Gifts from the Sea (3 page)

“Mama died,” I said. The words grated like gravel in my mouth. It was the first I'd said it out loud to anyone.

Mr. Callahan looked stricken. Celia began to cry, and her howls startled him.

“I didn't know you had a little one,” he said. “I can see you've got your hands full. Looks like I ought to head down the coast today and stop at the Matinicus Light for supper.”

I could picture Abby Burgess serving Mr. Callahan a delicious meal and telling him about her latest heroic deed. She'd probably saved a whole shipload of people by now, or rebuilt the living quarters at her lighthouse, all by herself. Besides, Mama would have been mortified at turning a guest away.

“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 that, 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.