Cutlass

My helm was the lantern room of the lighthouse on Little Brewster Island. There, I stood sentry each night until dawn, guiding ships into the open arms of Boston Harbor. Sometimes I thought of the tower as a living creature and companion. Did she not shiver when the wind blew nor sweat when the humidity rose? She was a sturdy gal not much older than I but just as delicate against the elemental fury of hot summer storms. Without my constant care, she would have crumbled and probably did after I left. But, while we were together, neither bellowing thunder nor skin-piercing rain could match Elena and the eternal tower. We stood our ground in the face of God and remained unmoved. Few experiences are more riveting or more capable of conjuring confidence in a young woman. However, every storm had an end at which I would climb down, plant my feet on solid ground, and the fantasy would break. The tower wasn’t alive, nor was she a friend; she was made of stone and she was my job. That is until she wasn’t.

I’d not known the night before I retired as a lighthouse keeper was my last. Maybe if I did, I would have savored it more. But, the mid-August heat unleashed an unprecedented tempest upon the coast that evening, and sentimentality was the last thing on my mind. My uncle stowed away in the guest house while I manned the beacon. My loyal sheepdog, Gershwin, cowered far below at the tower's base, away from the heinous taunts of cackling thunder. If not for my responsibilities, I might have joined him. The storm reached its apex around midnight when the waves reached high enough to breach the island’s rocky base. A strong wind snuffed out the light, leaving me in this impossible darkness. It was as though my eyes were plucked from my face and the darkness invaded my body from the hollows. It seemed to burn a hole through time. When I finally relit the beacon, not five minutes had passed. But, the darkness aged me, haunted me. For the rest of the night, I’d wonder whether my mistake doomed some passing vessel to its watery grave. My father would say that’s just the weight a lighthouse keeper must bear. He wasn’t known for his mirth.

Soon enough, the rain and the wind and the moon gave way to light. I clamored down the spiral staircase to find Gershwin awake and attentive, eager to open the doors to a new dawn. I shared in his enthusiasm. Nighttime storms transported the following mornings to a favorite dimension of mine. I enjoyed how close and dense the air became as it took on an inebriating, salty quality that lingered on my lips as I went on with my post-rainstorm ritual. The hound plodded in front of me as we scoured the rocky island, cataloging damage and potential hazards left behind by the storm. Clearing the flotsam and debris from the island would take weeks and the thought of consistent exercise at the turn of the season comforted me. Though I enjoyed the solitude of our little island, idle hours gave way to loneliness and ennui that, without gainful work, would hold me prisoner and drive me mad.

I might not have noticed the body at all if It weren’t for Gershwin. At first, I gave only a passing glance to the pile of driftwood that surrounded it. But, Gersh took great interest in the debris, sniffing and wagging his tail and yipping and inviting me to take a closer look. I obliged, though I wished I hadn’t, as I saw my dog sniffing and licking the grey face of a dead woman. My first instinct was to get Gershwin away from the body, so I climbed over the flotsam to tie his leash. But, the slick ocean debris caught me off guard. I tripped, my face falling within inches of hers. Her veins bulged under the lids of her eyes and her lips cracked under a layer of salt. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't even breathe. I don't even remember how I got back up on my own two feet. Gershwin nipped at my ankles as I sprinted toward the guest house; all I could think was that I needed an adult.

“Jack, come look.” I was breathless. “A dead body’s washed up on the south shore.”

“Be serious.”

Jack was crawling out of another drunken stupor, dressed down to his underclothes, and rolling a cigarette. He looked at me with tilted dark eyes, bidding I leave him alone and for a moment, I thought I should. But, I couldn’t even blink without her limp body invading my mind’s eye. And my legs refused to carry me back there alone. I was stuck. Stuck standing there in my fear, stuck with a dead body on my island, and stuck asking Jack for help. Degenerate as he was, I couldn’t do this without him.

I picked up his dressing robe with quivering hands, “I’ll show you.”

Again, I stood before the pile of driftwood that cradled our guest, this time with Jack lighting his cigarette by my side. He kicked off his slipper and extended his foot, nudging her gently at first, then practically kicking the poor reposed girl.

“By God, she really is dead,” he grumbled, unhorrified.

“I told you.”

Without responding, Jack began searching through the rubble.

“And what do you hope to find?”

“I want to try with a stick,” he murmured.

The newly risen sun quelled my panic, allowing me to get a better look at our visitor. Though pallid, I could tell she had a dark complexion with inky black tendrils of thick hair. She had a sturdy body and a soft face whereupon a small golden hoop adorned her nose. I wondered how far she’d traveled to wind up on the shore of our little island. Even more, I wondered if my mistake brought her here. Jack emerged with a long, sturdy stick, ready to make another attempt at rousing the dead. There was something morbidly humorous about a grown man in his dressing robe, with either hand occupied by a lit cigarette or a stick, approaching the dead body with the same apprehension of a child trying broccoli for the first time. He gave the corpse a final nudge- firm and direct on her abdomen. This time, she groaned, coughed, and spat up more seawater than her body could conceivably carry.

“Demon!” Jack shouted as he fell back to the ground.

I rushed to her side and place my ear by her lips; it was unsteady and shallow, but she was breathing. Jack helped me haul her back to the lighthouse entry, which had a cot for me to relax while on duty. As we plopped her down on it, dust particles rose and occupied the little room like a morning fog. I kneeled, grasping her cold hand in mine, and sent Jack to fetch some fresh water. She still hadn’t opened her eyes or uttered anything more than painful moans, so I leaned in close, hoping she could hear me.

“My name is Elena. I might be the reason you surfaced on this island.” No response. “But even if I’m not, I will get you off it.”

When Jack returned, he’d changed out of his dressing robe into a decent set of trousers and a working shirt. His gaze wouldn’t leave her visage as he asked whether she’d awoken or said anything. I’d never seen the severity of any situation register within him as this did. For the first time in the years since he came to Little Brewster Island, I felt like we were in this together. I told him she hadn't come to while he was away, but someone should be here when she does. Without my asking, Jack offered to watch her while I sailed to Boston for some provisions.

Noon passed before I moored our sloop in Boston Harbor. Usually, I arrive at the market just after dawn, so I can return to the island and sleep before the next evening. That day I discovered the city was a different world entirely during normal waking hours. People scurried about cobbled walkways, and the normally sleepy market buzzed with excitement from vendors to bargainers to the sounds of children and their laughter. A particularly outspoken woman in crimson heels caught my attention as she bartered with the breadmaker.

“Harold,” she said, “you and I both know that bread is a day old.”

“It’s good bread! Pay full price or leave.”

“Well, I know it’s good, Harold, that’s why I want it. But it's a day old.” She reached out a hand toward his and smiled like they were old friends, “You want to sell it before it goes bad, don’t you? Come one, half a penny.”

The breadmaker was working himself into a fit though the woman never once raised her voice or lost her composure. Her grace soothed him and maybe even persuaded him because eventually, he sold the bread at her price and thanked her as she strolled away.

Like the heavens beckon the tide, her radiance drew me in. I couldn’t help but follow her around the market, imagining myself in her little red shoes. I watched her work her magic as she shopped for cheese, fish, wine, and sugar before wandering into the park, which had already begun losing it’s summer lush. She found an iron bench and pulled out a handkerchief, clearing away just enough space for her petit body to fit. To my surprise, she began pulling off pieces from her loaf of bread- the one she fought so hard for- and feeding them to eager pigeons.

I was on the verge of approaching her and asking for her secret. But, the answer manifested all on its own. Her husband arrived and sat by her side, taking her hand in his. They began chatting, and although I couldn’t make out what he was saying, I imagined something along the lines of, “Boston is such a wonderful place to be a man. It’s also quite a nice place to be a woman, so long as she’s tethered to either a husband or a father. But, there’s no chance an unwed orphan has of earning her own money, shopping at the market, or living independently here.”

He was right. Even if I had it in me to pass the lighthouse to Jack, I’d need a marriage proposal if I wanted to survive in Boston. I have enough excitement at home, I thought, and ventured back to the market to gather some food and clean clothes for my guest before returning to the lighthouse.

Little Brewster Island was just as I’d left it- serene and empty. After all, the only beings living there were Jack, Gershwin, me, and the birds. But, the birds had already begun to fly south for the winter, so the only sounds one could hear were the waves crashing on the shore. Trees couldn’t take down roots in the island’s rocky soil and it was so small, I could stand at one coast and view the other with no obstructions. I always imagined that would be the first thing I’d show a guest if ever I were lucky enough to welcome one. Then, I’d show them the buildings that my father built. The main house, where I stayed in my childhood bedroom, and the guesthouse where Jack liked to drink his days away. The final stop on the tour would be the lighthouse, towering over it all. She was a true marvel, painted white with a blue line curling toward her cupola, covered with vines of ivy that grew thicker, greener, and taller each year.

I hurried back to her and my patient, slowing at the carved wooden doorway. Running my fingers along the frame, I felt where my father marked our heights growing up. Elizabeth was just a few inches away from catching up to me when the notches stopped. It still pained me to remember my sister. As I swung open the double doors, the smell of iron and the color read formed an alliance to accost my senses. The room had been thoroughly tossed, and my guest was nowhere to be seen. Blood soaked the cot, pooling on the floor and glistening upon broken pieces of a whiskey bottle. I took a cautious step inside and felt the immediate coolness of a sharp blade upon my throat.

“Don’t move,” a woman's voice trembled in my ear. Her voice was deep, making the little hairs on my arm stand up.

“I’m still.”

I did as she asked, dropping the provisions and allowing her to walk me to a rocking chair by the stairwell. She tied my hands together with a torn cloth and assured me she wouldn't hurt me. I doubted whether she was capable. Her injuries were far worse than before and judging by her wobbly stance, I assumed some of the blood at my feet belonged to her. She might still be my patient yet.

“Speak,” she said. But I couldn’t find any words. The broken bottle of whiskey begged me to ask a question whose answer I didn’t want to know.

“Where is Jack?” was all I could muster.

“It’s funny. I know him by another name. He is gone.”

I sobbed, “What did you do with my uncle? Is he dead?”

“Uncle? Ha! He is many things before he is your uncle. A liar, a scoundrel, a pirate- my husband. And despite my best efforts, he lives.”