The Lightkeeper. Susan Wiggs
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through his mind. He had thought he detected an accent of sorts, a lilting inflection that was hard to place. She hadn’t opened her eyes.
He caught himself wondering what color they were.
“Who are you?” he whispered, his voice harsh. “Who the hell are you?”
She was Sleeping Beauty from the fairy tale. Her bed should be a sunlit arbor entwined with roses, not a crude bedstead with a sagging mattress. She should awaken to Prince Charming, not to Jesse Kane Morgan.
He forced himself to turn away. It hurt to look at her, the way it hurt to look directly into the sun on a summer day. Better for all concerned if she were simply whisked away, still unconscious, never knowing who had pulled her from the sea.
Yet he had an urge to sink to his knees beside the woman, to grab her by the shoulders and plead with her to live, live.
He began to pace, wondering what was keeping the Jonssons. Trying to shove aside a jolt of urgency, Jesse observed his house through new eyes, trying to see it as a stranger would. Sturdy pine furniture, hand-hewn. A plain wag-on-the-wall clock, its long pendulum measuring the moments with unrelenting reliability. The shutters were open to the morning. Palina had offered to make curtains, but Jesse had no use for frills.
The longest wall in the keeping room was lined with books. Novels by Dumas, Flaubert, Dickens. Essays and stories by Emerson, Thoreau. When Jesse left the world behind, the only possessions he’d brought along were his books. He read constantly, voraciously, escaping into worlds of make-believe. In the early years, after the tragedy had first happened, he had clung to the books like a lifeline. The babbling voices of fictional characters had blocked out the howl of emptiness that screamed through his mind. The books kept him from going insane.
Lined up neatly on shelves in the kitchen, jars and cans and crocks were stacked by height so he always knew where his supplies were. The Acme Royal stove had been well maintained, blacked over and over again throughout the years he had been here.
The years he tried his best not to count.
Impatience drove him out to the porch to ring the bell again. He gave the rope pull a quick jerk, but he needn’t have. He could hear Magnus and Palina coming.
Their voices took on a hushed quality in the strange green wilderness that surrounded the Cape Disappointment Lighthouse Station. The forest floor was paved with layers of brown needles, cushioning their footfalls. They spoke in their native Icelandic, animatedly, like old friends who had just met again after a long separation.
It never ceased to amaze Jesse, the way they found constant interest and delight in one another, even after some thirty years of marriage. They had a grown son, Erik, who was simple but beloved of his parents. Strong as a young bullock, Erik spent his days working in contented silence around the station.
The Jonssons appeared around a bend in the forest path. The morning sun, filtered through lofty boughs of the soaring cedar and Sitka spruce trees, was kind to their aging faces, giving them a soft glow as they smiled, lifted their hands in greeting and hurried toward him.
Magnus Jonsson had a fisherman’s deep chest and broad shoulders, the result of decades spent hauling nets and cranking winches. He had retired after an injury had taken his left hand. When most men would have lain down in defeat and died, Magnus had willed himself to heal.
Beside her adored and adoring husband, Palina looked dainty, though she was as sturdy as any pioneer in the prime of life. She had bright eyes and prominent teeth, and in her face there was an unexpected depth that hinted at a keen, quiet intelligence and a vivid imagination.
“Good day, Jesse,” she said, a light singsong in her voice. “And look at the fine morning Odin has given us.” She encompassed the small clearing with a sweep of her arm, showing off her bright orange shawl. On the slope below, the horse pasture shone in the radiance of the sun.
“All the clouds chased off and the fog burned away by the breath of Aegir,” Magnus added.
Jesse nodded a greeting. He had grown used to their constant references to the legends of the sea. And who was he to discount them? Many of the ancient tales they recounted held an almost eerie ring of truth.
“That’s not all the morning brought,” he said, motioning them up the steps to the porch. He pushed open the door and held it as they moved inside. They followed him through the keeping room and past the kitchen, into the birth-and-death room.
When the Jonssons spied the woman on the bed, they froze, clutching each other’s hands.
“Hamingjan góoa,” Magnus said under his breath. “And what is this?”
“She washed up on the beach from a shipwreck.” Feeling inexplicably awkward, Jesse was reminded of a moment in his boyhood, when he’d gotten a gift he hadn’t wanted. What did one say?
Thank you.
But he wasn’t thankful, not in that way.
“She’s still alive,” he said clumsily.
Palina was already bending toward the woman, clucking like a hen over a chick. Jesse moved closer. “Isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes, yes. Alive but nearly frozen, litla greyid, little one. Build up the fire in the stove, Magnus,” she said over her shoulder. “Ah, you’ve got the wet dress off her.” There was no censure in her tone; she was as familiar as he with warming chilled victims.
“She needs dry clothes, quickly.” Palina took one of the woman’s hands and gently cradled it between her own. “Ah, blessed, blessed day. Never have I known the gods of the sea to give a man such a gift.”
A gift?
Foolishness. Superstition.
Now, where the hell was he to get clean, dry clothing for a woman? He possessed only two sets of clothes—winter and summer. Kentucky jeans, several shirts and standard-issue lightkeeper’s livery. Those he wasn’t wearing on his back were currently in the laundry kettle, ready to be boiled on the stove. Just this morning he had put his only nightshirt in to wash.
“You must have something at your house for her to wear, Palina,” he said.
“Ah, no. She’s half-frozen already. Just find something—anything!”
“There is noth—” Jesse cut himself off. Against his will, he glanced at the foot of the bed, where an old sea chest sat.
“There’s nothing,” he lied hoarsely, his throat raw. “Look, I can get to your house and back in ten min—”
“I need the dry clothing now.” Palina fixed him with a gaze that dared him to defy her. “She needs them now.”
Jesse clenched his fists. No. He recoiled at the idea of plundering his past. But then, with the reluctant movements of a condemned man, he did something he’d sworn he would never do.
He lifted the lid of the sea chest and removed the sectioned tray from the top.
A scent too rich and evocative to be borne wafted from the contents, and he almost reeled back. Emily. He plunged his hand into the stacks of folded clothes, found the thick, smooth texture of cotton flannel, yanked it out and flung it at Palina. I’m sorry, Emily. “Here,” he said gruffly. “I’ll help Magnus with the fire.”
Feeling the burn of Palina’s intense curiosity, he stalked out of the house and down to the side yard, grabbing his ax from the toolshed.
He upended a huge log and lifted the ax high in both hands, bringing it down to split the timber with a single blow. The heart of the wood appeared torn and shredded, a fresh kill. Jesse split it again and again with the grim, rhythmic violence that coursed through his body.
But mere expended energy couldn’t keep the demons out. He had known that even before he’d opened the sea chest—a Pandora’s box he had been trying to keep shut for most of his adult life.
Though he had barely looked at the flannel