Esma's oars cut through the water with deceptive ease, though her shoulders were burning and her back still stiff from having spent the previous night on the floor of the lighthouse's lantern room, monitoring the storm that buffeted the coast and the thick fog that followed it.
The midday sky above her was bright, streaked with thin, high clouds pushed along by a gentle but persistent breeze, but the cumulus clouds piling up on the horizon suggested that she was in for another long night. She availed herself of the calm between storms to row into Calmeni and restock necessary supplies. Her crate of goods sat opposite her in her little boat, unobtrusive and compact, just enough for one person, and she wished, particularly on days like today, wedged between turbulent nights, that she had reason to shop for at least one more.
Aselada Island had once, in Esma's very distant memory, been a lively family compound, with two generations at a time crammed into the lighthouse's quarters and the small cabin next door. Every now and again, a cousin or two decided to seek their own fortune on the mainland or overseas, but the heart of the Abaroa family remained on the island, beating as one with the character of their light.
Even the tightest of families splinter and drift with time, however, and after her father's parents died, the lighthouse remained only with Esma and her parents. One harsh winter later, it was but with Esma and her father. He taught her how to keep the lighthouse, indoctrinated her to the daily duties of trimming the wick and cleaning the lenses by the time she was ten years old, and the added tasks of winding the clockwork and firing the warning charges by the time she was twelve. At fourteen, she could scale the stairs faster than him, and row herself between the island and Calmeni to go to school faster than any of the boys she knew. The island and the lighthouse were so much a part of her that it came as a shock when, on her sixteenth birthday, her father arranged for her to work as a clerk in one of the shops along the harbor.
"You're good at what you do," her father said, "good as any man. Better than any man I know. But I won't have you doing this alone."
Esma frowned. "Alone? What about you? Are you ill, Papa? Just say the word, and I'll fetch the doctor."
Esma's father chuckled. "No, still fit as ever. But there will come a day—"
"And that day will come sooner if you tend to the lighthouse by yourself. Why send me away?"
"A chance. A wager, if you will." He sat at the kitchen table and traced the grain in the wood with one thick, callused finger. "This lighthouse, this island, they've been in the family for six generations now. But the family...let's just say the branch has grown thin. Of course, the lighthouse is yours, if you want it, after I'm gone—"
"Of course!"
"But after that? After you are old, when you're unable to tend to it like it needs to be? What will you do then?"
"I suppose I could hire someone."
"And after you're gone?"
Esma toyed with a button on her collar. Her father's reasoning was becoming clear, but she resisted the thought. "I'd have a family, by then, wouldn't I?"
"Not by staying here, you won't." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "I'm doing this for your good, for the family's, for the lighthouse's. Please, Esma, while I'm able to work on my own...please just—"
"Find a man to marry?" She folded her arms on the table and gave him what she hoped was her coldest look. "For the sake of the family? For the sake of a lighthouse? Why not simply sell me to the highest bidder, lighthouse included?"
"Esma, you know that isn't what I meant." He sighed. "There's still plenty of time. Work at the harbor, make friends, acquaintances. You don't have to get married right away."
"But eventually? Before you die?"
"I'd like that."
"What if I don't? What if no one will have me? What if I don't love anyone? Would you make me marry a man I don't love?"
"Do you love your home? Then you'll make do. I just don't want to leave you alone out here."
"And why not? I can handle it."
"I've no doubt you can handle keeping the light. But I don't want you losing your own. That kind of darkness, no lantern can cut through."
He should've known, thought Esma, wading through ankle-deep water to pull her boat ashore, that that kind of darkness is perfectly manageable on its own. It's the light of hope that blinds you.
She pulled on her shoes, grabbed her crate, and began the uphill walk to the lighthouse. As she passed the cabin, dilapidated and deserted for the past eight years, she noticed more shingles had blown off its roof and scattered along the path. Fitting. Perhaps one day the cabin would blow away completely, consigning itself to the same darkness that it had bred inside her heart.
It wasn't that Papa's wager did not pay off; it was that it paid off too well. And Esma, in her youth, flung wide the door of her heart and her cabin to welcome the glorious light of love, a light that flickered out far before its time, and left her stranded, even on fair days, at sea beneath a starless sky.
* * *
The lantern was lit, the clockwork wound, and the clouds continued their westward roll. Lightning flashed along the horizon, and Esma settled at the table in the lighthouse kitchen to await the storm. News at the Calmeni harbor predicted only a few ships arriving overnight, and she hoped that would translate into a less hectic night for herself.
She opened the remaining parcels from her shopping trip and emptied them onto the table. Indulgences and fripperies every one: a new novel by a beloved author, a bar of fine chocolate, new buttons for her favorite dress, and a clamshell pendant painted inside with a scene of the harbor. The last purchase was a mystery to her now, as she was never fond of jewelry, and the item was clearly meant as a souvenir for visitors, but in the moment, she had found herself moved by the artist's skill, by the warmth of the colors and the liveliness of the painted people, small as they were. She put it on and looked down at it and decided, bafflement aside, that she enjoyed the point of color against her otherwise drab clothing.
As the first gusts howled through the stovepipe chimney, Esma collected her book and her chocolate and climbed the stairs to the lantern room. Another watch began.
The first ship of the night braved the wind and waves, keeping a wide berth of Aselada Island and lurching into Calmeni harbor, gracelessly but safely. Esma saluted them as they passed, as she'd seen her father do; it was an unseen gesture, but one of gratitude and goodwill, nonetheless.
The second ship sailed in during a lull in the wind, without much trouble at all. Esma saluted, then returned to her book, looking up every now and then to scan the horizon for more approaching vessels.
She could tell the next ship was struggling when she first saw it. The sails billowed in the wind, straining the rigging, and the ship listed from side to side between the waves. As it drew closer, she noticed that it was not prepared to circumnavigate the island; in fact, the ship was heading straight for it.
What was wrong? Had the crew lost control of the ship? Could they not see the light? There was no fog, but the downpour was relentless; perhaps it truly did obstruct their view. She had to warn them.
Esma worked quickly, gathering an armful of warning charges and scaling a ladder to reach the booms above the lantern. She secured a charge to the boom, raised it above the lighthouse, and lit the long fuse. The resultant explosion rattled the glass and Esma tightened her grip on the ladder. She looked out over the water. The ship continued on course.
Another charge, another explosion. They couldn't possibly miss this warning, but out of caution, she sent one more charge up.
Her ears ringing, she looked at the ship again, and her stomach unclenched as she noticed it take a slight northward drift. They had heard the warnings; the only worry now was whether they had enough time to clear the island completely.
They didn't.
A horrendous grinding sound tore through the air as the side of the ship caught against the rocks at the base of the island. Esma could do nothing but look on, heart chilled, stifling a scream with her fists. It wasn't much farther to the harbor, but the rocks had torn a hole in the ship's hull, and it was quickly taking on water. On the deck, the crew struggled to use the wind in their favor to steer them into the harbor quickly, each man pulling on the rigging. They made the turn, listing dangerously and taking on more water, but nearly to safety, when Esma heard the grinding sound again as the stern caught against the rocks, and two sailors went tumbling into the water below.
She glanced toward the harbor, saw the lanterns of boats already coming to the ship's aid, and knew she would be of better use to the crew members who had fallen overboard, if either of them survived the fall.
She pulled on her boots and an oilskin coat and ran down the hill to where her boat was moored on the shore. She'd made rescues before, often in harsh weather, but none under such dire circumstances as now. Affixing a lantern to the bow of her boat and shoving off into the treacherous waves, she wondered how she might find the two lost sailors, or whether she'd find no trace of them at all.
The waves battered her boat, and it took all her strength to steer it in the general direction of where she'd seen the sailors fall. She cried out for them, but under the roar of the rain and the commotion surrounding the ship, she doubted they could hear her at all.
She rowed closer to the coastline, scanning the jagged rocks for any sign of the men, alive or dead. She found instead a looming darkness, ragged at the edges, hypnotic in its depth. A darkness no lantern can cut through... She shook away the memory of her father's voice and pushed forward, into the darkness. She knew this island and its topography better than anyone else alive; if those sailors were here, she would find them.
It felt like hours of careful navigation, and her lantern's fuel was running low, but she peered at a cluster of rocks just ahead of her and cried out at the sight of something white moving among them.
The sailor noticed her approach and raised one arm above his head, waving her down. As she rowed closer, she noticed that he was clinging to the rock with his other arm, while the waves jostled his legs helplessly. She steered as close to him as she could, then caught his arms as he dove for the boat and helped him on board.
He rolled into a seated position with a grimace and a groan, then looked at her and shook his head.
"I'd swear you were an angel," he said, "but I hurt too much to be dead yet. Don't know how to thank you."
"Your crewmate," Esma responded. "Where is he?"
The sailor's face suddenly went blank, his eyes staring right through Esma to the rocks behind her.
"Your crewmate," Esma repeated. "Where is he? I can help him."
The sailor's expression did not change, but he began to shake his head slowly, muttering, "No."
"No, what? We have to hurry! Where is he?"
"No, he doesn't need help. Not anymore." The sailor turned and looked into the cluster of rocks he had been clinging to. "Rocks caught him. Split him in two."
"Where's the body?"
"You don't need to see that. Nobody needs to see that."
"His remains...what about his family?"
"Didn't have none. Look, I let him go already, under the waves. Didn't need nobody leering at him, no animals picking at him. He didn't deserve that."
"You're telling the truth?"
"Wouldn't lie about this." The sailor pulled his arms around himself and began to shiver. Esma lifted a spare oilskin, retrieved a blanket from beneath it, and draped both over his shoulders.
"Let's get you somewhere warm, then. The lighthouse is closer than the harbor, and less chaotic."
The sailor said nothing on the trip back to the island. Esma figured he was probably in shock, and rightfully so. It wasn't until she pulled the boat back ashore that she noticed he was in considerable pain as well.
"Sorry to be a burden on you," he said through gritted teeth, "but I can't walk right. My leg got busted up something awful in the fall."
Esma looked at his injured leg. His trousers were torn, the fabric stained with blood, but she could see no bone protruding from his skin. "What about your other one? Can it bear weight?"
"Think so." He pushed himself onto his other leg, gingerly, breathing raggedly. "Yes. Seems okay."
"Come on, then," Esma said, pulling his arm around her shoulders and slipping her free arm around his waist, "I'll help you. The most important thing is that you get dry and warm."
Between the muddy path and the sailor's added weight, the walk to the lighthouse took much longer than usual. Once inside, Esma helped the sailor up the stairs to the kitchen, where she immediately started a fire in the stove and retrieved several towels from a cabinet.
"Incredibly obliged, ma'am," the sailor said, leaning back in a chair beside the stove. "You saved my life. Don't know how to repay that."
"You're not out of danger yet. We need to get you out of these wet clothes." With no further preamble, Esma got to work on the sailor's shirt buttons, pulling his shirt free and draping a fresh towel over his shoulders. Then, without thinking, she continued downward, her fingers hooking into his waistband.
"Whoa," he said, grasping her wrists, "I can handle the rest, thank you."
Esma pulled back, blinking. A belated blush rushed to her cheeks when she realized what she'd almost done. "I'm sorry."
"Don't worry. You were just trying to help, I know."
"Yes, I was. I'll give you some privacy, now." She stiffly ascended the stairs to the bedroom, where she changed into dry clothes herself, and gathered her damp hair into a loose plait. Then, taking a deep breath, she knelt by a trunk next to the bed.
"I've often asked myself why I've kept these," she whispered, opening the trunk to reveal, among other things, several outfits of men's clothing packed neatly inside. "Did I expect you to come back? Did I expect you to rend the fabric of heaven and earth just for some simple clothes?" She lifted a shirt to her nose and inhaled. Eight years later, Julen's scent was gone, but the scent of the wooden trunk somehow still brought him back to her, as clearly as if he were standing before her, as warmly as if he held her in his arms again.
"I don't want to lose this," she continued, pressing the shirt to her face to catch her tears. "I don't want to lose what's left of you. But..." She glanced at the stairs leading to the kitchen. "Somebody needs these now, more than you do, anymore. Julen, let us help him out."
There was, of course, no reply; there hadn't been for eight years, and would never be again. Julen Prifti had left this world, years before anyone thought he should, because of the cold and the damp. If his clothes could prevent someone else suffering the same fate...well, it certainly seemed more than appropriate to try.
When Esma returned to the kitchen, the sailor had wrapped the towel around his waist and was inspecting his injured leg. While the bone had indeed not broken the skin, his ankle was swollen and discolored. He touched it tenderly and winced.
"I'll go for the doctor tomorrow," Esma said, handing him a fresh set of clothes. "Meanwhile, I thought you'd be more comfortable wearing these while your own clothes dried."
The sailor smiled and thanked her, then held up the trousers in front of him. "Might be a bit long, but they look good. I'm not inconveniencing anyone, am I?"
"No. Not anymore."
He gave her a puzzled look, then pulled the trousers on as quickly as he could with his injured leg, careful to maintain the position of the towel until he'd secured the buttons at the waist. Esma, meanwhile, busied herself with the kettle.
"Would you like some tea, or coffee?"
"Coffee, please. And one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Your name? I'd like to know the woman who saved me."
"Esma. Esma Prifti."
"Thank you again, Ma'am Prifti."
"Esma is fine. And yours?"
"Argider Nayar. I'm from Rothecona. Seen enough holds full of grains and spices to never want to cook again. I've worked my way 'round to other places, but somehow always end up back there." He paused for a moment, as if he had revealed too much information, then grew serious again. "Esma, can you see from here...how is the ship? How is everyone?"
"I can head up and check for you."
The scene at the harbor was, predictably, still chaotic, with boats rowing out to the ship and returning full of stranded sailors. Meanwhile, a pair of tugboats were slowly helping the ship into the harbor. As far as Esma could tell, casualties seemed to have been kept to the minimum.
But she could not tell Argider that, at least, not tonight. When she returned to the kitchen, she found him resting his head on his arms on the table, his bad leg stretched out over another chair. His eyes were closed and his breathing even. She draped a dry blanket over his shoulders and hung his clothes up along the line above the stove.
He was not a young man, she could tell, now that he was still. His dark hair was gradually giving way to silver at his temples, and a history of expressions were etched into his face, from the small lines around his eyes and the larger, deeper ones around his mouth. He must smile often, she thought, a grin coming to her own lips.
But as she watched him, she saw his eyebrows twitch and furrow, and she remembered just what he had seen tonight, how fresh his journey into trauma was. And without knowing why, she saluted him, as she did the passing ships, and asked for his safe voyage through the kind of darkness no lantern can pierce.