Dead Leaves, Dark Corners

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  The seals didn’t come ashore, but I watched them frolicking in the water on their way to someplace else. Tomorrow I’ll bring my binoculars so I can see where they go. I still don’t know why they’re avoiding me. Maybe the fishing is better over on Plum Island?

  Here’s something interesting that happened today: I was foraging around on the north end, looking for more bird nests, when I came across a small metal door built into a semi-horizontal facing of a rocky ledge. It’s rusted but still solid-looking, and it’s locked with an antique padlock – I’m guessing circa late nineteenth century. How cool is that? I thought about busting the lock, but I’m sure I’d be violating a thousand different historic preservation laws if I did. So what’s to be done? The way I see it, I have three choices: (a) leave it alone and notify the Lighthouse Society (and my sponsors) when I get home, (b) pick the lock, or (c) break the lock. I mean, come on...it’s a mysterious hobbit door chiseled into the side of a desolate island which hasn’t hosted overnight guests in more than three decades. I’d hate to destroy any historic treasures, but I think I need to find out what was so important that someone chiseled a hidey-hole into volcanic rock, then secured it with a locked metal door. This isn’t the work of the last keeper; it’s much too old for that. That guy lost his job in 1978 when the tower was automated after they discovered he hadn’t been tending to the beacon’s upkeep. (They suspected alcoholism – not the first time that’s happened in the lonely world of lighthouse keeping.) The door and the lock look old...Victorian-era old...like something you’d see in a Jules Verne novel. I took a couple of photos which I will study later while I think about what I’m going to do. I still have fifty-eight more nights to go in this place. I don’t think I can contain my curiosity that long.

  It was another delightful day here on Little Gull Island. As I write, I feel myself getting drowsy. Maybe...just maybe...I’ll get a good night’s sleep.

  Day 4, Little Gull Island, 7:13 am

  Ugh. Another crappy night of howling wind and flashing lights. The earplugs helped a little, but I could still see the beacon through the bandana I had tied over my eyes. Crazy, huh? You wouldn’t think that would be possible, but that fucker is damn bright. ‘One million candle power’ sounds like a lot of light and it is – about the same output as a hundred 100-watt bulbs. It doesn’t make sense to me that I could still see it, but I did...every fifteen seconds. Not sure what the solution is other than a dose of Ambien and maybe a snort of that tequila I brought for a special occasion. I might have slept about four hours total, which is a slight improvement, but still not enough. I’ve got to figure out a way to get better sleep. In the meantime, there may be an afternoon nap in my near future.

  On tap for this morning: I’m embarking on a key quest! I plan to go through every square inch of the building and tower. As I was lying in my sleeping bag last night, it occurred to me that whomever made that hidey-hole might have hidden the key somewhere around here. Makes sense, right? I really don’t want to break that lock, so I hope I can find it.

  Later I’m going to take my binoculars out on the west side and watch the seal activity. I can see Plum Island (to the west and a little south) with my naked eye, but with binocs, I’ll be able to see it much better. I may take a picnic lunch and hang out there for a while, weather allowing. It’s oppressively cloudy again, but still no rain. For that, I’m grateful. I already live in a constant state of dampness...

  Day 4, Little Gull Island, 8:27 pm

  No luck finding the key today. I spent hours searching this place, but I haven’t given up. There are a few loose boards in the flooring that I may pry up to check beneath. If you were going to hide something, wouldn’t under the floor be a great location? Although it could also be outside somewhere, buried under a rock, in which case I’m screwed. I’ll look more tomorrow.

  In other news, my voyeurism paid off today. I found a flat boulder on the westernmost tip of the island to sit on, and with the help of my Bushnell Super High Powered Surveillance Binoculars (they weren’t cheap), all the goings-on around the shoreline of Plum Island were revealed. Turns out, it’s a hot spot for seal hook-ups. HA! Maybe they rotate their home base at different times of the year, because they’re avoiding Little Gull at the moment. I hope they’ll migrate my direction before my stay is over. I think it would be fun to watch them close up. Plum Island, for all its bad press, was quite boring...at least from my limited range of sight. I could just make out the sign:

  PLUM ISLAND ANIMAL DISEASE CENTER

  US GOVERNMENT PROPERTY

  CLOSED TO PUBLIC

  NO TRESPASSING

  But that was the extent of the island’s creepiness. I didn’t see any mutant animals or zombie people wandering about, just the sign and the seal orgy. I know workers commute there by ferry every morning, but their landing site must be on the other side of the island. I doubt we’ll ever know what goes on there. Biological weapons development? Genetic engineering? Or perhaps only what the government claims: scientific research of infectious animal diseases. It’s a moot point...the facility will be decommissioned within the next five years.

  I found another bird’s nest today. The six eggs in this one look like gray marble. What is it about the curvature of an egg that is so appealing? Add some pretty colors or a bit of speckling, and they’re like tiny works of art. So now I’ll have two sets of hatchlings to watch...that’s top notch entertainment here on Little Gull. I also spent a few hours reading this afternoon for the first time since my arrival. Normally I read e-books on my Kindle, but with no way to charge the battery, I invested in some used paperbacks from the Half-Price Books down the street from my apartment. I forgot how much I enjoy the smell of paper and ink; even the mustiness of age was a pleasant departure from the usual fragrance-free digital experience. You can’t beat e-readers for convenience and instant gratification, but nothing can replace the tactile and olfactory pleasures of reading an actual printed book.

  Overall, it was a nice day, followed by a mediocre dinner of re-hydrated, freeze-dried beef stew, and a cup of decaf. I approach bedtime now with some trepidation. Will it be another fitful night, or will I get some desperately needed sleep? We’ll find out on tomorrow’s episode of The Cold and the Restless.

  Day 5, Little Gull Island, 7:07 am

  Fuck it. I’m breaking that goddamn lock. I thought about it all night. You know...during all those hours that I WASN’T sleeping. If the Lighthouse Historical Society fines me, they can take it out of my paycheck.  I’m heading down to the north end now. BBL...

  Day 5, Little Gull Island, 10:28 pm

  Holy crap, what a day. Where to start? At the beginning, I guess. Here goes.

  After my last entry, I bundled up (it’s still not raining, but windy as hell...temp is in the low forties and dropping even now), and hiked over to the north end. I was having second thoughts about breaking that old lock as I walked. I mean, it’s a freaking ANTIQUE, and destroying it felt wrong. But when I arrived at the mysterious door-in-the-rock, my inner curious cat took over. I had to know what was behind it. So I found a heavy rock and smashed it. It took three blows, but I did it. The rusty shank separated from the body, not because I’d triggered the locking mechanism, but because the thing crumbled in my hands. At this point I’m not worried about a fine, because what I found behind that door will blow everyone’s mind...eventually. But for now, it’s all mine.

  The opening was about two feet tall by two feet wide. I wondered if it was the entrance to a long-forgotten pirate’s tunnel, but that hope was soon dashed. It was what I’d thought it was all along – a hidey-hole. And inside wasn’t a chest full of gold doubloons, but a treasure nevertheless.

  Have I kept you in suspense long enough?

  Wrapped in layers of canvas cloth (oiled or waxed to preserve the fabric and make it waterproof) were books. Or journals, I should say. Five handwritten diaries of various dimensions and thicknesses, the oldest dating back to 1805. That was the year the tower and the fir
st keeper’s quarters were built. It was when Little Gull became a functioning lighthouse, tended by the first live-in keeper. The other four books are more of the same, dating from 1837 through 1978. That’s right...there’s even one from the drunkard who would be the last caretaker ever to live on the island.

  I’ve skimmed through them all. Despite some bad penmanship, fading ink, and a few pages in the older books that are starting to crumble, they are in amazingly decent shape and fairly legible. I wish I’d brought some of those white cotton gloves used by museum personnel. It never occurred to me to bring a pair. 

  So tomorrow I’ll begin at the beginning and read the journal of Herbert Rogers. Keeping my fingers crossed for a good night’s sleep and fresh eyes in the morning to tackle this project...

  Day 6, Little Gull Island, 7:06 am

  I’ve been awake since about three this morning. I wasn’t sleeping, so I went ahead and lit the kerosene lamp, made some coffee, and got started on Herbert’s journal. It’s not the page turner I’d hoped for, but it is quite interesting in the descriptions of all the mundane details (and tedious repetition thereof) of the job of lighthouse keeping. The somewhat archaic language of the era is an entertaining bonus. Talk about an immersive experience! Of all the books, it is in the worst condition, so I have to be careful while handling it. I’m mindful of clean hands and the open flame of the lantern when doing so. I’m about halfway through now, and things are starting to heat up for Herbert. He just had a rather nasty row with his wife Mabel. Apparently Mabel is not only ‘bricky’ (through context I took this to mean strong-willed), she’s also a ‘church-bell’ (that’s slang for chatty, I think,) and the disagreement happened as a result of him telling her as much. So in that regard, it seems Victorian-era men were as obtuse as their contemporary counterparts. I’m taking a break to make some breakfast and will get back to Herbert and Mabel shortly. The finding of these journals is excellent timing since rain has moved in. If I were to step outside now, I’d be soaked to the bone instantly. I expect today will be a quiet day of reading and trying to stay warm. I may have to switch on my portable heater...the temperature continues to drop.

  Day 6, Little Gull Island, 8:23 pm

  The last half of the journal is in worse condition than the first half in terms of preservation and legibility. I’m still working my way through, but it’s slow going. The ink has faded, and the penmanship is becoming less precise. Something else bothering me is what I perceive as a decline in Herbert’s mental state. Previously he seemed staid, self-controlled...stuffy and boring, even. Now his writing has become sloppy and his prose somewhat alarming. It’s difficult to read since I can only decipher about every other word at this point, but I’m concerned for Herbert. Is it silly to be worried about a man long dead?

  Before I undertook this adventure, I did some research, of course. I’m familiar with Little Gull’s history, including an overview of the lives of the previous keepers. I didn’t try to commit everything to memory, but I have a vague notion that something happened at the end of Herbert’s tenure. I remember that his wife (now known as Mabel) died while they were living here. Consumption, I think. Herbert continued on for another three years, but was replaced because of – and I’m stretching the limits of my memory here – ‘an inability to perform his duties.’ I wish I had paid closer attention to his history, because I’m beginning to wonder if Little Gull’s first lighthouse keeper slowly went bonkers.

  I’m done reading for now. I have about twenty percent of the journal left, and although I’m tempted to power through and finish it, I’m feeling drowsy. I should capitalize on the opportunity immediately.

  Please, if there is a god in heaven, let me sleep.

  Day 7, Little Gull Island, 6:59 am

  As per my new routine, I was up at four this morning, even though it took me hours to fall into a fitful slumber, which happened sometime after midnight. I don’t intend to belabor the issue of my woefully inadequate sleep, so just assume the problem persists until I mention otherwise. Tonight, I may resort to the tequila.

  I finished the first journal just now, or rather, I deciphered as much as was decipherable. The poor fellow was quite mad at the end. By the last few pages, he had left off writing about the tiresome duties of his job, which makes me question if he had given up doing the tasks themselves. He was obsessed with the ghost of his beloved Mabel, whom he believed to inhabit the island. He claimed to see her spirit in various locations, including the tower’s catwalk (a favorite reading spot of hers), and on the western side, where the rocks tend to be flatter and perfect for sitting and gazing out to sea. (I had just done so myself recently, you’ll recall.)

  That’s about the extent of it. The last entries were incoherent gibberish, or ink-blotted to the point that entire words were obscured. Except for one, and I have no idea what it means: ANKOU. Herbert repeated it several times at the end. It may be worth turning on my cell phone to see if Google is available. Just as with my water, I must be frugal with my batteries; I have two back-up chargers that need to last for the duration of my stay. So I’ll think about that and report later if I’ve deemed this mysterious ‘ANKOU’ reference important enough to use up some of my precious battery.

  I’m not going to start on the next journal quite yet. I still have Herbert in my head at the moment, and I want to give myself time to process all that he wrote, especially the parts at the end. I may go back and try to do some more deciphering too. Perhaps there’s something I missed.

  Now it’s time to check on the nests. The rain has moved out, and even though it’s still cloudy, I’ll take dry and overcast any day over wet and overcast.

  I miss sunshine.

  And sleep.

  Day 7, Ankou Island, 10:27 pm

  I have much to write about. I’m sure you noticed that I’ve changed the name of the island. I’ll explain why I’ve done so. Herbert’s parents were immigrants from a tiny region of France known as Brittany, which resulted in his being well-versed in Breton mythology. ‘Ankou’ is death personified. It is Ankou who gathers up the souls of the deceased. For generations prior to the first lighthouse here, the dangerous currents and violent storms would deliver unlucky sailors to this island, where they would find death awaiting them on the rocky reef. I would have discovered this tidbit during my earlier research if I had been looking for ‘Ankou’ instead of ‘Little Gull.’ My Google search today didn’t produce much more than that (just a couple of mentions on some New England folklore sites), and Herbert’s journal at the end didn’t enlighten me further.

  I thumbed through the subsequent journals and the word pervades them all. It is the nomenclature given to the island by the lighthouse brethren. And despite the official (and less ominous-sounding) moniker of ‘Little Gull,’ I will continue their legacy and henceforth refer to this place by their chosen name: Ankou.

  The lighthouse was out of commission for a few years after Herbert, first because of thievery (the lamps and reflectors were taken by a small force of British soldiers during the War of 1812), and then because of damage wrought by a hurricane in 1815. Everything was rebuilt when Giles Holt and his wife took up residence in 1817.

  I shall start on his journal in the morning. I should put irony quotes around ‘morning,’ since my mornings usually commence in the middle of the night...

  Day 8, Ankou Island, 6:51 am

  Houston, we have a problem. Where to begin? Oh yes, at the beginning again.

  I was up before dawn and began reading/deciphering Giles’ journal. I soon formed a mental picture of this new fellow: steadfast, meticulous, unimaginative...qualities that those who hire lighthouse keepers surely must look for. That’s our man Giles. Page after page of the now uninteresting minutiae of the job and his humdrum life here on the island. His wife, Margaret, was apparently no firecracker either, and there were no children to break up the monotony of their days. Still, I got the impression this was what he wanted...tedium, redundancy, the comforting sameness of
his days. Some people, oftentimes because of upheaval during childhood or trauma in the case of war veterans, want that kind of boring routine. They don’t want to be surprised by anything. They don’t want to deviate from their daily schedule in any way that might result in unpleasant surprises. And so it was with Giles.

  At least for the first half of his journal.

  Here’s where we get to the part that worries me. The last half, just as with Herbert, was a study in intellectual and emotional decline. As with Herbert, Giles’ penmanship became sloppy, riddled with ink splotches, and his musings increasingly erratic...unhinged even, at the end. Like Herbert, he claimed to see ‘spirits.’ Not those of his dead wife, because from what I can tell, Margaret was still very much alive. She was, however, experiencing some kind of breakdown herself, if I’m interpreting this sentence correctly: ‘My dearest Maggy has hardly stirred from her chair this past fortnight, and if I were not so distracted by spectres and spirits, I would endeavor to do her a kindness.’

  I will be firing up my cell phone again today to see what Google can tell me about the Holts.

  But first I’m going for a stroll...stretch my legs and clear the cobwebs. I also need to check on the nests. It will be a relief to shift focus from ghosts and insanity to bird eggs and (fingers crossed) hatchlings.

  Day 8, Ankou Island, 10:33 pm

  No baby birds, and all eleven eggs are still intact. I’ve yet to see the parents, so I still have no idea what type of creature will burst forth from its fragile prison and out into the cold, cruel world. Perhaps they would be better off staying put. I bet it’s warm and cozy in there.

  In the course of my scrambling about on the rocky ledges, I found a crucifix wedged between two gargantuan boulders on the western shore. It took some finagling to remove it, using my knife and a rock as a fulcrum. I’m looking at it now in the light of the kerosene lamp and pondering its significance. It appears to be made from some kind of metal...lead or brass, perhaps. Had it belonged to Herbert or Giles, or one of the other keepers or their family members? Or did it wash ashore, perhaps in the pocket of some hapless, long-dead sailor?