Gifts from the Sea

by Natalie Kinsey-Warnock

  “Oh, no, Mr. Callahan,” I said. “Please stay. I'll have supper ready soon, and I'm even going to make pie, though it won't be up to my mother's standards. I'm afraid I'm not the cook or the housekeeper she was.”

  Mr. Callahan looked down at Celia.

  “Well, you're doing a fine job with that baby,” he said. “She seems healthy enough.”

  I didn't tell him how thoughts came swirling into my head now and then, like waves around Devils Rock, of how much simpler my life would be if I hadn't seen that bundle of mattresses floating in the water. For certain, Abby Burgess would never have such horrible thoughts.

  Mr. Callahan and Papa climbed the tower to check the light while I finished making supper. My gravy was lumpy, the carrots overcooked, and the piecrust soggy, but Mr. Callahan was a good sport and cleaned his plate.

  Instead of stories, he and Papa talked politics, then went on to discuss lighthouse engineering, the merits of various lamp oils, and lens construction. I found such talk exceedingly dull and longed to get my nose in one of the books Mr. Callahan had brought. In my rush to get supper on the table, I'd only had time to peek at the titles: Moby-Dick and Uncle Tom's Cabin. Mama and I'd never had enough books. She'd told me she'd take me to a library someday. A library was what I imagined heaven to be, rooms and rooms of books, enough to read through eternity. I wondered if Abby Burgess longed for books as much as I did. When I finished with the books Mr. Callahan had brought, maybe I'd send them on to Abby, and she could pass them on later to someone else. We could start a traveling library for lighthouse families.

  Mr. Callahan's voice broke through my thoughts.

  “What were you saying about a lighthouse library?” he asked. He and Papa were staring at me.

  I hadn't known I was talking aloud and felt my face grow hot.

  “I … I was just thinking there ought to be books available to the lighthouse families. Why couldn't a box be delivered to each lighthouse, and then when you visited, we'd trade our box with another lighthouse?”

  Before the words were even out of my mouth, I wanted to snatch them back. My idea sounded foolish and childish. Why couldn't a wave appear right now and carry me out to sea?

  Mr. Callahan cleared his throat and looked at Papa.

  “Your girl's got brains,” he said.

  Pain slid across Papa's face.

  “She got those from her mother,” he said.

  lways before, Mr. Callahan had spent the night at Devils Rock, but this night he decided to go on to Matinicus Light. Had he stayed, Celia's near-disaster would never have happened.

  Papa lit the lamps and settled in his chair to patch his boots. I washed the dishes quickly, figuring I'd put Celia to bed and begin one of the new books Mr. Callahan had brought, but Celia had other plans. She wasn't the least bit sleepy. The only way I could get her to sit still was to tell her favorite story.

  There once was a fisherman who found he could make more money selling sealskins than fish, so he crept amongst the rocks and killed the seals while they were sleeping. He had great piles of sealskins in his house, and people came from far and wide to buy them.

  One evening, a stranger rode in on a dark horse with a grey mane and tail. The stranger called out to the fisherman, “My master wishes to do business with you and asks that you come with me,” so the fisherman climbed up behind the stranger and they galloped across the moors until they came to a cliff overlooking the sea. The horse never slowed, but leaped off the cliff, and they fell down, down, into the sea. At first all was darkness, but as they fell, the fisherman noticed a green light that got brighter and brighter until he found himself in a kingdom of sea-mountains and sea-forests. Seals were swimming all about, and when the fisherman looked down, he saw that he had been turned into a seal himself. The fisherman could hear the seals' voices but they spoke in a language he did not know.

  The stranger, who was now a seal himself, led him into a sea-foam palace, and on a bed lay an old grey seal, moaning with pain. Next to him lay a bloody knife, and the fisherman was filled with fear when he saw it. It was his knife, and just that morning he had used it to stab a seal, but the seal had plunged into the sea, carrying the knife in its back.

  The fisherman fell on his knees, begging for mercy.

  “This seal is my father,” the stranger said. “Only you can save him. Put your hand on the wound.”

  The fisherman did as the stranger ordered, and the wound healed at once.

  “You may return to your home,” the stranger said, “but you must promise never again to hunt seals. Go back to fishing, and our seal-folk will make sure that you catch many fish.”

  The stranger led the fisherman back to dry land, where he turned into a man again.

  “Remember your promise,” the stranger said, and disappeared beneath the waves.

  The fisherman kept his promise. He went back to fishing and his nets were full every time he pulled them in, so his wife and children never wanted for anything, and he told his children and grandchildren about the kingdom of seals so that none of them would ever harm a seal.

  Celia was asleep in my lap. I laid her in her cradle and was reaching for Moby-Dick when we heard a loud Bang! and the sound of glass breaking. Papa leaped up, upsetting his chair. He yanked on his boots and bounded up the winding staircase to the tower, me close behind him.

  A lighthouse keeper has to be ready to handle any emergency, whether it be storms or shipwrecks, or broken equipment, but I daresay even Papa was surprised at what he saw.

  He opened the door to the lantern room and stopped so suddenly I bumped into him. I craned my neck, trying to look around him, but he stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken glass. A large bird staggered across the floor, dragging a wing through the glass. Had I not studied Mama's Audubon book so thoroughly, I wouldn't have known it was a razorbill, for they were not a common sight along our coast.

  Bang! I jumped and covered my head as more glass came cascading down around me, and another razorbill dropped at my feet. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bodies fell around me, piling up on the floor. I heard the whir of wings as more birds flew into the lantern room. Then they were caught, frantically beating against the windows from the inside. Their beaks clattered like stones against the glass. Papa climbed a ladder and, with a broom, was able to shoo them out through the broken panes.

  Most of the birds at my feet had died on impact. Three were so badly injured that Papa knew they could not recover, and he quickly wrung their necks so they wouldn't suffer anymore. The remaining bird stood by itself, blood dripping from its breast. It stared at me, dark brown eyes unblinking. Papa reached for it and I couldn't bear to think of its neck twisting in his hands.

  “Please don't kill it, Papa,” I begged.

  “I wasn't going to,” Papa said. “I don't think it's badly hurt—no broken wings or legs, just a cut, and I think I can fix that.”

  Papa threaded a needle. I wrapped a towel around the bird and held it while Papa stitched up the ragged cut. It must have hurt terribly, but the bird never struggled or tried to bite, just stared at us. I hoped it knew we were trying to help it.

  “Why'd they fly into the tower?” I asked. Papa shrugged.

  “They may have been attracted to the light, or they may have gotten disoriented somehow. Luckily, they didn't knock out the light, but I'll have to see what the damage is.”

  While he climbed the ladder to check out the lens, I made up a box with a blanket in it and set the razorbill in its new bed. I got some fish from the kitchen, but the bird refused to eat, so I left the fish in the box.

  The birds had shattered several of the prisms in the huge reflector. At daybreak, Papa replaced the glass panes in the lantern room windows, but new prisms were a different matter.

  “I'll have to go to the mainland for those,” Papa said, and I wondered why he sounded so worried until I realized he'd have to leave me alone. Only once had he left me alone, when he'd brought back the goat so Celia would have milk. Before tha
t, whenever he'd gone for supplies, Mama had been here to tend to me and the light.

  “You're too young,” Papa said. “What if a storm comes up while I'm away?”

  “Doesn't feel like a storm's brewing,” I said. “Besides, Abby Burgess took care of her lighthouse for four weeks.”

  “Abby was seventeen at the time, and a very responsible girl.”

  His words stung.

  “You don't think I'm responsible?”

  Papa winced. “I didn't mean that,” he said. “Of course you're responsible. I couldn't care for Celia without you. I only meant that you're still very young to be taking care of a light.”

  “I'll be fine, Papa,” I said. My words did not reassure him, I could tell, but he was even more worried about the condition of the light. Devils Rock Lighthouse was his responsibility and it needed to be repaired before the next spate of bad weather hit.

  “If I hurry, I ought to be able to get over there and back with no trouble,” he said. He walked down to the boat and with misgivings in his heart and mind, he rowed away.

  I wasn't really alone—I had Celia, and the razor-bill, to keep me company—but I felt giddy with the sense of freedom. I almost wished a storm would blow up and strand Papa on the mainland. I'd keep the light burning no matter how long Papa was away, and Mr. Callahan would tell my story up and down the coast and parents would use me as an example to their children.

  “Now, that Aquila MacKinnon, she was a brave girl,” they'd say. “She tended a light and a baby at the same time! Even Abby Burgess didn't have a baby to contend with!”

  Celia's howls jarred me from my daydreams, but once I'd fed and changed her, she was her happy self again. She'd begun crawling and I had to watch her every second. Caring for Celia made me appreciate all the work Mama had had in raising me, for she'd said I was an adventurous, willful child with a mind of my own.

  It was a rare day on Devils Rock, sunny and mild with just a hint of a wind. I left the door open to bring in fresh air while I worked. I surveyed the kitchen, looking at what needed to be done, the same chores that needed to be done every morning, and a voice inside said, “No, not today.” And I knew I wasn't going to waste my day of freedom washing dirty dishes and diapers.

  I looked out to where the sea joined the sky, and saw a boat in the distance. I watched it come closer, studying the movement of the oars, how the boat plowed through the water, and knew it was Mr. Richardson, a fisherman from the mainland. The way a fisherman handles his boat is as distinctive as his voice, and I always knew who was fishing off our light long before I could make out their faces.

  “Hi there, lass,” Mr. Richardson called out as he came close enough to be heard. “'Tis a bonny day, is it not?”

  Tears stung my eyes, for bonny was a Scottish word Mama had often used to describe a beautiful day on Devils Rock. I could only nod.

  I liked Mr. Richardson; he seemed more like a grandfather to me, especially as I'd never known my real grandfathers. But he had a large red nose, doubtless made larger and redder by years of being frostbitten while at sea, and as he looked up at me, I remembered Mama's word for such a nose as Mr. Richardson had—“reefart-nosed,” which meant having a nose like a radish—and a giggle started somewhere down in my middle. I tried to suppress it, for I couldn't be so rude as to be laughing at dear Mr. Richardson, but it fought its way upward and exploded out of my mouth. Poor Mr. Richardson began laughing, too, not knowing I was laughing at his expense.

  “Oh, it's good to see you laughing,” Mr. Richardson said. “We were grieved to hear of your dear mother's passing.” At mention of Mama, his nose didn't seem funny anymore.

  “My wife has been wanting me to bring you over for a visit,” Mr. Richardson said. “It's such a bonny day, and I haven't had much luck with the fishing. Might you ask your father if he'd allow you to go today? I'll bring you back before nightfall.”

  My heart and legs leaped at his offer. I'm ashamed to admit my first thoughts weren't about the light, how I was in charge and couldn't leave the light unattended. What I was thinking about was going to the mainland for the first time in my life, seeing streets and shops, riding in a carriage pulled by a high-stepping horse, seeing trees and gardens, and walking in a place where you didn't have to worry every step about falling off a cliff. It would be a day I would never forget. Then I remembered Celia.

  “I can't,” I said, the words like broken glass in my mouth. “I wish I could, but I can't.” I didn't dare tell him Papa was away, for Mr. Richardson, dear soul that he was, would have felt obligated to stay until Papa returned. How would that convince Papa that I was capable of staying alone?

  Mr. Richardson didn't ask for a reason, just nodded sadly and pulled away. I wanted to leap into the water after him, climb into his boat and sail away and never have to think of Celia again. I'd given up everything I loved, these last few months, to take care of her, and she was too young to even appreciate it.

  Celia was the last thing I wanted to see right then, so I decided to check on the razorbill instead. I found the fish lying untouched in the bottom of the box.

  “You have to eat,” I said. I held the fish up to his beak, but the bird only stared at me, unmoving, unblinking. He might not be strong enough to fish on his own, but if he didn't eat what I offered, he'd die of starvation anyway. I decided to return him to the sea.

  I carried the razorbill down the steep steps and set him on the water. He floated there, riding the waves, then curved his neck and dove under the surface in one smooth, liquid motion. I stared after him, wondering what it would be like to be a wild creature, to be able to swim or fly away wherever you wanted, whenever you wanted, to not have a care in the world, and to not have to worry about the ones you were leaving behind.

  I sighed and decided I'd read one of the books Mr. Callahan had brought. My favorite place to read was outside, with my back tucked up against the tower where the sun had warmed the stone. I tiptoed inside to grab a book and peeked into the cradle. Panic blossomed like a rose in my chest. The cradle was empty.

  “Celia?” I whirled, scanning the room. She couldn't have gone far. She wasn't even walking yet. I peeked under the table, then flew into the other rooms and checked under the beds. “Celia!” If she'd gone outside to find me, surely I would have seen her.

  I leaped out the door. “Celia!” I ran around to the other side of the lighthouse, and a bitter taste, like iron, filled my mouth.

  Celia was tottering toward the edge, swaying, arms outstretched to the sea. Beyond Celia, in the foam of the green waves, I saw two dark heads and knew what had drawn her to the cliffs. Seals.

  I opened my mouth to scream her name but was afraid if I did, I might startle her and make her fall. I ran as I'd never run before.

  Celia took another step. And then another.

  I'd been so angry with her for ruining my life, resentful enough to even wish her gone. Be careful what you wish for, Mama had sometimes said.

  Please, don't let her fall, I prayed. Let me reach her in time, and I'll never let her out of my sight again.

  I was close enough now to hear her humming to herself, the sound she made whenever she saw seals, but already she was losing her balance, her chubby arms beginning to windmill, her mouth forming a little O of surprise.

  I lunged and fell, sprawling hard on the rocks, and watched as Celia disappeared over the edge. But my outstretched hand caught the hem of her dress.

  My arm felt like it had been pulled from its socket, but I held on and hauled Celia back up as though she were a fish on a line. Blood dripped from my chin and elbows, and Celia was shrieking, but I crushed her to my chest, shame and gratitude washing over me in equal measure. I would not let Celia out of my sight again.

  ama had always said the best word to describe a good lighthouse keeper was vigilant, for they must be ever watchful and never let the light go out. But I became more vigilant than any lighthouse keeper, keeping Celia away from the cliff edge, watching out for things she
could choke on or cut herself on. Whenever I felt the old resentment creeping in, I would play over in my mind the image of Celia disappearing over the cliff, and the anger would skulk away like a scolded dog and I'd hold Celia close. I was tired all the time, but even so, I knew Celia was a blessing. Her squeals of laughter and birdlike chatter kept the loneliness at bay and kept Papa and me from sinking into despair.

  Papa helped me rig up a little harness for her, and when I was working around the house, I kept her tied to me with a rope so she wouldn't be able to sneak out without me. But I could tell Celia was as restless as I was, so before either of us got too snarlish, I'd take her out for a walk on the cliffs, with the rope like a leash. Celia could explore, but with her attached to me, I could let down my guard a little and enjoy our outings more. We'd carry out bread and toss it high for the seabirds, and watch their white wings flashing in sunlight as they snatched the bread out of the air, Celia clapping her hands and squealing, and I'd feel the closest thing to joy I'd felt since Mama died. When the bread was gone, we'd go to the far point of the island, where Celia would bark at the seals.

  On stormy days, entertaining her was more of a challenge, but we'd read books and make up songs (Celia wanted all songs to be about seals, of course), and I'd draw pictures of seals for her, and we'd play hide-and-seek. I let her help me knead bread dough and stir up cookies, and I told her everything I could remember about Mama.

  I was both mother and sister to her and couldn't help but think how Mama would have loved her.

  Sometimes, when I watched Celia twirling in the yard, bright-eyed, the sunlight catching her hair, I tried to imagine her parents. Celia had dark hair and startling green eyes, as pale as sea foam. Did she look like them? When she grew up, would her voice be like her mother's? Would she run like her father? We would never know who they were, but when Celia was old enough, I'd tell her about their brave, and seemingly desperate, attempt to save their daughter by lashing her between two mattresses as the ship was sinking. Whatever else we didn't know about them, Celia would always know that her parents had loved her.