Lighthouses

by Trost, Cameron

  A glowing object caught my eye.

  I looked into the trees. At first, I saw nothing. Then I saw it again; a white ball of light, round as a wheel of cheese and soft as the flower head of a dandelion, bobbing and swaying in the murky depths of the woodland. The light didn’t zigzag like an insect; it wasn’t a firefly. The movements didn’t follow the up-and-down of a person’s gait; it wasn’t a villager holding a candle. A shiver seized me.

  All at once, dozens of other lights dropped from their hiding places and joined the first one. Their swirl, churn, and surge looked so beautiful, so enchanting, that I soon forgot my fear. The lights paused, came closer, slipping through the trees, shining brighter. A sensation of warmth and relaxation ran through me. For a dazzling moment, I could imagine how it might feel to rise, freshly soaped, from a bath. I closed my eyes, intoxicated. When I opened them again, I was on my feet.

  The lights were stretched out, side by side in a straight line, like a chain of beacons enticing a ship to shore, waxing and waning, each throb urging me to step forward. I began to walk.

  An agonising cramp overwhelmed me.

  My waters broke. The hot fluid soaked my woollen stockings.

  The baby!

  I abandoned the lights, the acorns, the buckets — even my shoes — and stumbled barefoot across the meadow toward the village, clutching my belly with both hands, my waters gushing from me now, the spasms doubling down and threatening to take me out at the knees.

  The house I share with Gilbert lies at the edge of the meadow. I could see him at the back wall of our house, chocking the gaps with daub. I tried to call to him. Another labour pain strangled me.

  I lost my footing, and cried out, ‘Gilbert, help.’

  He turned, somehow spotted me. Shouting to his nearest neighbours, he sprinted across the meadow. Two of our neighbours ran close behind him. Gilbert skidded, dropped to the ground, and gathered me in his arms.

  ‘Beatrice, is it time?’

  I nodded.

  With the help of one neighbour, Gilbert picked me up. The other ran to the village to get Cecily, the midwife. As my husband and neighbour carried me across the meadow to home, I looked back at the woodland. The oak and ash trees at its core lay in darkness, as if the beacons had never been.

  #

  Cecily attended the birth, as she had for my other doomed babies.

  ‘Remember the harvest,’ she kept saying, as I strained, wept and screamed.

  The storm broke, whipping our thatched roof with rain. Thunder rolled around the heavens. Lightning flashed. I could hear our animals shrieking in alarm. Gilbert would be out there with them, hushing them, stopping them from dashing madly at our fences. Hours passed, as did the storm.

  The straw mattress I share with Gilbert jumps with fleas and lice. Onto this seething crawl of life, Adam was delivered in a rush of gore. My heart seemed to stop. Then I heard Adam’s cry. But his cry was weak, a spiritless mewling, as if he felt disappointed in his surroundings, in me, at the hard-scrabble life that I had given him.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Cecily said. ‘The harvest was indeed your good omen.’

  She scrubbed at Adam’s face and body to bring the blood into him, then wrapped him in linen and put him at my breast. He looked like an angel: clear skin, blonde hair, blue eyes. The most perfect thing I had ever seen.

  ‘Be careful,’ Cecily whispered. ‘The faeries might want this one.’ She cut the cord, dealt with the afterbirth. Then she opened the curtain that separated our bedroom from the common room, and announced, ‘Gilbert, come and meet your son.’

  My husband approached. He had joy on his face, tears wetting his cheeks. When he gathered the baby and me into his arms, kissing us both, I felt him tremble.

  ‘Beatrice, our hardships lie behind us. Don’t be scared any more. Life will be kind from here on in. I promise.’

  In the common room, as Cecily washed her hands in a bucket of water, she said, ‘Hang a pair of open scissors over your son’s place on the bed.’

  Gilbert said, ‘The Lord will keep this child safe.’

  ‘Not until he’s baptised. If you won’t hang scissors, put pins in his clothes in the shape of a cross.’

  ‘Woman, I believe in the mercy and might of our Lord,’ Gilbert said. ‘And apart from Him, there is nothing in this world but dirt, sunshine, and rain.’

  ‘At least tie a red ribbon to the child’s blanket.’

  ‘It’s all right, Cecily,’ I said. ‘Gilbert will see the priest tomorrow and arrange for Adam’s baptism on Sunday.’

  ‘But today is only Tuesday,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for delivering my son,’ Gilbert said. ‘I’ll come to your house shortly with the payment: two pounds of potatoes, as we agreed.’

  Cecily nodded, went to leave, and then fixed me with a hard stare. ‘Keep the baby at your side. Don’t leave him by himself. Not even for a moment.’

  #

  Kind neighbours shared their dinner, since I hadn’t had time to make any food of our own. When dusk fell, Gilbert and I began to usher our chickens, pigs, and goat from our yard into the common room. Most of our animals are comfortable with the routine and trot into the house without complaint. Some make the round-up difficult for us. The brown hen ran me around the yard in circles, as is her habit.

  Annoyed, exhausted from giving birth just a few hours before, I put my hands on my hips and said, ‘If you like, madam, I shall leave you outside to wander off and get taken by wolves.’

  The hen stopped, regarded me with her glossy eye. And behind her, beyond the meadow, deep in the pitch-black of the woodland, I saw the lights come on. They shimmered and roiled, winking in and out of existence as they moved between the trunks. The eerie sight froze my blood.

  Gilbert came out and grabbed our recalcitrant goat by its horns, intending to drag it into the house, as he must do every single night.

  ‘Do you see that?’ I said, and pointed.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘Out there, amongst the trees.’

  He glanced up, went back to wrestling the goat. ‘Beatrice, get the brown hen. Corner her in the vegetable patch if you have to, but mind the lettuce.’

  Digging in his heels, grunting, he hauled the protesting goat across our tiny yard and through the doorway. Frightened, I turned back to the woodland.

  The lights were gone.

  Panic jolted me. Both our windows are without panes, since glass is too expensive. The bedroom window has a view of the woodland. I imagined that those mysterious lights had streamed one by one into our house, buzzing like hornets, and were now alighting on my child. Forsaking the hen, I hurried inside, pushed through the common room full of animals, and wrenched open the bedroom curtain.

  There on the mattress lay Adam, undisturbed in sleep.

  ‘The hen,’ Gilbert said. ‘I need to block the door before the goat escapes.’

  ‘I’ll get her straightaway.’

  But as I flapped aside the curtain at our door, the hen ran between my feet and into the house, as if spooked by something in the dark.

  ‘The wolves must be out already,’ Gilbert said, as he slotted the first of the boards into place across the doorway. ‘Are you cold? I’ll stoke the fire.’

  I shoved through our menagerie back to the bedroom. Despite the noisy grunting, cackling, and farting of our creatures, Adam still slept. I placed a hand on his chest to feel the rhythm of his heart, his body heat, the rise and fall of his ribs with every breath.

  If only he would suckle.

  In the morning, I’d seek out Cecily, the oldest and wisest person in the village.

  #

  As it happened, Cecily sought me out instead.

  With Adam swaddled and tied to my back, I went the following morning to the edge of the woodland to retrieve my shoes and fill my two abandoned buckets with acorns. Meanwhile, I sang lullabies. Adam lay pressed against me, warm as a fresh loaf of bread, a comfort I had thought that I would never experience.<
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  After gathering the acorns, I checked my traps and found one squirrel. Its meat would add to tonight’s pottage. Yet I still had to repay my neighbours for feeding us the night before, so I took out my sharpened stick to fossick for hedgehogs. Lord Ralf would cut off both your hands in revenge for killing a single one of his boar, deer or hare, but he has no use for squirrels and hedgehogs, and allows us to take as many as we want to pad out our stews.

  I moved through the meadow, listening for the tell-tale snuffling. Someone called my name. I turned. Cecily approached.

  ‘How is Adam?’ she said. ‘Has he taken to the nipple?’

  ‘No. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.’

  ‘It’s not you who is wrong. Sit with me a while.’

  Together, we kneeled down in the grass.

  ‘Sixteen years ago,’ Cecily finally said, ‘before my arthritis took hold, I was midwife to this whole district. I travelled to your village and brought you into this world with my own hands. I had to cut you from the body of your dead mother. You weren’t breathing. That first breath, I gave to you myself. I think of you as my own.’

  My tears rose. I reached out, but Cecily shook me off.

  She said, ‘This summer, you and Gilbert built your new house. It overlooks the woodland, as does mine. Have you seen the lights in the trees?’

  When I couldn’t find my voice, she continued, ‘You weren’t born into this village, you don’t know the old tales. It’s the faerie folk. Each light is a twist of straw, set on fire like a torch. With these corpse-candles, the faeries try to lure a person into the woodland, to drown them in the bog or make them lose their way and starve to death.’

  I flushed, remembering how the lights had mesmerised me. ‘Have no fear. I’ll not go into the woodland.’

  ‘This is about Adam. I must warn you, since Gilbert won’t.’ She leaned closer, so close that I could see the thready veins in her eyes. ‘Once every seven years,’ she said, ‘the faerie folk owe a tithe to Hell of one faerie child. Instead, they steal a human child for the sacrifice. They replace the human child with a changeling.’

  ‘A changeling?’

  ‘A figurine of dirt and twigs, spell-cast to look and act like a baby. Yet the magic isn’t perfect. The changeling appears sickly, feeble. That’s how you can tell.’ She gripped my arm. ‘The lights in the trees are signalling for Adam.’

  A chill settled over me. ‘Adam is not the only newborn in the village.’

  ‘He is the only male with fair hair, exactly the kind they favour most. Beatrice, make no mistake. The faerie folk want your son.’

  #

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I gazed at Adam, lying as boneless on the mattress as a wet rag, until my eyes felt raw. Another baby destined for Hell? I could hardly stand to think of it. My stillborn children were burning in the eternal fires of damnation because they had died before they could be baptised. Although William, Alice and Joan (as I had secretly named them) hadn’t committed any sins of their own, they were condemned by Original Sin. No amount of praying or payments to the Church could ever help them. This is my torment without end.

  Dawn came at last.

  As Gilbert yawned and stretched awake, I told him of Cecily’s warning.

  ‘Don’t believe a word of it,’ Gilbert said. ‘Never once has the priest spoken of faeries. If the creatures are not in the Bible, they don’t exist.’

  ‘The Bible doesn’t mention squirrels. Nevertheless, we ate squirrel meat last night. I added it to the pot myself.’

  Gilbert waved a dismissive hand. ‘You’re too easily led. Attend to the baby. Make sure that he feeds.’

  Then Gilbert got up, unsecured the door, and followed the animals outside. I stayed in bed. I heard his long stream of piss spatter and pound across the garden bed. Today, Gilbert would leave with eight other farmers to visit a distant town. Thanks to this year’s bumper harvest, our village could finally afford an ox. It was good news, something to celebrate. But as I watched Gilbert come back inside and shove his spare tunic, sheepskin cloak, and mittens into a bag, my lungs began to cramp into airless tangles.

  ‘Don’t go,’ I said.

  He turned to me, surprised. ‘This trip has been long in the planning.’

  I didn’t answer. Sighing, he sat down on the mattress, stroked my hair.

  ‘Beatrice, there’s nothing to fear. I’m your husband. Believe me instead of the old midwife. Now, put her nonsense from your mind.’

  I nodded, tried to smile. He would be gone until Saturday, the day before Adam’s baptism. Gilbert leaned down to kiss me. I clung to him. Eventually, he had to take hold of my wrists in order to free himself.

  #

  Gilbert left after breakfast.

  I did my chores with Adam strapped to my back. I stopped every now and then to offer him my breast, which he refused. When it came time to chop firewood, I untied the swaddling and placed Adam on the ground, far enough away to be safe from any flying chips. I brought the axe down on the logs, again and again, stacking the pieces inside the kindling box. Each whack of the axe made a loud noise. Adam didn’t startle. Not even once.

  Warily, I put down the axe and approached. Clicking my fingers and clapping my hands at his face, I circled him a number of times. No reaction. He stared without interest at the sky. I dropped to my haunches and picked him up. He flopped, soft as a woollen blanket, making me fear that he was dead.

  Yet he still breathed.

  I raced him to Cecily’s house. She was tending to her vegetable patch. When she saw me, she ushered me inside. She invited me to sit, poured me ale. I gulped it.

  Pursing her lips, she said, ‘Let me inspect the child.’

  With trembling fingers, I kissed Adam before passing him over.

  She took him to the mattress and sat down. Arranging him on her lap, she lifted each of his limbs and dropped them, encountering no resistance. Tut-tutting, she massaged his muscles experimentally. Then she put the tip of her little finger into his slack mouth and waited. During this investigation, I felt ill, crazed. Cecily stood up and offered Adam to me. I took him. He sagged in my arms, warm and grizzling.

  She said, ‘You left him alone.’

  ‘For a few minutes on the day of his birth; we had to bring in the animals.’

  ‘You left Adam? When the faerie folk were lighting their corpse-candles?’

  ‘Yes, I left him.’ I broke into tears. ‘I’ve doomed him to Hell, like the others.’

  ‘No, it’s not too late.’ She gripped my shoulder. ‘This is what you must do — leave the changeling to sleep tonight on the manure pile. This will break the spell.’

  ‘But our manure pile is outside. What about the wolves?’

  Cecily shrugged. ‘What kind of wolf eats a figurine made of twigs and dirt?’

  ‘Wait. Let me think. I should discuss this first with Gilbert.’

  ‘By the time Gilbert comes back with the ox, your real son will be in Hell.’

  #

  One of the neighbours helped me to bring the goat inside that night. I chased in the other animals. Fixing the boards across our doorway, I felt torn, undecided. The woodland lay in darkness. Adam still hadn’t fed. As the night deepened, I stoked the fire against the chill. Gradually, the noises of the village settled down until nothing stirred. At the very edge of my hearing, I detected the distant howl of a wolf.

  I lifted one of the boards from the door, and then picked up Adam — no, I picked up the changeling — and took him outside. Staying close to the house, I crept to the manure pile. From the light cast by the half-moon, I could see the steam rising from the shit. I kissed Adam — no, the changeling — because I couldn’t help myself. Then I placed him on the manure.

  But I couldn’t leave him.

  Instead, I sat near to him, keeping in both hands my sharpened stick for hunting hedgehogs, in case of wolves. At some point, I must have fallen asleep.

  At the first cockerel call, as a false dawn strea
ked the sky, I jerked awake. Before any neighbours came out, I hurried inside with Adam.

  I kissed his little face, over and over.

  He was as limp as before. My nipples, dripping with milk, still repulsed him.

  #

  Cecily told me to burn a cupful of thorns on a faerie mound. She told me of a faerie mound a few miles north, which turned out to be a hillock about the size of a barn. I burned the thorns. It was a long walk home. In his swaddling, the changeling lay motionless against my back. Perhaps I hadn’t gathered enough thorns.

  On my return, Cecily told me to brew ale inside an eggshell. The changeling, curious, would ask what I was doing, which would break the spell. I brewed the ale but I must have done it wrong. Gilbert makes the ale, not me.

  #

  That night, Friday, I sat within my boarded-up house amongst my animals, and stared out the window at the lights as they moved through the woodland. The faerie folk already had Adam. What more did they want? I held the changeling at my breast, but for nothing. He appeared gaunt, husked, as if the life were draining from him. But he had Gilbert’s nose, the little cleft in his chin just like mine, the blonde hair of my dead mother. He looked every bit like my own baby.

  When it came, the decision came easily. If I couldn’t save Adam, I’d throw myself in the river. Gilbert would find himself another wife, one who could provide him with strong, healthy children.

  I kissed Adam — no, the changeling — placed him on the mattress, and drew a long piece of timber from the fireplace. I went outside, holding the burning stick aloft like a torch. Walking toward the woodland, my pain turned to anger, and then flared into a kind of furious madness. I broke into a run across the meadow.