The Call of Distant Shores (16 page)

He staggered upright, catching himself against the wall to the right of the door, then nearly tumbled headlong.
 
Instead of watching where he placed his feet, his gaze was captured by the light.
 
It sliced through the darkness with a power that sizzled and crackled.
 
There was no sound, but Jonathan could feel it lifting the hairs on his arms and at the base of his neck.

It wasn't just the light.
 
The illumination was no different from that of any high-powered beam.
 
Nor was it the darkness.
 
Not exactly.
 
There was no room, in that instant, for any other light.
 
Jonathan was blinded by the brilliance and all else was nothing.
 
Black.
 
Empty and without life or heat.
 
 
Only that slender, too-white beam, cutting into the deep black heart of the night existed.
 
Around the base of that light, darkness swirled within darkness.
 
Slow, serpentine coils of – something – moved slowly and steadily, and an energy – a power – more than that of the light – shivered through the air.

Jonathan was drawn.
 
He reached out a hand, groping toward the light and took a short step forward.

"Get hold of yourself," Angus' voice crashed through the silence.
 
"Stand like a man and look away from the light.
 
It isn't for you.
 
It isn't for any man."

Jonathan shook his head violently, stumbled away from the light and Angus' hand.
 
As he tumbled toward the stone wall, his vision shifted.
 
He saw coil after coil of dark, sinuous flesh, jointed and then again, and again.
 
Chitinous
, whirring sound filling the air, like a projector's motor, lending a surreality to the beam of light that nearly brought images of dark movie theaters and buttered popcorn before Jonathan crumpled, blacking out cold.

When he woke, the light was off to his right, and Angus was shaking him gently.
 
Jonathan could see the rough-hewn stone blocks of the ceiling, and for a long moment his mind was lost on the marvel of engineering that kept those stones in place, preventing them from caving in on him and deepening the darkness.
 
Angus' face as he leaned down was too long – too narrow, and his huge, broad shoulders had stretched ...fingers elongated and too-thin.
 
Jonathan shook his head again and closed his eyes.

"Wake up lad!" Angus reached down and slapped his cheek lightly.

Jonathan blinked and sat up slowly, levering his hands against the stone until he was seated, staring at the wall, away from the light.

"What happened?" he asked?
 
"What ..."

"If you'd looked for them before, lad, you'd have seen," Angus grated.
 
"They've always been here.
 
Always.
 
Did you think your
granda
' built the lighthouse?
 
Did you think it was
ours
?"

"I thought she watched." Jonathan whispered.

"And she does," Angus muttered, turning away, "As I watch.
 
As
they
watch, and have watched.
 
As they've taught us to."

Jonathan shuddered.
 
Not a quick shake, or a shiver up his spine, but a deep, soul-wracking quake.
 
If that was what watched, those things, shifting and snaking around the base of the light, so close beside his father, and his uncle, and behind the shield of the light, then what did they watch for? And why did the image of those multi-jointed creatures and Angus, with his too-strong, too-tall frame and deep set eyes fit so easily into one vision? What could be so much more – wrong – that such a bond of vigilance could form?
 
Where did the others watch from – did they share the light, or was there another dimension – so far from Jonathan's own reality it could be sensed, but not seen?
 
And what could they do if the light failed? What could any of them do?

Jonathan rose too quickly.
 
He staggered, bringing both hands to his face as his head throbbed and the blackness threatened to wash over him again.
 
Angus turned away, ignoring him.
 
The old man had stepped to the window beyond the light.
 
Cut glass, beveled and prismatic at the edges, convex, the light shimmering through the very center, magnified and focused by a pair of lenses that hung from an intricate framework before the flame of the tower's light.
 
Jonathan knew that the wick curled deep into the bowels of the tower, and that the oil, filled before it could ever reach a low level, was the heart of the old lighthouse.

He knew this because he had read about it.
 
Over the last year, as his obsession with the tower had grown, consuming his days and haunting his nights, he'd read every word he could find on the old structure.
 
He'd read letters from his homeland and his family.
 
He'd read threats and warnings and words that dripped with fear.
 
He'd seen photographs of the lighthouse as it was dismantled, stone by stone, and he'd read the article in the St.
Jiles
Virginia Beacon about the crazy old Scotsman and his trainload of rocks.
 
How the tower had been reconstructed to a madman's specifications, to guard a shore that had never seen the prow of anything larger than a motorboat.

There was little that Jonathan didn't know about the old lighthouse.
 
So he'd thought.
 
Now, walking slowly to that glass portal to stand beside his uncle, he realized that there were no words he might have read that could have explained it.
 
There were no waves crashing below.
 
No Scottish wind whipped banshee-strong through the eaves.
 
All was silent.

 
Jonathan remembered the waves.
 
He'd stood on the shore of The Loch and watched the wind whip them from those dark depths time and again.
 
Even then the villagers had talked.
 
No need for a lighthouse on the shore of the Loch.
 
No earthly reason for that stone monstrosity.

Of his memories, only the storms had followed the lighthouse to its new home.
 
Lightning painted the sky in chiaroscuro shades of brilliance that strobed across the screen of Jonathan's mind after each flash.
 
No color.
 
The lake was black and rippling, but there were no waves.

"Why here?" Jonathan asked finally.
 
"Why this dark lake so far from the Loch that the stars aren't even the same in the sky?"

"I told you it was no doing of mine," Angus muttered.
 
"I brought her to this land, and I followed my heart.
 
When the train passed over the trestle that spans the river leading to this place, my heart nearly stopped.
 
I wanted the light, then.
 
I wanted to be here, looking out.
 
Watching, not helpless and poised so far above the water.
 
It was an empty pit of darkness, and there was no life in it."

"But ..." Jonathan turned, watching the older man's face.
 
"The Loch?"

"They chose to tear her down, lad," Angus answered softly.
 
"I fought them, but I was one man.
 
No one stood at my side, and not a soul heeded my warning.
 
It took every bit of my life's savings to cart her away before they razed the tower to the ground."

Jonathan knew it was true.
 
He'd been to the Loch.
 
He'd heard them, laughing in the pubs and telling tales of the crazy old man and his lighthouse.
 
They'd said Angus had worked night and day, not allowing another to help.
 
They'd called him the bug-man, too tall, too strong, like an ant soldier carting kernels of corn to some dark queen.
 
Jonathan had kept his silence, sitting in the back and sipping his beer, but he'd listened to them all, and he'd wondered at their ignorance.
 
He'd wondered, as well, at the taint of fear permeating their stories.
 
They made fun, but at the same time, a lone man carrying every stone – by hand – was beyond their comprehension.
 
Sipping his ale, Jonathan had been shocked to realize it was beyond his, as well.

"
Cormac
Duggan was there," Jonathan said, turning to the glass portal, away from the brilliance of the light.
 
He stared out over the expanse of the lake, watching the rippling water glitter brightly.
 
"His father has stood at this same window, at your side.
 
He should have known better, and yet there he was, laughing and drinking as if it didn't matter."

"His father lies five years in the grave, lad, in the same stretch of stone and dust that holds your own father." Angus sighed.
 
"
Cormac
is young, and the quick money and quicker tongues of those fresh in from the cities have turned his head.
 
He has never stood at the Loch by night.
 
None of them have.
 
Pray they never do."

"It doesn't matter now," Jonathan said softly.

Angus spun, arm slicing through the light and gripping Jonathan so tightly by his shoulder that the younger man staggered and cried out in pain.

"It will ALWAYS matter!
 
Why do you think I'm here?"

Jonathan pulled away violently, staggering to the wall and glaring back, confused now, and more than a little angry.

"I have no idea why you are here," he grated, rubbing his sore shoulder.
 
"The Loch is thousands of miles from here across an ocean – the same loch you told me must always be watched.
 
ALWAYS.
 
Now you stare out over this dead-water lake as if it were home.
 
As if you could look at this place and see the shores your father watched, and where mine died.
 
I have
no idea
why you would drag this tower, stone by stone, to a country that isn't even old enough to remember your father's father.
 
None."

Jonathan reached out and grabbed the old man's collar.
 
"We don't
belong
here, Angus, nor does she."

"You have looked out over the waters of the Loch, boy," Angus growled, shaking loose and glaring, "but you haven't watched these.
 
If you think we watch for a thing that can be contained by the shores of a single loch, then you have come with too little knowledge, too late to help."

Angus turned and strode to the portal.
 
"It matters not where the lighthouse stands, lad, only that she does."

Jonathan wanted to scream.
 
He wanted to grab Angus by that wild, white hair, fling him into the stones and make him see.
 
Of course it mattered where.
 
How could it not?
 
If it did not, what would that mean?

Dark shapes shifted near the base of the light and Jonathan flinched.
 
Angus did not.
 
The floor tilted and Jonathan felt the frugal lunch he'd downed on the road threatening to resurface.

"How?" he whispered hoarsely.
 
"How can it not matter?"

"The water is a key, Johnnie," Angus replied, voice softening as he spoke his nephew's name for the first time since seeing him at the tower door.
 
"It isn't the only key, but it is our key.
 
The water is a weakness – and so, we watch.
 
It is our purpose."

Jonathan moved to the portal, laying his fingers against the convex surface of the glass.

"A weakness in what?" he asked.

"If we understood that, lad, we'd not need the light."

Jonathan shifted his attention to the odd structure in the center of the tower.
 
A globe-shaped well rose from the stone of the floor, circled by a short stone wall.
 
From the top of this, a metal framework twisted upward, the center of which was the huge, serpentine wick.
 
It was held in place by a screw-like mechanism worked by a large hand crank.
 
The flame licked up the insides of a clear glass chimney.

Inside the tower, the light was a bright glow, seeping into the corners and chasing shadows about their feet with each flicker.
 
Between the flame, and the portal stood the dual-optic lens system that turned the dancing flames into a concentrated beam, shooting out into the night and cutting through the thick darkness.

"How far is it across the lake?" Jonathan asked.
 
He was staring out along the beam's path, but all he could see was the darkness, and the light.

"Not two hundred yards," Angus replied, voice low and far away, "by day."

"What do you..."

Jonathan fell silent.
 
Something was crashing into the base of the tower.
 
The sound jolted him.
 
He moved closer to the portal, trying to peer down the side of the tower, but the angle made it impossible.
 
Then he saw it.
 
Rising into the beam of light, crystal droplets of water, and foam – white and frothing.
 
The sound came again, rhythmic and powerful.
 
Waves.