Winter Tales

The so-called ‘realignment’ had required Brian to undertake his paid duties entirely from home. ‘You need a workstation,’ his employer had said, without suggesting how this might be achieved. The house was already packed to the brim, and as he had never felt the need to move out of the parental home, or indeed change anything after their demise, the creation of a ‘workstation’ caused some considerable distress. Work was something that should be completed in an office, surrounded by tools of the trade – in his particular case, ledgers, invoices and cash books. As a professional bookkeeper, Brian had spent his entire career counting. His employer’s assertion that computers could do the job equally well, if not better, had troubled him for some time, resulting in his insistence on paying close attention to digitally-generated spreadsheets in the hope of identifying inaccuracies. Apart from a recent anomaly relating to a substantial, and as far as Brian could tell, unwarranted overpayment from the Government’s Business Support Scheme, he was yet to be successful in this quest. Dismissing any concerns, his employer had given an assurance that there was no need for anyone to trouble themselves unduly with detail – a matter of some confusion to Brian, for surely ‘detail’ was exactly what was required. He reassured his employer that he would continue the search for any discrepancies, reinforcing the importance of a proper paper trail.

The move to modernity in general had been an uncomfortable process for Brian, and the current predilection for ‘working from home’ left him distinctly cold. It was not that he missed his colleagues; on the contrary, with the exception of his employer’s secretary Cynthia, who shared his passion for detail, they were a source of mystification. It was more that this was how it should be. Home was for evenings and weekends: the office for weekdays. A simple and convenient arrangement, particularly given the fact that Cynthia continued to produce a weekly print-out of all the papers he required, thus enabling him to complete his work without the inconvenience of ever encountering the company’s computerised system.

This she continued to do for a full six weeks after the realignment, sending the papers – together with friendly hand-written notes – to Brian’s home address in a brown envelope marked ‘Strictly Confidential.’ He would work on the papers by hand, returning them in person the following day for her to make entries on the computer – which she had taken the trouble to master. This arrangement worked perfectly until Cynthia’s unfortunate altercation with the number 75 bus. In her haste to catch the post, she had failed to notice the large red object as it approached, this omission resulting in a prolonged stay in hospital while she recovered from a broken fibula and three cracked ribs. His link with the office thus severed, Brian found himself unusually adrift.

After several rounds of fruitless negotiation, during which Brian felt no need to raise the issue of the computerised system with his employer, they agreed that needs must in these trying times, and finally, a workstation of sorts was fashioned. Brian chose to establish himself in the kitchen with a window overlooking the small rear garden. From here he would be able to keep an eye on things. He cleared a small area of the modest breakfast bar which was sufficiently near the telephone to enable the cord to stretch without creating a tripping hazard. He dusted off an old computer and keyboard – his father’s rash purchase not long before the cancer took hold – then, on instruction from his employer, followed a set of practically indecipherable instructions to instal something called ‘Zoom.’ He was yet to discover its purpose.

He found a cracked mug into which he assembled a collection of rulers, pens and pencils – sharpened of course – and centre stage, he placed a leather-bound bookkeeping ledger which his mother had given him as a twenty-first birthday present, to date completely untouched. ‘You’re a wizard with numbers,’ she had said, and she was right. Numbers had always been a constant in Brian’s life. As he surveyed the newly completed ‘workstation’ he mused on the numerical constituents of his existence.

Number of years living: fifty-nine.

Number of homes occupied: one. He had been born in the main upstairs bedroom, although after his parents’ death he continued to use the smaller of the two bedrooms out of habit.

Number of siblings: zero. ‘Once is enough,’ mother used to say, and father averted his gaze whenever anything of this nature was mentioned.

Number of employers: one. The family-owned furniture business where he had undertaken his bookkeeping apprenticeship had grown over the years, and was now, according to its advertising material, ‘the destination for discerning buyers in the North’.

Number of friends: three. He had to admit it had been a considerable time since he had heard from any of them, and indeed could not attest to their continued existence. Still, they had enjoyed each other’s company at school and that was what mattered.

Number of hobbies and interests: four. Astronomy, Entomology and Ornithology, the fourth having only recently been added to his collection and as yet to be ascribed a name.

Number of romantic relationships: zero, unless you counted an incident the previous February when he unintentionally brushed against a fellow bird-watcher in the easternmost hide of his local waterfowl reserve while attempting to catch a rare glimpse of a bittern. Brian searched the recesses of his mind for the female equivalent of ‘fellow’ to no avail.

Number of holidays taken: three. A holiday camp on the East Coast when his father came down with pneumonia; an unsuccessful attempt at ‘abroad’ with a package company that omitted to take his mother’s food allergies into account; and a solo mission in his thirties to an island off the West Coast of Scotland in search of the sea eagle which failed to oblige.

Yes, numbers had always been a speciality.

This January, as always, he applied himself to the serious business of undertaking a survey in his garden for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. This was part of a national initiative and deserved the usual high degree of accuracy that Brian applied to all things. Survey participants were invited to undertake their count on one of three days over the last weekend of the month. In the interests of science, he opted to complete the task on a total of five separate occasions, resolving not to give into temptation to report his highest scores. Instead, he opted for the median, and wondered if others took such care to ensure their figures were correct.

The weekend in question was particularly inclement, and this year’s disappointing tally read as follows:

House sparrow: 1 Blue tit: 2
Great tit: 1 Carrion crow: 3 Blackbird: 2 Dunnock: 1 Robin: 1 Woodpigeon: 2 Magpie: 3

Prior to undertaking the count, Brian had done as much as possible to ensure maximum reporting. In addition to a useful find in the garden shed – a wrought iron contraption, rather like an upturned trident, on which he had attached two hanging bird feeders – Brian had telephoned a local pet shop to arrange delivery of a free-standing bird table; a fat ball container which he suspended from his shed; and a wooden seed box which was now dangling from the branch of a plum tree.

While his efforts did indeed result in increased bird activity in the garden, there was an additional and unwelcome impact: squirrels. These had become the subject of Brian’s fourth interest – not their study in so many words, but the struggle to deter them from making off with the nuts, seeds and fat balls which the pet shop driver had also delivered.

This new interest was becoming the subject of a major preoccupation, and Brian found it irksome when his employer contacted him by telephone to request an ‘update’ or a ‘fact check’. ‘If I was in the office, it would be perfectly simple,’ he would reply, explaining that there was so much to do at home which distracted him from his duties. Apparently, the squirrels would have to wait, but Brian did not agree.

The leather-bound ledger was where he kept his copious and detailed notes. At the top of each column, he had Tippex-ed out ‘Invoice Number’, ‘Supplier Name’ etc, replacing them with ‘Date’, ‘Time’, ‘Observed Activity’ and so on. Recent entries read as follows:

‘Monday 7 February: 10.08 precisely (watch calibrated against the 09.00 pips on Radio 4). The smallest of the four squirrels, successfully identified as female, made an assault on the wrought iron contraption and was able to access both feeding stations by dangling from the prongs. Problem identified: access made by shimmying up the vertical pole. Recommended action: apply Vaseline to pole. Outcome: Further observation required.’

‘Thursday 10 February: approximately 11.37 (watch not checked on this occasion). Largest squirrel spotted on bird table. Most likely male. Problem identified: access achieved via the upright support. Recommended action: attach Perspex shield between base of table top and support to prevent access. Note: This will not affect birds adversely. Outcome: following adaptation (fashioned from roof of father’s mange tout cloche), squirrel seen making unsuccessful attempt to climb onto table at 14.07 (official time confirmed). Result: success.’

The nights had been a problem too. Every evening at 19.00, Brian settled down to watch whichever natural history programme he could locate on the small television in the front room – a custom initiated by his father and which he was more than happy to maintain. On Thursday, the existence of the tiger in Bhutan’s so-called Himalayan corridor was the subject, and Brian’s interest was particularly piqued by images captured on an infrared camera. He decided to invest in a similar device, successfully making a purchase for delivery the following day. As soon as it arrived, he attached the camera to the plum tree, angling it so that the maximum number of feeding stations would be in view. The following morning, and having spent much of the evening studying the instructions, Brian could hardly contain his excitement as he plugged something called a ‘memory stick’ into his computer. Result: nothing. Apart from seeing himself approach the camera on three occasions, grimacing into the screen while repositioning it, the memory stick was blank. This same pattern – with the exception of grimacing – was repeated for several days and Brian found that his enthusiasm began to wane.

His employer telephoned at 14.22 on Tuesday 15 February, saying they needed to ‘meet over Zoom.’ He gave a list of instructions as to how this was to be achieved and set a time for the following morning, adding that Brian ‘should think carefully about his future’.

The next morning, Brian rose as usual and checked the infrared camera. Result: success. Not only had he captured footage of a squirrel making a fruitless assault on the bird table, he had also caught an unmistakable glimpse of a tail. During his daily check of all the feeding stations, topping them up with nuts and seeds as required, Brian made an important discovery. He returned to his ledger and made a note:

‘Wednesday 16 February, 05.47 (time identified on camera). Problem identified: Fox tail spotted in garden. Container with fat balls knocked from position and emptied. Likely culprit: fox. Recommended action: Position fat balls higher off the ground and monitor closely.’

At approximately twelve minutes past ten, just as he returned from the garden where he had been reapplying Vaseline to the upright pole of the wrought iron feeder, Brian heard the telephone ringing. Unable to reach it he decided that whoever it was would most definitely call back if there was anything important to discuss.

The remainder of the week was extremely fruitful. Following the repositioning of the appropriate container, no foxes were captured on camera, and the fat balls remained untouched by unwelcome predators although a number of great tits continued to take advantage of their nutritional value.

On Saturday 19 February, Brian received a letter from his employer giving notice of a Zoom meeting the following Monday morning to discuss ‘performance issues.’ Brian placed the letter safely at the back of his ledger and resolved to do his utmost to attend. If the company was struggling to perform, most likely in the face of increased global competition, he would certainly like to help in whatever way he could.

The weekend passed comfortably, but on Sunday night, a ghastly noise interrupted Brian’s dream in which he and David Attenborough had just received a joint award for their vital contribution towards the conservation of the Tasmanian Devil. Donning winter dressing gown and slippers, Brian headed downstairs, took the torch from its hook by the back door, and sent a beam of light into the dark. There stood the fox, with the unmistakable shape of a squirrel clamped in its jaws.

Shaken by the disturbance, and aware of the untimely interruption to his sleep, Brian returned to bed, resolving to review the incident in the morning after surveying his camera’s footage.

When Brian woke, he discovered that it was already 09.42. He washed and dressed, went downstairs and made his usual breakfast. Thus fortified, and prior to venturing into the garden, Brian opened his bookkeeping ledger in preparation for a review of the night’s events. As he did so, a letter fell into his lap, and at exactly that moment, the telephone rang. It was his employer.

Realising that the fox and squirrel incident would have to wait, Brian reassured his employer that he would be delighted to attend and hung up. Approximately twenty-three minutes later, having reread his hand-written instructions in relation to ‘online meetings’, Brian came face-to-face with his employer. Bafflingly, a series of questions about his own plans followed, with the company’s ‘performance issues’ unmentioned. Just as he was about to launch into his thoughts on fox deterrents and squirrel protection, something red flashed into view. What came into Brian’s head at that instant was ‘The bare cheek of it’, and having delivered this phrase verbatim, he ran outside.

The fox took some shooing before skulking out of the garden, and there was no trace of the unfortunate squirrel from the night before. Brian retrieved the camera, went back inside and reported as follows:

‘Monday 21 February, 02.24 (time identified on camera). Problem identified: Fox seen with squirrel in jaws. No carcass found. Recommended action: Consider ways to prevent fox entering garden, i.e., securing fencing, blocking up holes in hedge, or consider ways to protect squirrels, e.g., create a fox-proof area.’

The next few days were uneventful but provided opportunity for reflection. Brian’s daily squirrel tally confirmed that one of the regulars was indeed missing. This he found strangely unsettling. Surely squirrels were a nuisance, but now they were being predated upon, perhaps their position in the pecking order had altered. A number of ideas began to form.

On Thursday 24 February as Brian finished his breakfast, a letter plopped onto the welcome mat. The brown envelope said that it contained ‘OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS’. Brian placed it on his workstation, resolving to read it during elevenses. He would definitely need a break after the exertions he had planned that morning. In fact, he might well need more than just a coffee by the end of the day if the task in hand was to be successfully completed.

Brian headed to the shed.

**

On Monday 28 February, Cynthia knocked on Brian’s door. She had a small bruise under her left eye, but otherwise the number 75 bus had left her feeling somewhat stronger than prior to their altercation. Her realignment had taken quite a different form, and she was keen to explore pastures new. After a wait of approximately seven minutes – her watch battery being in need of replacement and therefore not to be completely trusted – Cynthia decided to venture round the side of the house towards the back garden.

Through a locked metal gate, she was able to see a shed and hear the sound of sawing

coming from inside. Lying across the grass were a series of Perspex tubes, interlocked and connected into a maze of sorts. Brian appeared carrying a glass-fronted wooden box with a cat flap in one of the side panels. He headed towards the house, whistling as he always did in the office whenever they reviewed their employer’s spreadsheets together. Despite several days of growth on his chin, which could equally be the beginning of an attractive grey beard, Cynthia reassured herself that he looked well.

Deciding that Brian was happily occupied for the moment, she resolved to return the following day.

**

On Tuesday 29 February Brian woke at 08.43. He dressed, shaved, went downstairs and enjoyed his usual breakfast. He checked and replenished the bird-feeders, reviewed the camera’s footage and recorded his findings in the ledger. He decided that an early morning coffee break might be in order as the last few days had been particularly tiring. At exactly the same moment as the kettle boiled, there was a knock at the door. It was Cynthia. She was holding a suitcase and she was smiling.

On Wednesday 1 March, Cynthia and Brian wake at 09.05. They come downstairs in their winter dressing gowns and slippers and make breakfast together. After washing up, putting away and getting dressed, they survey the scene. Cynthia helps check and refill the bird feeders, they review the camera footage and record their findings, and then they marvel at the maze of Perspex tubes that wind around the ceiling. They hear the slap of the cat flap and they watch as a squirrel enters the glass box above their heads, and settles down amongst the crumpled paper bedding, some of it white and some of it brown. Cynthia is sure that on one of the pieces she can read the words ‘OFFICIAL DOCUMENTS.’

A leaden sky bears down, choking early stars, smothering the moon. The solitary lighthouse perches on a rocky outcrop, momentarily attached to land by a spine-like isthmus. Precise rings of red and white sparkle against the inky backdrop. Silently the lighthouse winks a dazzling beam, tracing sea grass, cliffs and waves. Captured in the light is a dark figure shuffling along the shiny basalt cobbles of the isthmus’ path.

Years past a Light keeper served his time over decades of storms and calms. He knew the lighthouse like the back of his hand. Living an existence of discipline and endurance, together they shared a lonely connection. The Light Keeper lived his life of devotion safely in the lighthouse. He diligently paid attention to detail; precisely trimming wicks, recording weather, polishing brass and cleaning glass panels. His curious mind kept active through reading, drawing and woodwork.

Once, he found part of the hull of a coble caught in the rocks. The Light Keeper used everything he salvaged from the waves. Over a few days he whittled a beautiful set of curving shelves; fitted them neatly around his circular living room. A shallow niche in the wall held a snug chair where every day he read and dozed, safe in the embrace of the lighthouse. He loved to sketch and usually sat out in the walled garden to draw the common coastal flowers, seals and other creatures that sought shelter on the rocky outcrop. Sitting with his back against the whitewashed walls he would soak up the sunshine and breathe in the coconut scented air when the Gorse shrubs bloomed.

At low tide he loved walking the shore, searching for “Cuddy`s beads”, the tiny local fossils that washed up around the tide line. In the evenings he would sit at his kitchen table, meticulously drawing the tiny columnar pieces that had formed a crinoid’s stem millions of years ago. Carefully he would thread the beads onto a length of fishing line and hang them safely on a hook. From time to time he would take them down and absently play with them in his hands, becoming absorbed in the comforting clatter as the fossils skittered back and forth.

His sketch books filled the shelves with the natural history of the rocky outcrop. Standing alongside was his Bird Identity Book, given to him as special commendation for his years of service to the Northern Lighthouse Board. It was worn and dog eared with use, like a favourite recipe book.  Seabirds, he discovered, were his first love. He got to observe them intimately when they rested on the outer parapet of the Reflector. His secret bird hide.  Occasionally injured birds would roam in the walled garden searching for food and refuge from the weather. He loved nurturing them back to health; learning how to fashion splints for broken legs and wings. He felt the joy of releasing those that survived and soared away on the thermals. The sadness in losing those that did not. His sketches were his family album. Over the years he understood their migrations and excitedly anticipated new arrivals as the seasons rolled through.

One Sunday morning he was delighted to find a carrier pigeon had alighted on the parapet. He plucked some dried peas from his pocket and quietly slipped them through his secret window panel. The pigeon hungrily pecked away. Out of his breast pocket he pulled his sketch book and pencil. Quickly capturing her lines and curves, his watery eyes observed her form and wingspan. Drawing the neat cartridge tied to her leg carrying post. Iridescent purples and emerald greens gleamed from her neck feathers, her amber beady eyes that navigated her homewards. He pondered on the note in the cartridge; good news or bad? No time to discover as the pigeon now full of peas lifted up and away on the breeze; after a brief circuit of the lighthouse she sped off towards the coastline.

A once in a lifetime storm beckoned, heading directly towards the rocky outcrop with its sentinel atop. The Light Keeper diligently began his preparations beginning outside the tower. He hauled his wooden dinghy into the old smugglers cave hidden in the rock. Tidied fishing lines and rods within the hull and strapped the oars. Scanning out to sea with his binoculars he waved at the local fishing boat heading back into shore. The garden could not be protected other than relying on the robust wall surrounding the vegetable patch. No matter as he kept dry seeds and plants always reappeared. He walked around the base of the tower, comforted in his knowledge of the dovetailed stonework and longevity of the structure. Those Stevenson brothers knew how to build.  Lastly he edged down the slippery sea steps. Holding the rusted chain with his firm hand he reached his curled hand over the edge of the third step. Feeling for the glass nugget embedded in the rock, he ran his thumb over its smooth surface, recalling his first day at the lighthouse all those years ago. His predecessor recounting the myth that if he ever finds the nugget split…then the very rock beneath the lighthouse has fractured and all is lost. Light Keepers are notoriously superstitious he mused.

Inside he checks all the lower level hatches. Straightens his oilskins on the pegs, mops the perpetual puddle beneath. He hums to himself as he winds the mechanism and lubricates the chains. Expecting the familiar smoky, sweet scent instead he is met by a pungent odour. A note is made to change the oil after the storm passes. In the living room he rests, refills his mug of tea and checks the time. Reaching up to his bookshelf he takes the log book down and writes his daily entry whilst sat in his snug chair. Moderate N.E wind picking up. Storm preparations. Secured dinghy. Washed plate glass. Doing routine work. A strange visit from a carrier pigeon yesterday!

Sharply awakened from a doze he hears the first hint of inclement weather. The lighthouse replies with her eerie voice as a rumble of wind echoes around her stair well. He closes up his log and replaces it on the shelf. Checks himself in the mirror as he straightens his neckerchief and dons his cap. He extends the fingers on his arthritic hand for a second before they tightly curl back up. Lifting his binoculars to the lounge window he searches the horizon, praying not see any ships out there. So far, so good. Resolutely he climbs the spiralling iron stairs leading upwards to the Light Room. He`s done this a thousand times before. Walking around the light, he is unnerved to find seabirds already marooned on the observatory platform outside. A fork of lightening shatters the frothing clouds on the horizon and moments later a thunder clap rumbles ominously in the distance. The Light Keeper is conscious of an unusual prick of fear.

Focusing his binoculars he scans the troubled sea. Familiar landmarks are already invisible, hidden beneath a shroud of dense cumulonimbus. He takes the binoculars down and rubs his rheumy eyes. Get a grip man he mutters to himself….just another storm.  Outside a squabble of seagulls agitate and aggressively fight each other as the wind tosses them about. He looked again feeling this was nothing like he had ever witnessed before. An unpredictable wind stirring up a seething, Stygian sea. Waves building as gusts rip white crests into foamy flakes.  He grasps the railings with his good hand as the tower flexed in the gusts. This felt much greater than a storm…more like a Tempest?

A sickening crack made him start as a bird was driven into one of the glass panes. The binoculars choked around his neck, a feeling of cold dread crept into his body. A greasy, red slick oozed downwards as the bird slumped instantly. Quickly he inched his way around the circular railings. Lifted a curlicue handle to open a single diamond shaped pane. His hand fought the gust and reached for the bird. He thrust it inside his coat, wiping his bloodied fingers on his trousers.

Refocusing he turned his attention to the light. In Salutem Omnium rang in his head. In a frenzy he attended to his jobs; winding the mechanism, wiping reflectors, and nervously cleaning panes. He dared glimpse the sea once more only to be horrified to see a small vessel being tossed in the waves. He looked again to confirm. A serpentine flash of lightning illuminated a tiny circular vessel cresting the top of a colossal wave. Good God! A coracle…. impossible?  Seconds later the unearthly wave strikes the lighthouse foundations. The Light Keeper falls backwards as his hands fix him in cruciform to the lighthouse wall. Moments pass. The creaking and sway of the lighthouse unhinge him. A noise rouses his senses, above the din of the chaos outside. Three booming rhythmic knocks. He waits, holding his breath. Three more echo from the base of the tower. He peels himself off the wall, duty bound to assist.

His metal soled boots chime as he descends the iron stairs. His breathing fast as a cold sweat breaks on his forehead. Reaching the lower entrance room he faces the lighthouse door, a menacing roar of waves beyond. He flinches as the knocking began again. Surely no-one could be out there? His heart pounds as he frantically unsheathes bolts, turning a stiff wheel to release the heavy door. Stinging spray and howling wind blast through. He thrusts his arms into the black void, legs braced against the door frame.

A pair of ice cold hands meet his and clasp his forearms. Stepping backwards into the room he pulls a hooded figure onto the stone floor as seawater puddles, a wooden staff clatters to the floor. An acrid sweet scent fills the room. Securing the door, the Light Keeper turns around. His mind cannot fathom how anyone could have survived those waves, and yet someone is here. He lifts the figure up, but they can barely stand. Slowly they climb the stairs. The figure falters, and the Light Keeper catches bony limbs wrapped in a soaking cloak.  In the living quarters the Light Keeper hurries to find dry blankets, a crust of bread and some water. The figure silently nods, clasping his limp hands in prayer. To keep his rising panic in check the Light Keeper returns to duty. Climbing the narrow spiral ladders to the Light room he is sickened to see layers of dead seabirds marooned on the outer parapet. Destruction akin to a plague. At once he remembers the bird still inside his coats. Delving his hand deep within his breast pocket he lifts out the beautiful carrier pigeon. The cartridge tethered to its spindly leg now broken. Gently he places the body down and pulls a curled note from the case.

 Outside the storm rages, the sea churning as waves mass. Winds scream and suck at cliff tops, dislodging rocks, hurling them into the depths. The lighthouse stands in the midst of the maelstrom, her lustrous beam relentlessly shining. Captured far off in the light a sinister swell appears. With each sweep of the beam it garners height and girth. As the roiling sea fights itself, it creates a single rogue wave.

The Light Keeper unfurls the paper; as he reads the message his blood runs cold, he gulps to keep his bile down. Slowly he turns to see the hooded figure at the top of the stairs, silently pointing a wizened hand towards the glass panels. The Light Keeper gapes. A biblical wall of water rises up to the height of the tower. Turgid and terrifying it engulfs the sentinel. The lamp light diffuses and refracts in the watery curtain; dazzling the Light Keeper`s weary eyes. He staggers as the tower flexes and sways under the strain. Deep in the rocky strata below the sea, a fault line appears. The lighthouse shrieks as a deep scar slices up her tower wall, peeling stones apart. The Light Keeper leaps to her defence, but is thrown forwards by the rift as the spiral stairs shunt. The wall deals his head a fatal blow. Dropping to his knees like a stunned animal, a weeping gash blooms on his forehead. He slumps at the feet of the hooded figure. His gnarled hand falls open, releasing the note to spiral down the tower.

The hooded figure retreats down the stairs, his ancient fingers trace a fine crack that has appeared in the uppermost reaches of the tower wall. Below in the entrance room the door has fissured where iron and stone have cleaved apart. Spume and spray froth from the blackness. The hooded figure gropes for his wooden staff, passes through the ravaged doorway out into the Tempest. He slips down the sea steps, his ragged, sodden cloak trailing behind him, as it sweeps over the third step a thread catches and lodges in the fractured glass nugget. The Lighthouse casts her beam despite her catastrophic wound and the loss of her beating heart. In the glimmer of light the hooded figure crosses the basalt cobbles submerged by the sea, as if walking on water. By the next sweep the figure has vanished. Silently, the note lands on the saturated stone flags of the entrance room. Gradually the inky writing leaches away, the words disappearing into the seawater….”Beware Pilgrim.”

1950. The solitary lighthouse desolate on a rocky outcrop, momentarily attached to land by a spine-like isthmus. Muted rings of red and white fade against the inky backdrop. Silently the Lighthouse winks a cold, white beam; tracing sea grass, cliffs and waves. Captured in the light is a dark spectre shuffling along the shiny basalt cobbles of the isthmus’ path.

A verdigris tinged brass plate embedded in the Light House wall reads:

“Pilgrim Lighthouse. Built 1840. Repaired in 1949 after a devastating storm that resulted in the tragic loss of the Light Keeper. Now fully automated.”