He started up the staircase. His feet tap-tapped on the steps’ slate treads; the sound bounced cleanly between the tower’s walls. On the second level, the short-range light cast a rosy glow through the north-facing window.

  ‘There’s a ship,’ said the voice between his ears. He heard its excitement.

  ‘What ship?’

  ‘28.6114 degrees south, 153.6289 degrees east.’

  In the lantern room, Samuel snatched up the binoculars which sat with the operations manual on the motor housing, and hurried to the glass. He trained the binoculars in the direction of Julian Rocks.

  ‘There’s nothing,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a ship.’

  Samuel adjusted the focusing rings; a blue-green something appeared. The outline flashed, then fuzzed, then disappeared as the beam sped across the bay. He waited. The next pass revealed a gleaming, twin-funnelled steamship, her bow pointed east. She looked to be about ninety metres long. Perhaps two thousand gross tons. She was making around four knots.

  Tutump… tutump… tutump…

  The vessel’s hull shone in the newly freshened night, and from a distance, he could see that its phosphorescent wake formed a shimmering crescent, back to the wreck site off Belongil.

  ‘My God,’ he whispered.

  The ship approached, and brightened. Samuel watched her advance, track around the cape, turn and stop beyond the lighthouse cliffs. He lowered the binoculars, closed his eyes for a moment, and congratulated the out-of-sight captain on the bridge. There were translucent figures moving about on deck. Manta rays leaped from the surrounding waters. They flew and flipped like acrobats.

  ‘It looks like the Wollongbar,’ said Samuel.

  ‘It is the Wollongbar.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Hello?’ said the lighthouse.

  Emotion washed at Samuel. ‘Why…?’

  ‘We’ve made a ship…’

  Another silence.

  ‘…because you go tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Samuel. The air inside the tower curled, embraced him like a blanket. He shrugged it off. ‘With our perfect record undone on the last night. A fine legacy.’

  He turned. Wanting out.

  ‘Wait...’ said the lighthouse.

  Samuel paused with his hand on the banister.

  ‘Just wait… Samuel… look…’

  Samuel heard the tone, squared his shoulders, and retrieved the binoculars. He went to the window. The crew of the Wollongbar had gathered at the stern of the vessel. Their faces were pale.

  Flashhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  Flashhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  Flashhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  The lighthouse delivered three sustained flares. It compressed the dark spaces between them. It signalled the ship.

  Time slowed.

  When the Wollongbar delivered the master salute — three long blasts, two short — the sound thundered up the cliffs, filled the lantern room, resonated and reverberated through the small space. It travelled toward the horizon in one direction, rolled toward the bay and its beaches in the other.

  All along the shoreline, drummers pressed their palms to their drumheads, and sat with their fingers splayed. Their fires burned.

  On Belongil, Hunter pushed his cap to the back of his head.

  On the bridge of the Wollongbar, Captain James Hercules Hunter — Byron Bay jetty trader — did the same.

  A silence followed. The ache in Hunter’s arm settled.

  The moon made a silver orb.

  Infused with a great melancholy, Samuel leaned into the window.

  His breath fogged the glass.

  IN SEARCH OF JIMMY

  David Dolan

  Since the completion of the highway some thirty years earlier, the small seaside town seemed far off the radar. The occasional rambler meandered along the coastal cliffs, and to the north of Exit 76, an irregular flow of fans would drop in and snap pictures of the dilapidated barn once used in the terrifying climax of a mostly forgotten cult film.

  At the right time of day, the predominantly elderly population could be found wandering the crumbling cobblestone streets, passing on greetings as they went about their daily errands. Tony had distributed the posters far and wide across the hilly town.

  Missing

  Jimmy

  Our beloved dog

  Last seen outside the post office on Fielding St

  Wednesday 1st of May

  Reward offered for his return

  The picture on the poster had been taken at Tony’s tenth birthday. Small remnants of Jimmy’s slice of cake could be seen on his muzzle. Beaming eyes looked out from under dishevelled hair.

  It had been over two days since Jimmy’s disappearance, and other than a mistaken sighting from a lady near the bakery, there’d been no sign. Tony rose early on Saturday morning, knowing that without the distraction of school, he had the whole day to head out and search. As he was hurriedly gulping down his toast, the phone rang, breaking his thoughts. He rushed to the phone and picked it up, managing to squeeze out a hello before he swallowed the last mouthful.

  ‘Are you the bloke with the missing dog?’ the voice on the other end of the phone said in a tone that was harsh and unforgiving.

  ‘Yes, that’s me!’ Tony said, trying his best to lower his voice a few registers.

  ‘Well, you’d better take a look around that lighthouse. There was a dog there yesterday, just like yours, I saw him, ‘bout sunset.’

  ‘The lighthouse?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I said, buddy. The lighthouse. You’d better get over there and take a look.’

  The line went dead. Tony stood there, staring vacantly at the phone.

  ‘The lighthouse!’ Tony
whispered quietly to himself, not wishing to stir anyone in the house. He had a lot of freedom compared to the city cousins he’d sometimes visit in the summer, but the one place that remained off limits to him and most of the other children in the village was the rundown lighthouse that sat precariously on the cliff’s edge.

  The excitement of finding Jimmy left no doubt in Tony’s mind that a trip down to the lighthouse was unavoidable. He raced up the stairs to his room and grabbed his black rucksack. On his return to the kitchen, he began filling a section with a few of his favourite snacks, including some honey and syrup biscuits his mother had baked the day before. He grabbed a few pears, a couple of muesli bars, and quickly made a few peanut butter sandwiches, one of which he’d share with Jimmy when they were reunited.

  When Tony had finished packing, he picked up his water bottle and filled it to the top, then placed it in the side pocket of his bag.

  ‘Tony,’ his mother said as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Mum,’ Tony said, startled.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you.’

  ‘I am just heading out to look for Jimmy.’

  ‘I know. Have you got enough food?’

  Tony patted the bag contentedly, a big smile on his face.

  ‘If you don’t pick him up today, then your father and I will help out tomorrow. You know we have to go and visit your father’s friend from work. He’s in hospital.’

  Tony nodded.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay?’

  ‘Yeah, no problems. You know me.’

  ‘We should be back around three. I need to pick up a few things at the store on the way back. What would you like for dinner?

  ‘Fish and chips.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Where are you going to look?’

  ‘Everywhere!’

  His mother looked at him carefully. Tony fidgeted uncomfortably with his bag.

  ‘Except the lighthouse.’

  His mother smiled. ‘Good. I’m sure you’ll find him, Tony. You always do your very best. You’re going to do really well in life. I just know it!

  Tony moved swiftly toward the door. ‘Gotta go, mum!’