Beacon

The salty wind tasted like her tears.

They were indistinguishable from one another.

Another wracking sob, lost in the sound of crashing waves on the rocky shore.

Pin pricks of raised flesh on her bare arms.

She supposed she should have felt the chill of the steel marine layer, yet amid her tormented thoughts she barely had time to register that her body was responding to her environment.

Blurred visions made it impossible for her to see the distant ship on the horizon. More importantly that that distant ship was a rather strange looking merchant. A vessel out of time.

As it happened Laura did not see the ship.

She turned from the gray seascape and went back to the lighthouse.

Laura discovered an isolated getaway to stay in a remote historic lighthouse.

She desperately needed a break from the memories of routine so she booked a two week stay. No one to disturb her.

The lighthouse was still functioning but automatic. No responsibilities to take her away from why she came there.

Initially, the newness of the historic site had engaged her. Now she was one with her thoughts again.

She was enjoying the emptiness that accompanies solitude. The location on the rocky cliffs and bluffs overlooking the Atlantic allowed her freedom of roaming without disruption. She would rise early for walks with her camera or sketch pads. Gone until evening she would return and make a small meal with libation.

Having no T.V. or internet, she cocooned herself, hoping to emerge changed and ready to take flight with a more buoyant outlook. The fresh air and excursions of the day aided in her finding peace in the blank darkness that usually accompanied her nighttime rest. Yet the past few nights she was having a remarkably difficult time staying asleep because of alarmingly vivid dreams. Waking between 3:15 - 3:47 every morning in a haze, unsure of reality and subconscious fantasy.

Notably it was phantoms that took on the shapes of men in period clothing. Like a reenactment.

The curious aspect of the nightly spectral visitors was the accompaniment of fragrances of earth, sea, sawdust, or fish. As if the lighthouse were still alive with its previous tenants.

She sometimes would rise from her bed and walk among the visages. They never acknowledged her, so she felt safe to move freely in this fantasy.

The day that Laura saw but did not see the ship in the distance brought a much different experience to her nightly visitations.

After a meal of buttered brussel sprouts, pan seared halibut with a lemon cream sauce on a bed of linguini sprinkled with fresh parsley paired with an excellent Chardonnay, she read her book until the constant breaking of water on rocks lulled her to sleep.

She woke at the same wee hour. Amidst the usual bustle of the phantoms there was a new presence in the room. A more solid form, and it was staring directly at her.

Surprisingly, she did not scream, though she greatly wanted to.

It was like this new entity was deposited by the ghostly vessel from earlier that day. A new transgressor of her mental fiction.

It is just a dream, she tells herself. Heart racing and gooseflesh telling her otherwise.

The intensity of the stare reminded her of another. Someone she had been trying so desperately to grieve.

The only person in her world she had ever felt heard with a glance.

Raw emotion clawed at her chest, bursting to get out.

It was those emotions that won out over terror.

She stared right back, and slowly rose to ascertain whether this new figment was engaging with her or was it purely coincidence.

He watched her every move with his dark eyes, never moving away from the wall. Whether not to scare her or because he simply could not, she did not know.

She had been feeling haunted for several months. Was that now literal?

Weren’t these just dreams?

Suddenly the connection between their gazes was obstructed by a darkness.

He moved quickly then and jumped in front of her, as a shield.

There was shadow and light, not completely distinct forms, but a struggle was happening.

As if in a trance Laura simply stood still, waiting. Not sure what for.

Then the presence appeared before her victorious and she was grateful it was the dark eyed man whom she had a brief connection with.

The intensity was white hot. Blinding almost.

She expected to wake up. When the figure remained everything else fell away.

There was an unspoken awareness, one of the other. In that moment time was irrelevant and only the two consciousness were important. The feelings that connected the two were pure yet raw.

Both were grieving for lives lost. The one for a missed opportunity of existence the other for an opportunity at existence.

They seemed to embrace without touching.

Through this moment they were able to comfort each other. One on the earthly realm of existence and the other trying desperately to reform into that realm.

Hours of conversation were had without the utterance of one word.

The other residual essences surrounded them, yet none attacked her like the shadow from before. And she knew instinctively they would not if the dark eyed man was there. Like a guardian.

The two of them walked to the top of the lighthouse tower and she knew instinctively that had been his occupation. There was a mixture of pride and guilt. She wished to know more but did not push the connection with intrusiveness.

His form was becoming more solid the more their minds engaged. He had wrapped his arm around her as the light attacked the horizon. She turned to gaze at his beautiful façade just as the light rose he began to fade.

A new anguish came upon her, that cut through the other.

Would this new connection be broken forever? She felt connected to loss and death with him. It was a balm to her grief. It was a lesson in hope that there were possibilities of life beyond.

He gave her a small smile, like a lighthouse gives to the ships on the horizon, a beacon of hope before he was gone.

And she knew that night she would see him again.