Into the Light- Lost in Translation

by Michael White

  On the next pass of the light Paul knew where to look and so he noticed that strangely, the ship resembled some form of what he thought of as a Cutter. Or was it a clipper? He could not seem to recall. Billowing sails were unfurled about what looked like two tall masts. As he watched the vessel seemed to almost take note of the position of the lighthouse and adjust its course accordingly. There was a gap and another beam from the lighthouse broke across the decks of the ship. Paul was not sure but he thought that just perhaps he saw several figures moving across the deck as the vessel loomed nearer.

  Paul knew he would never be noticed by the crew from where he was standing, and he also knew that it was imperative that he make contact with someone; anyone in fact who could show him the way home. Quickly he rushed to the inside of the light room which was now bathed in the light from the jewel above. He remembered the stairs leading down and so raced to where they were and began to quickly descend them.

  The stairs tightly spiralled downwards as they descended the lighthouse. To add to his discomfort, he could never see more than the nearest stretch of wall before him. As he descended further the darkness caught up with him and he was forced to follow the line of the wall, slowing down to feel the edge of the next step before moving on to the next one. He was getting dizzy as he descended the tower and he did so for what seemed like an age before from somewhere below a red flickering of light began to dance upon the stairwell walls. After another few minute’s descent he suddenly crossed the last step and found himself in a large circular room which was lit by a huge lit fire on the south wall. The room was completely devoid of any type of furniture whatsoever, the large log fire being the only feature of the round empty space. Stacked neatly in front of it were large piles of stacked wooden stakes and logs, obviously placed there to keep the fire lit.

  Paul pushed his hair out of his eyes and stood breathing heavily in the centre of the room. There would be little time he knew to catch the attention of the ship, and the distance from the cliffs upon which the lighthouse sat and the beach seemed to be no light journey in daylight, never mind the darkness He gazed at the wooden stakes stacked in front of the fire once again and formulated a plan.

  Rushing across the room he pulled a piece of wood from the nearest pile. It was about the size of his arm and seemed dry enough. He poked it into the flames for a few seconds and then withdrew it, seeing that now it was burning with a bright light. With a loud whoop he turned on his heels and ran back up the stairs and then into the light room at the top of the lighthouse and finally out onto the parapet. Already it was noticeably darker outside than it had been just a few minutes before. He crossed to the part of the walkway that was nearest the sea and saw with dismay that ship was definitely a little further out from the land, negotiating the tall dark cliffs below with the help of the beams coming from the tower.

  Slowly he waved the stake from side to side, calling out as loud as he could for assistance. Faster and faster he waved the stake, flame following its passage through the dark night, but the boat below seemed to pay no attention at all and continued on its way, slowly but slowly moving away from the headland upon which the beams oscillating from the lighthouse fell. Paul carried on waving the light wooden stake, his waving becoming even more frantic minute by minute, but still the ship continued to move away.

  Slowly he stopped waving the torch, the flames flickering at the end of the stake and cursed loudly. Now he was at a complete loss. Without contact from the crew there did not seem to be anyone else about at all. Wearily he gave one last glance at the still unfamiliar stars above and made his way back into the light room, tossing the stake away from him against the wall in anger before finally kicking at one of the barrels that lined the wall.

  “Ouch!” he shouted, lifting and holding his foot that even the walking boots he wore had failed to protect. “Bloody boat!” he shouted and leaned up against the nearest barrel, trying to make a decision about what to do next. No doubt the craft was already heading out of sight and all of his efforts to catch its attention had served no purpose at all.

  Almost in a fit of temper he settled down onto the floor, his back against a barrel to contemplate his next move. He could make his way to the beach as quickly as he could, he supposed, or surely somebody has to be around to keep the fire burning at the base of the tower downstairs? Now that night was falling then surely they would return soon? Yet he also considered that the fire was enormous and would probably require little if any attention to keep burning at all.

  So what was its purpose? The room was completely unfurnished; no food, no drink. Surely someone would arrive at some point to attend the fire? What also about the powder that seemed to burn to illuminate the crystal held by the lighthouse? Surely that would require some form of maintenance? There did however seem to be enough of the strange powder stored in the barrels that surrounded the light room. Paul wondered who looked after them and when would they return? Paul judged by how well banked the fire was that perhaps that could be quite some time. He would probably die of starvation or thirst before they arrived. He sighed even louder and leaned his head backwards, instantly regretting looking at the blazing crystal before him, and so he looked back down at the floorboards, running through his options. He was lost in thought for several minutes as he ran through the day's events in his mind and as he did so his attention began to wander.

  He was rudely interrupted however by a slight fizzing noise that seemed to be rising in volume with every second, and as he raised his head to look in the direction from which it was coming he also noticed a bright blue glow slowly rising in intensity on the far side of the light room.

  More or less exactly where in anger he had thrown the still lit torch.

  Beginning to panic now he recalled when he had first examined the odd powder and when he dropped it how it had sparked upon hitting the floor. Slowly he turned his head up to the blazing light above him being emitted by the large crystal and then gazed almost in horror at the small groove filled with the fizzing powder that ran around the circular tower itself.

  Lurching to his feet and racing towards the fizzing sound he cursed himself for casting the burning torch aside in anger. He approached the glare of light that was increasing rapidly in intensity and saw the guttering torch lying discarded on the ground, the flames licking almost as if mocking him against the large wooden barrel that was now being slowly engulfed in flames. He rushed to the stake and picked it up, but as he moved the flame away from the barrel he realised that it was already too late, for the wooden staves of the barrel were alight, and the barrel itself seemed to be vibrating, almost as if trembling. The fizzing sound increased in intensity and Paul saw the barrel next to the lit one starting to shake too. Then the one next to that as well.

  “Oh No!” Paul screamed as the fizzing sound increased in volume, and he raced away from the barrels, heading for the stairs, dropping the torch in his hand as he did so. Yet as he neared the steps that led downwards he saw that it was too late. Already the entire wall of barrels was beginning to shake and rattle! The blue light behind him suddenly erupted, pushing him out onto the parapet. He tried to make his way back inside the doorway that led back into the lighthouse, but a ball of blue light seemed to be growing in intensity from within the room.

  He had no time even to scream as the night erupted in blue flame, a deafening roar erupting around him. He felt as if he was being flung through the air, and then a sensation of falling down, blue flames licking all around him as he plummeted downwards. There then came a loud crashing and creaking sound and he lay still.

  Every part of him aching and deafened and blinded by the explosion Paul sighed once again and passed out.

  “Just taking a bit of time to put me feet up as they say.” said a voice from the past in his head, and the darkness took him.

  Chapter Three

  Playing with Fire

  “Just taking a bit of time to put me feet up as they say.” said the red haired woman sitti
ng at the canteen table as Paul stood smiling at her.

  “What are you doing, Paul?” his workmates had asked him as he had stood up from the table where they were discussing some football match or another and begun to make his way towards where the impossible woman was sitting. She would not be impossible until much later of course, but he did not know that yet.

  “Well she’s sitting on her own. Just making her feel welcome.” he had said, and left them to their goal averages and champions league chances.

  He actually did not know what he was doing really. He certainly wasn’t the chatting up women type; besides she was much younger than him, though definitely pretty, sitting there in her yellow dress, long red hair flowing down over her shoulders and staring off into space as if the rest of the room did not actually exist at all.

  “Yellow dress.” he mumbled under his breath as he moved towards the table at which she sat alone. He vaguely remembered it being green when she had first nonchalantly crossed the room, but yellow it definitely was now. Must have been a trick of the light. Or perhaps he had not been paying full attention, which he definitely doubted. As he neared her table she looked up at him and Paul began to realise just how attractive the woman actually was.

  “You not eating then?” he heard himself say, instantly inwardly cringing at the words as he heard himself saying them. She shook her head in answer to the question and smiled broadly. It was a great smile.

  “Just taking a bit of time to put me feet up as they say.” said the woman, holding him with her bright green eyes. The Irish lilt to her voice was slight yet distinct, as if she was not talking at all, but singing almost.

  “May I?” asked Paul, indicating the chair and the woman indicated for him to sit down,

  “I am Paul.” he said and the woman held out her hand and they shook briefly.

  “Are you new here?” asked Paul and the woman smiled as Paul registered yet again the cringe worthy awfulness of absolutely everything he had said to her so far.

  “Passing through.” she said, smiling again, her eyes never leaving him, “Though I am quite familiar with the place as it were.” She tapped her nose conspiratorially, “Lots of doors though. I never know quite where I am going to end up minute by minute. I found myself going into a broom cupboard this morning.” Paul laughed and relaxed a little.

  ‘The food is not brilliant.” he said, “Though they do a nice cheese and onion sandwich.”

  “Well now.” said the woman, wrinkling her nose, “What would that be then?

  “What? A cheese and onion sandwich?” asked Paul wondering if he had misunderstood the question.

  “Yes.” Paul thought that he was having his leg pulled, though judging by the confused look on the woman’s face he decided to play along with her just in case.

  “Two pieces of bread and butter with grated cheese and onion in between.” he said, smiling.

  “Well now.” said the woman. “Now there’s a thing. What will they think of next?”

  “You want one?” said Paul, reaching into his pocket for money and making as if to stand.

  “Well you’ve done a good job of convincing me.” she smiled, and Paul nodded, making his way to the counter and watching her from the corner of his eye as he ordered and paid for the sandwich. She did seem to be watching him, he thought, and was unsure of quite what to make of her. Having collected the food, he made his way back to the table and placed the sandwich in front of her.

  “Aoife.” she said, lifting half of the sandwich and examining it closely, her eyes full of what Paul thought looked almost like wonder.

  “Sorry?”

  “Aoife.” she said and bit a large chunk out of the sandwich, chewing it furiously, “It’s me name.” she finished, talking through a mouth full of cheese, onion and bread.

  “Nice name.” cringed Paul, “Irish I think.”

  “Nah. It’s me own.” she said, chewing the food, “Though I think there’s not that many of us around, that’s for sure.” she paused slightly, staring off into space for a second before turning her full attention back on him again. Paul felt at that second that he knew exactly how a mouse would feel the minute an owl caught its eye. “Only one of me though.” she finished and scoffed the remaining sandwich at a speed that made Paul a little uneasy. She wiped her hands together to get rid of the crumbs and sat back in her chair.

  “That was very nice.” she said. “Most unusual use of an onion I’ve ever seen and that’s not a word of a lie. Beats even the one thrown at the Groblette King that managed to blind two of his three eyes.”

  Paul erupted with laughter and the woman followed him.

  “What?” he exclaimed. She wasn’t making a lot of sense. She laughed loudly too.

  “Sounds weird.” said Paul.

  “Ah you’re quite right.” she smiled quickly, “I was getting a bit carried away there.”

  “I think so.” laughed Paul, not quite sure where the conversation was headed at all,

  “Aye.” she smiled, casting an eye about the room before turning her attention to Paul again, “Groblettes have only two eyes of course.”

  “Of course.” murmured Paul.

  “Pity they have got out of the habit of using them.” she muttered darkly under her breath.

  “Indeed.” said Paul, not entirely sure what she was talking about in any way whatsoever.

  “So you are working here now?” he asked politely.

  “Working?” she repeated and the quizzical look was there again. Paul decided to change tack.

  “It is the first time I have seen you.” he smiled, and in order to maintain the level of cheesiness he was so far effortlessly maintaining, added, “I am sure I would have noticed if I had seen you before.”

  Aoife smiled and made to stand up.

  “Nice to meet you, Paul.” she said and they shook hands again. “I have to run along now. Thank you for the cheese and onion sandwich. It really was a thing to try and there’s no mistaking that.”

  “My pleasure.” he said, returning her smile. “See you again soon I hope.” To Paul’s surprise she winked at him.

  “I’m sure there’s no doubt about that.” she smiled and walked from the room, her long red dress trailing out behind her as she went. She reached the doorway and with a wave she was gone.

  Paul sat there looking at the space that mere moments before she had filled and then smiled at the sight of the now empty plate, the cling film discarded neatly on the side. There did not seem to be a single crumb of bread or cheese remaining at all. He almost smiled then, but standing up he returned to where he had been sitting before to continue ignoring the talk of football.

  “Long red dress…” he thought to himself, and attempted to cast his mind back to whether the dress had actually been red all along, but to no avail, the actual colour of Aoife’s dress seeming almost to evade him being able to concentrate on it, if that was possible or indeed important.

  ***

  Over the course of the next few working days Aoife became a regular fixture of his lunchtime break to the extent that he started not sitting with his work colleagues at all, simply waiting for her to arrive, which she seemed to do at different intervals of his lunch break every day. They talked about the weather, the food (always a cheese sandwich. She never varied on that), discussed everything really except about themselves, and although Paul was by now determined to find out more about her he never actually found himself at the same time to be able to ask her. In some respects, she was aloof and one night on the drive home from work Paul reflected upon what precisely it was that was happening.

  Strangely, despite her incredibly good looks he was startled to realise that he felt no romantic intentions towards her whatsoever. It was as if she were aloof of such an idea, or perhaps completely unaware of them. Paul felt that it was if she had a sense of almost amusement about her, as if she were playing some strange sort of game that only she knew the rules to. He almost found himself feeling like a rabbit caught in t
he headlights of a particularly fast car when he was talking to her, though he could never figure out exactly why, for she was never anything less than completely charming and generally good fun to be with.

  Yet somehow she exuded a sense of importance, or more accurately a sense of some form of knowing that he was not privy too.

  “Now it’s a well-known fact that your average rabbit loves a bit of onion and that’s a fact.” she had said one day. wiping the last crumbs of the cheese and onion sandwich from around her mouth, the soft Irish lilt in her voice making her sound as if she were singing as per usual.

  “Is that right?” Paul had smiled and she had nodded vigorously.

  “Sure it is.” she said, “and if you don’t think I am telling the truth then perhaps you should ask one yourself.”

  Paul laughed. “Ask a rabbit?”

  “So you should.” she smiled. “If you can get a word in edgeways of course.” she smiled and leaned in closer conspiratorially. She smelled of flowers and a warm Summer breeze, Paul suddenly thought.

  “Though they do tend to chatter on an awful lot about sex if you ask me.” she paused as if trying to remember something, “Oh, and carrots too. Always banging on about bloody carrots when they are not banging on about banging.”

  Paul laughed aloud and she joined in too.

  “I must be off.” she smiled, and said as she always did, “Things to do. People to see.” He felt inwardly a pang of sadness as he always did when she went, and he had still not as of yet quite managed to get the hang of what the colour of her dress was on any particular day. It seemed to change! He had also seen by now but never mentioned her apparent love of rings. Each finger had a different coloured ring on it, and though he was always fascinated by them he never found himself able to mention them. They seemed to be trapped in conversations of the trivial, or in some cases the bizarre, the rabbits liking onions being a perfect example of some of the stranger things that she seemed to wander into talking about.