The God Forsaken Rock
Created | Updated May 30, 2007
The winter of 1801 was one of the worst in living memory. The seas off the Pembrokeshire coast raged uncontrollably and along with the vicious wind the Welsh coastline was taking a battering never the like experiences before.
No man had braved the seas for three months now so bad was the weather. This was hard enough for the residents of the dwellings which clung to the coastline around St. David’s Head, but for two men it truly was the worst of times. The two men who where employed as the keepers of the Smalls Lighthouse.
This beacon to shipping was perched on a small outcrop of rock twenty one miles out to sea. The distance was irrelevant to the men, so far were they out to sea the light could have been situated in the middle of the Atlantic.
At the first opportunity the English and Welsh Lighthouse board despatched a vestal too the island carrying much needed supplies and provisions.
The skipper Gwinn Bird set sail on a cold, bright morning. Accompanying him on the voyage was the first mate David and Seaman Russell. As the supply ship ‘The herald’ left the port and made sale several women stood on the quayside and watched. Al had a heavy heart, three of the women where the crew’s women while the other in some way related to the two lighthouse keepers.
The three men where all glad to be back at sea, the skipper could not stand to be on lad for too long at any one time. He would often become land sick and long for the rocking motion of the sea once more.
Though the sea today was rough all three members of the crew enjoyed the blowing easterly wind and salt spray on their faces. This was a trip they had taken on many occasions, though an eternity had passed since their last trip to Smalls Isle.
By mid morning Russell’s voice could heard over the crashing waves, he had sighted Smalls Isle and the beacon. As the ship neared its destination the form of the light house could clearly be seen throw the rolling waves.
The wooden structure stood on nine wooden legs each firmly planted into the rock beneath it. The design of the light was thanks to an instrument maker by the name of Henry Whiteside, he believed that the raging seas would pass throw the legs without coursing any structural damage, the same principle as wave brakers on a beach and to a curtain point he was correct. The beacon stood firmly on the isle for eighties years in total.
On top of the stilts was a living area which the two crew members were forced into cohabitation and on top of that sat the lamp room. The room containing the lamp was round, twelve feet in diameter a pitched roof, on its top was a weather vain.
The three crewmen of The Herald craned their necks to look for any signs of life in the lamp room. The ship was still too far away to see anything clearly, with the rolling of the sea observation was down to a minimum.
Again it was the young Russell who first alerted his fellow mariners of his sightings. One of the keepers was out on the walkway around the lamp room. All the crew sort to see the man, was it Howell or Griffith? They could not decide.
It was a curious thing, the skipper was of the opinion that which ever keeper it was, was lying down. His arm beckoned then towards the isle, was he too week to stand up?
The sea was calm enough to more alongside the rock, as the craft edges its way up to the jetty all watched the keeper motioning them to the light, though only his arm moved, his body remained static. “Ahoy there.” Shouted David as he tied the rope too an anchor point. Looking up he could see only the frame of the beacon silhouetted against the white and grey sky. The keepers arm still beckoned. For a moment David thought he heard a scream of terror or madness emitting from above, he hoped it was only the wind passing through the wooden structure.
The hold of the ship was packed with provisions for the two men crew. The skipper opened a crate and took out two packets of biscuits and a bottle of brandy, putting them into a duffle bag he trough it over his shoulder and instructed the crew to follow him up the ladder to the lamp room and then down into the living quarters. He knew that a warm welcome would await them, after so long the keepers would brake out the brandy instantly.
The skipper was first up the ladder, as he stepped off the ladder a sudden gust of wind pulled the air out of his lungs. He took in a beep breath of sea air as he looked around. The sky was clear now, as he looked to the east he could just make out the Welsh coast sitting on the horizon.
The two members of his crew were now ascending the ladder coming up to join the lighthouse crew, eager to see if they were in good spirit. As Captain Bird waited he became aware that he had seen something on the lamp room walkway. For a moment all went silent in his head as he tried to remember what he had seen. It came to him in a moment, on the approach they had seen one of the keepers beckoning them forth to the beacon. Where was he?
It took him only two steps around the walkway to see. The keeper was still there.
Howell, one of the keepers was lying on the walkway, his left arm hanging over the edge, dangling and swaying in the wind. His body, for that what it was laying face down its skin split and hanging off the bones, maggots where feasting on it. As the wind blew around the lamp room the smell of death breezed toward him. Nosier hit him, in all his years at sea, he had never felt sick, now though he did.
The two men’s boots echoed on the wooden walkway behind him. Both were in a light hearted mood until they both saw the decomposing mess which lay before them.
“Holy mother of God?” whispered Russell in his young soft voice. He had never seen a dead body in his life, not at least one in such an emaciated condition.
David was speechless, all stood in silence. Bird removed his hat and rested it on his chest, standing in a moment of silent prier.
All was still and quiet, the waves crashed against the island and the wind howled, but for those three sailors high up above the waves only the present situation occupied their minds.
Finally Bird spoke, “Come on lads, there was another keeper here.”
Inside the lamp room all was still, warm and quiet, the exact opposite to the conditions outside were the elements battered the beacon. Slowly he descended the ladder into the quarters.
The sight that met him there was as much as a shock to him as was what he had seen outside on the walkway. All the candles had burnt down to nothing, only the natural light shining through the soul window gave the room any illumination. The log was open on the table, a pen lying on top of it sat there its top removed and long forgotten. Finally in a chair sat an old men. Bird did not recognise him at first, he had a white bearded and long white hair. His skin was pale, and his eyes stared into space. The man was wearing the uniform of a keeper, but who was he?
As Bird approached him with more then a little caution he looked deep into his lifeless eyes. How close dare he approach this strange figure? Was he solid, or a spirit. The ghost of the lost keeper perhaps? It was at that point he could feel someone behind him, a wave of relief came over him as in the window he court sight of the reflection of his own crew mates. Both like him were gazing in awe at the ghostly figure sitting in the chair.
Bird slowly approached holding out an arm behind him warding of his two friends, he didn’t want them exposed to any more upset then they had already exposed too.
Outstretching an arm towards the keepers face he braced himself, what would the reaction be, if any? Nothing came, so what was the next course of action, check his breathing or give his burly fame a nudge?
He took another step toward the chair when the two dark eyes suddenly moved and focused on him.
All three men jumped back in freight at the sight of what they first thought was a corpse move.
Only the eyes where active, they looked at the three men standing before him in the dim light. Slowly they focused on the figure standing closest too him.
The three strong crew of the herald returned the stare, all were struck dumb. Bird knew this man, suddenly like the rising sun filing the land with light, light came to his mind. The figure sitting in the chair was Griffith, one of the keepers. This realisation of the fact struck him with cold reality, the man he had known before from his previous visits was in his forties. A well built strong man with a great mop of curly black hair that with his full bearded framed florid face was now a pale image of what he was once was. There was no wonder the Bird had thought him a spirit so white was his face.
The ghostly looking figure inhales deeply as though being woken from a deep trance so dark that Gods light could never reach him. His dry cracked lips slowly parted as he tried to speak. It had been so long since he had uttered a word to anyone he no longer knew exactly what to say. His throat was as dry as dust. His muscles grinded against one another as he tried to swallow. “Ah…” was the only sound which came from his bone dry mouth.
Bird’s horror at the sight of the man immediately turned to sorrow and pity. Taking the duffle bag from his shoulder he hurriedly took out a bottle of brandy and uncorked it. Taking a tin cup off the floor he poured a generous slug of the brown liquid, “Here, drink this.” He told the keeper and raised the cup to his lips. Tipping it gently towards him Griffiths felt the hot liquid run down his saw throat.
The effect of it caused him to cough and splutter before slumping back down into the chair. “What happened here?” Bird asked in a quiet tone.
The keeper said nothing and looked into space once again as though his brain was trying to recall the events of the past months. The two dark eyes in his deep sockets darted around the room finally settling on the three newcomers. Did he know where his was?
Slowly the index finger on his right hand raised itself from the chair arm and pointed toward a small wooden table sat against one of the walls. The finger was thin and white, the nail bitten right down, it must be cursing him pain. A look of terror had appeared on his face, was there something or someone behind the three men? If the look on his face was in anyway an indication then it was the most terrible aspect.
All three men froze, none of them wanted to be the first to turn and look. Bird took a drink of the brandy to fortify himself before slowly turning round. Thankfully he saw nothing apart from the room and his two ship mates.
“The log.” David said after a moments though, “He’s pointing at the log.”
With a huge sigh of relief the keeper rested hi arm back down on the arm of the chair. At last his story would be known, a story of his ordeal. He hoped that it never told outside the group of men there that cold winter night, he would never know.
As skipper it would only be right for Bird to read the log, so he read silently while his crew busied themselves with their duties.
Sitting at the table he turned the pages back over the days, weeks and months. It became clear that the head keeper had not entered anything into the log for several weeks judging by the dates quoted.
The hand writing also changed further he looked back in time. The last entry date was two months previous and was in an almost unreadable scrawl. Ink had blotted all over the page where the pen had either been dragged or slipped. It looked as though the pen had been refilled with the utmost of carelessness and his hand or arm dragged across the page. Around three months ago the hand writing was neat and consistent with the entries to that point, so he made this his starting point.
Friday 20th December 1801.
The supply boat was due today, but never arrived. The sea conditions were such that I do believe the skipper could not moor his vestal to the island with any safety. We have provision aplenty, out individual spirits are high.
Tonight I fetched supper, pickled onions and the last of the salt pork, as usual ‘he’ complained about the something trivial. I cannot recall.
Saturday 21st December 1801.
Today was the shortest day. The lamp functioned perfectly over the whole of the hours of darkness. Supply boat did not come, weather stormy, strong westerly wind blowing. The tower rocked like it had no other night. My colleague for that’s all I can call him as now tried to undermine authority as captain of this light by informing me that the shift system we use was not effective.
Sunday 22nd December 1801.
No problems to report. Did not speak to Howell today. Weather stormy, wind, unchanged.
Monday 23rd December 1801...
As Griffiths woke early that morning he could hear the perpetual sound of the wind howling around the legs of the lighthouse. The sea was as it had been for many days, crashing against the rock beneath them. Al was as it had been the previous day, would Howell speak to him today? Sitting up in bed he swung his out and looked around. Slowly his focus sharpened, nothing significant had changed since the previous evening. Howell he could see sitting in the chair opposite, “Anything amiss last night?” Griffith asked.
Howell did not reply.
Getting out of the bed the lighthouse skipper crossed to the small galley where he found the stove had burnt itself out during the night. Opening the front grate he moved the ashes around hoping to find any trace of wood or coal still alight. “Didn’t you stoke this last night?” he said turning to face his fellow keeper. Again no response came from the lips of Howell. Griffith noticed that his old enemy had not moved a single muscle since he had woke. Was he playing some kind of game? If he was he would not rise to it.
An hour or so passed. Griffith occupied himself with the daily running checks of the lamp, lighting the hearth and recording the weather conditions in the log. Once the lamp was inspected he descended down the ladder onto the island surface. He would do this most days weather permitting. Life in that one room could be more then a little claustrophobic. He and Howell were not the best of friends, indeed their disagreements and quarrels were legendary. He would spend only a short time walking around on the rock, but the time was a most welcome rest bight from his work and living quarters.
From the corner of his eye he could see Howell watching him from the lamp room. A few moments later when he looked again the figure of Howell was gone. Griffith shook his head before climbing back up the ladder to the lamp room.
A week had past now since the supply ship had failed to arrive, as he looked out of the glass room at the horizon he knew that a boat wouldn’t be arriving for days. The weather had set in for the winter now. What they would do without supplies he did not know, no food, water or relief from now until, wellspring possibly?
The prospect of living in close proximity with Howell until the spring was not one he relished, his patients where running a little thin with the man as it was.
In the living quarters Howell had resumed his position in the chair as he had been before. Griffith said nothing, he had noticed him looking down on him earlier from the lamp room. He crossed to the galley and placed the kettle on the hot plate.
“A watched kettle never boils?” he said to himself casting a glance over his shoulder and waiting for a response, still none came.
The whistling of the kettle grew louder as the water boiled. He poured out two cups full of tea, “Tea up.” He said not looking at Howell. Griffith took his own cup up to the lamp room away from his companion.
His watch had now officially started. Sipping his hot tea he looked out to sea and pondered on its many wonders and horrors which it contained. From below he could hear Howell getting into bed. This pleased him, maybe after a sleep his colleague may be a little more accessible. Griffith would let him go off to sleep before descending back down into the living area.
The last dregs of tea rolled down Griffith’s throat. It was almost cold now, he too could feel a distinct chill in the air. Quietly he descended the ladder into the living quarters and tip toed across to the stove. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the figure of Howell under his covers, as silently as he could he put a chair down by the now warm stove and sat down next to it. He faced the palms of his hands towards the hot stove and left them there until the warmth penetrated the outer layer of skin. Once the heat became unbearable he retracted them furiously rubbing them together generating as much heat as possible.
Quietly once again he put the kettle on the hot plate. This act was all to do with timing. As soon as the spout started to whistle then he would take it off the heat and pour his drink.
Once the hot cup was full he sat back down to enjoy the fire once moor.
For the first time since entering the living quarters he took a look around. In an instant panic gripped his very soul. All moister in his mouth disappeared, his finger ends became numb once more. The fleeting glimpse he had observed in a moment had sent such a chill down his back unlike any other he had experienced before.
Slowly his shaking head turned toward the centre of the room, sitting in the chair, just as before was Howell, still unmoved from when Griffith had seen him an hour or so earlier. “Howell?” he said in a shaky voice. Griffith must have suspected something if he had broken the silence, “Howell, this game isn’t funny.” For a moment or so he looked at his fellow keeper in the chair. The figure did not move a muscle or breathe for that matter.
Slowly Griffith stood up from his chair, he was waiting for Howell to laugh at him for showing an amount of concern. As he edged toward him though nothing came. Eventually Griffith was standing directly in front of the chair, he spoke his name once more, “Howell?” still no answer came.
The captain lifted a finger and poked Howell in the left shoulder blade. The body and head of the seated figure did not move. It was then that he noticed how pale the other keeper was, a flash of raw panic ran through his mind. With a shaking hand he touched the back of Howells wrist, it was ice cold.
Quickly he withdrew it. It took a lot of courage, but from somewhere he summoned up enough will power to take Howells pulse. Two fingers placed themselves on the ice cold neck. He could find no movement.
Instantly it was clear to him that his fellow keeper, Howell was dead. He fell backwards into the chair in which he had sat previously. His disbelieving mind quickly thought over the past few hours and how he could not tell that this man was dead.
How long had it been since his passing? The body of the man was as stiff as a board, surely he must have died several hours previous?
This could not be so, when he was aloft in the lamp room he could hear Howell preparing for bed, only an hour before when he himself was down on the rock Howell had appeared on the balcony. Had he stood there at all? All the evidence was against that likelihood.
He had made a drink for his opposite earlier, was that still there? He dare not look.
Howell was dead, but how? No signs of physical injury were visible.
His thoughts then turned to himself, what was going to become of him? He would have double the rations now, but what about the longer term. It was widely known that he and Howell didn’t get on. In this situation her could accused of murdering him either after an argument or mealy to access to his rations. In a normal situation Griffith would have thrown the dead body over the side of the lighthouse, what to do now though? It needed a great deal of thought.
He emptied the tea out of his cup and into a bucket, then from a small cupboard he took a bottle of rum and poured himself a generous slug.
Time was lost to him as he way up the various options open. He could not leave the body in that room, such thing was macabre. He had to move it. The lamp room was out of the question also. The operation of the lamp must be up most in his mind. Only one other place was available to him, that was out on the balcony. The room was growing dark and the body was beginning to smell by the time Griffith stopped hammering and stepped back to look at his handy work. He had managed to put together a makeshift coffin out of pieces of timber canalised from the lighthouse and drift wood scavenged at low tide.
With great effort he dropped the body into it, before nailing down the lid.
Outside it was dark and the sea heavy. There was no way that he could do anything tonight, he would have to watch the lamp. In the morning he could move the casket and then catch up with his sleep.
As the night dragged on toward midnight Griffith stayed in the lamp room. He did not want to descend into the room in which the casket lay containing the body of his dead colleague. Sitting against the exterior wall he fought against the onset of sleep and listened to the battering waves and howling wind outside. Mixed in these noises he could swear that he could hear the sound of someone or something moving in the room below.
Tuesday 24th December.
Griffith woke with a jolt, the sun was up, his first thought was of the light, it was still burning. A wave of relief came over him quickly followed by a similar feeling of anxiety. He knew he had to move the coffin from down below.
Griffin had been dreaming the previous night, an unseen spectre had attempted to put out the light which shone into the dark night, he had tried to fight against it but seemed paralyzed, not being able to make a move against it. Was this all due to the terrible situation, the thought that there was no hope for him?
The job was now in hand. Griffith had spent an hour in preparation for this moment. In one of the roof beams which crossed the lamp room he had secured a hook and pulley system through it he threaded a rope. One end of the rope dangled freely in the lamp room while the other he tied around the coffin. Pulling on the rope he took up the slack, then slowly he began to pull and slowly the casket began to rise. On each long pull of the rope the coffin inched higher. The sound of the body slumping in it made no difference to the crates position. Again he started to winch.
Finally the coffin sat in the lamp room. This was not the final resting place. With great effort Griffin managed to man handle the wooden box outside onto the balcony. With the waves high and the wind lashing it became obvious the rope which he had just used was needed to tie down the casket to the balcony. After all this effort he didn’t want it being swept out overboard and out to sea.
He breathed a sigh of relief as finally the door to the outside world was closed, he would not step a foot outside that door again, he told himself until the rescue boat arrived, if it ever came? Finally that morning he climbed into bed.
That evening he woke. For the first time he realised that today was Christmas Eve, though no celebrations were planned for the following day. He shouldn’t even be on the island for the season of good will.
The lens which increased the intensity of the light was turning, the lamp itself was burning freely offering a warning to all mariners who travelled this part of the coast line. He did not know that a vestal had not passed this way for a several weeks now, no craft could leave port so foul was the weather.
He looked out into the dark night and tried to make piece with himself, but was suddenly brought back to the here and now by a noise. He spun around to pear across the lamp room. Momentarily he was become blinded by the flash of the lamp, there it was again, the noise. The sound was a tapping on the window. Quickly he reached the spot where he thought the noise had emanated from, but as the light swept around he saw nothing reflected in it.
A shiver ran down his neck. He decided to return to the living quarters and have a hot drink.
With his hands wrapped around the tin mug he stayed close to the fire and watched the single candle burn, the only light in the room. Somewhere in the night Christmas Eve changed into Christmas Day, salvation for the world, but the world had forgotten about him. Through the window he could see the glare of the light as the lens rotated, the fact that it was still working was the only small relief for him.
For the hours of darkness of that Christmas morning he started out of the window into the darkness, the waves continued to pound against the rock making the tower rock uncomfortably. As the dawn broke Griffiths eye lids became heavy, they could not remain open for much longer. He came too with a start as from above him in the lamp room he heard the heavy footsteps, someone was up there walking around. His first reaction was that a boat had come to his rescue, but the sea was too rough for any craft to even attempt to dock.
There was only one other person up there…
With that horrifying thought at the forefront of his mind Griffith past out.
Wednesday 25 December.
Griffith’s dreams that day were naturally occupied with Howell. In one he found himself sitting opposite his dead colleague at the dinning table toasting each others health with a glass of red wine. They were in a restaurant wearing dinner suits.
In contrast another dream saw him all alone on Smalls Island on hid knees in front of the light house, the wooden legs though did not the supports of the beacon, but the legs of the dead keeper, boots the size of a two man rowing boat.
As he looked skywards the huge white face of Howell stared down at him. He was pleading for forgiveness off the dead keeper. Howell could only laugh and tell him that he was going to hang for murder. Nobody, he was told would believe that he didn’t kill his fellow keeper in cold blood after an argument. With that a deep dark bell tolling the crashing waves the figure of Howell produced a hang mans noose from his rear.
Griffith a looked up at it in horror, he could feel the rope tightening around his neck, the feeling of breathlessness came over him.
Knowing that this was only a dream he forced himself to wake. He found himself in bed breathing heavily and sweating. He was fully clothed still. Though he could not recall getting into bed he came to the conclusion that he have done at some point. Once his breath had steadied he pushed the covers back. A terror overtook him as he did so, something was in the bed, slowly he turned his head to the left seeing another head on the pillow. It was the head of Howell, blue and cold, his tongue hanging out. Worst of al a rope was tied around his neck.
Griffith screamed out loud as he opened his eyes. He was still seated at the table, it was still Christmas Day, a dream within a dream? That what must have happened?
He still needed to sleep, but the sun had set. His shift had started. Making a cup of tea he thought to himself, how long could the tea last? It was the only stimulant available, when he ran out of it life would become difficult.
The same storm had raged now for several days, how long was it exactly? His mind couldn’t work it out anymore. The only respite he could recall was that morning when he stood on the island and saw Howell watching him. For the first it crossed his mind that Howell must have been dead by that point. For a long moment he remained frozen to that thought.
By the time midnight came he had drunk half a bottle of brandy, strictly against regulations, but now he had lost his sense of reality. His decline had started.
Thursday 26 December.
He woke in the afternoon, an hour or so before darkness fell. The sound of the wind howling around was starting to have an effect on his sanity. As it rushed through the legs of the tower it spoke to him, words, but what words did it say?
Friday 27th December.
Griffith looked out of the window, he desperately looked for any sign of a rescue boat, the slightest hint of light was all he wanted to see. The waves rolled ten feet tall or more, the rain lashed down rattling on the wooden roof of the tower. He had not given up hope yet.
Saturday 28th December.
It was two o’clock in the morning as Griffith sat writing in the log, a single candle was the only illumination to be had in the room. The message in the log was full of hope for his rescue.
Then he stopped mid sentence, from above in the lamp room the sound he had heard nights before returned, heavy footsteps clunked around the room. Again and again they circled.
Griffith started to shake with fear. He grabbed the bottle of brandy and downed what was left in it. Fortified he grabbed a boat hook and started to climb the ladder up to the lamp room.
Pushing the hatch open and peering through he passed a candle around from side to side looking for any signs of life?
There was nothing to see in the lamp room, the sound of footsteps continued, desperately he looked around but could see nothing. It was behind him, the footsteps approached him from the rear. Quickly he spun around the candle light flickering, but in the instant before the wind blew it out he saw the grotesque features of Howell staring at him in the darkness.
Griffith took a sharp intake of breath such was the shock followed by a gasped word, “No?” he shouted in disbelief and stepped back, he dropped to his knees and fumbled around in his pocket for the matches. With shaking hands he managed to light the candle. By the time the moon had come out from behind the storm clouds. The lamp room was empty once again, save himself.
The eerie moonlight illuminated each of his raged features which made up his face, the candle light formed flickering shadows across the room, the lens turned, but still no one was there with him.
Slowly Griffith looked outside to see if anyone, if Howell was out on the balcony. He walked to the door, dare he open it?
The moment he turned the door knob the wind caught hold and flung it wide open ripping it out of his hand. The makeshift coffin which had occupied the walkway days earlier was snow gone though the body of Howell remained. It hung there caught between the railings. The corpses arm hung down swaying in the wind in a beckoning motion.
Griffith turned away, he could feel his gut twisting around, sickness was coming over him.
“Sunday 29th December,” began Bird, his two men engrossed in the tale. “The last entry of the log reads…
I dare not go up to the lamp room as he wanders up there every night now. I know it is still shinning as I see it glare from the window. I hope a rescue boat will come soon as I cannot put up with the persistent haunting for much longer.
That’s it?”
“But that was over two months previous.” The young seaman said, “What’s he been doing since?” the lad looked around the thick set figure of his captain and stole a glance at the seated man.
Bird came to the conclusion that time for debate was not a luxury he had. The forecast brake in the weather would not hold out for much longer. After waying up the alternatives he issued his orders. “Right, here’s what we do. Take our friend here down to the Herald, David I’m putting you in command. I’m staying here.”
Both other members of his crew looked at each other with incredulity, “What?” David asked.
“Look, this man needs medical attention, and someone has to watch the light.” His voice was that of authority.
“But the diamonds that haunt the isle?” the youngest member of the crew was well versed in the ways of the church and of superstition. He feared the departed souls of old mariners, such things where not to meddle with.
“I will be fine, after a life at sea there’s nothing much that haunts me.”
The wind had already started to pick up while black storm clouds approached from the west. Flashes of light bounced along the horizon and the distant rumble of thunder echoed throw the heavy air.
He watched his ship bob away across the rough sea, in his heart he had a feeling that he would never see her again. He watched until the craft was visible no more.
The living quarters were a mess. The keepers were assigned only two duties to speak of, one was maintain the running of the lamp while the other was keep their living quarters clean and tidy. The later had obviously not been adhered too.
Griffith set about making god the room. Empty food cans littered the floor as did several empty bottles which had at one time contained varying spirits.
Once the room was tidy and cleaned down he set about stripping the two beds of their sheets. He did not want the incoming keepers sleeping in the bed belonging to a dead man. He bundled the sheets up and put them in a linen sack. As the bottom sheet was removed from one of the beds a book dropped out of the folded sheet and landed on the floor. Griffith stood for a moment and stared at it.
Slowly he bent down and picked it up. It was leather bound with no visible text on either cover or spine. Holding it in his left palm the finger of his right hand tapped the top of it gently. Should he open it and look at the contents? His curiosity easily got the better of him, so he gently opened the book.
Instantly he could see what it was, one of the keepers was keeping a personal dairy. The only name to be mentioned was that of Griffith, so it must have belonged to Howell.
Bird sat down at the table, along with the book a bottle of rum, a glass and a wheel of cheese occupied the table top.
For most of the afternoon he read the dairy. He could for the large part of it not believe what he was reading. General opinion was that the two keepers were constantly at one another’s throats, hardly ever speaking apart from in disagreement. The dairy told otherwise. It spoke of how Howell could not wait until his return to the light house, his chance to be with Griffith once again. On land they had too avoid one another to keep up the pretence. Now finally away from public they could be together, people didn’t understand their predicament.
It went on to describe of how they had to make both beds look well used, though only one bed would ever be in use at one time. ‘A man shall not lye with another man’ that’s what the bible said and that was the general opinion of the masses, he wrote on more then one occasion.
Some of the passages contained in the book he could not read, the thought of the two men together made a shudder run down his back.
He was one of the people Howell must have been referring too.
At sunset Bird turned on the lamp. He had a feeling of peace about him as he looked out of the observation window. He knew that the man who had died here departed this world a happy man.
He would keep the dairy, if it came to the point were Griffith looked as though he was going to swing for his fellow keepers death then he would make the book available to the public. Griffith would still face disgrace in the publics eyes and would still be imprisoned for the crime of homosexuality, but that was better then death.
As Bird slept that night he was not aware of an opaque figure sitting at the table, he was writing an entry in the dairy. After a short while he stopped and put down the pen and turned to the bed which bird slept in. with a smile on his face the figure disappeared.
Bird woke suddenly, all was dark. From above him he could hear the sound of footsteps walking around in the lamp room. The Captain turned over and returned to sleep, but woke suddenly some time later as he felt some else climb into the bed with him.
No man had braved the seas for three months now so bad was the weather. This was hard enough for the residents of the dwellings which clung to the coastline around St. David’s Head, but for two men it truly was the worst of times. The two men who where employed as the keepers of the Smalls Lighthouse.
This beacon to shipping was perched on a small outcrop of rock twenty one miles out to sea. The distance was irrelevant to the men, so far were they out to sea the light could have been situated in the middle of the Atlantic.
At the first opportunity the English and Welsh Lighthouse board despatched a vestal too the island carrying much needed supplies and provisions.
The skipper Gwinn Bird set sail on a cold, bright morning. Accompanying him on the voyage was the first mate David and Seaman Russell. As the supply ship ‘The herald’ left the port and made sale several women stood on the quayside and watched. Al had a heavy heart, three of the women where the crew’s women while the other in some way related to the two lighthouse keepers.
The three men where all glad to be back at sea, the skipper could not stand to be on lad for too long at any one time. He would often become land sick and long for the rocking motion of the sea once more.
Though the sea today was rough all three members of the crew enjoyed the blowing easterly wind and salt spray on their faces. This was a trip they had taken on many occasions, though an eternity had passed since their last trip to Smalls Isle.
By mid morning Russell’s voice could heard over the crashing waves, he had sighted Smalls Isle and the beacon. As the ship neared its destination the form of the light house could clearly be seen throw the rolling waves.
The wooden structure stood on nine wooden legs each firmly planted into the rock beneath it. The design of the light was thanks to an instrument maker by the name of Henry Whiteside, he believed that the raging seas would pass throw the legs without coursing any structural damage, the same principle as wave brakers on a beach and to a curtain point he was correct. The beacon stood firmly on the isle for eighties years in total.
On top of the stilts was a living area which the two crew members were forced into cohabitation and on top of that sat the lamp room. The room containing the lamp was round, twelve feet in diameter a pitched roof, on its top was a weather vain.
The three crewmen of The Herald craned their necks to look for any signs of life in the lamp room. The ship was still too far away to see anything clearly, with the rolling of the sea observation was down to a minimum.
Again it was the young Russell who first alerted his fellow mariners of his sightings. One of the keepers was out on the walkway around the lamp room. All the crew sort to see the man, was it Howell or Griffith? They could not decide.
It was a curious thing, the skipper was of the opinion that which ever keeper it was, was lying down. His arm beckoned then towards the isle, was he too week to stand up?
The sea was calm enough to more alongside the rock, as the craft edges its way up to the jetty all watched the keeper motioning them to the light, though only his arm moved, his body remained static. “Ahoy there.” Shouted David as he tied the rope too an anchor point. Looking up he could see only the frame of the beacon silhouetted against the white and grey sky. The keepers arm still beckoned. For a moment David thought he heard a scream of terror or madness emitting from above, he hoped it was only the wind passing through the wooden structure.
The hold of the ship was packed with provisions for the two men crew. The skipper opened a crate and took out two packets of biscuits and a bottle of brandy, putting them into a duffle bag he trough it over his shoulder and instructed the crew to follow him up the ladder to the lamp room and then down into the living quarters. He knew that a warm welcome would await them, after so long the keepers would brake out the brandy instantly.
The skipper was first up the ladder, as he stepped off the ladder a sudden gust of wind pulled the air out of his lungs. He took in a beep breath of sea air as he looked around. The sky was clear now, as he looked to the east he could just make out the Welsh coast sitting on the horizon.
The two members of his crew were now ascending the ladder coming up to join the lighthouse crew, eager to see if they were in good spirit. As Captain Bird waited he became aware that he had seen something on the lamp room walkway. For a moment all went silent in his head as he tried to remember what he had seen. It came to him in a moment, on the approach they had seen one of the keepers beckoning them forth to the beacon. Where was he?
It took him only two steps around the walkway to see. The keeper was still there.
Howell, one of the keepers was lying on the walkway, his left arm hanging over the edge, dangling and swaying in the wind. His body, for that what it was laying face down its skin split and hanging off the bones, maggots where feasting on it. As the wind blew around the lamp room the smell of death breezed toward him. Nosier hit him, in all his years at sea, he had never felt sick, now though he did.
The two men’s boots echoed on the wooden walkway behind him. Both were in a light hearted mood until they both saw the decomposing mess which lay before them.
“Holy mother of God?” whispered Russell in his young soft voice. He had never seen a dead body in his life, not at least one in such an emaciated condition.
David was speechless, all stood in silence. Bird removed his hat and rested it on his chest, standing in a moment of silent prier.
All was still and quiet, the waves crashed against the island and the wind howled, but for those three sailors high up above the waves only the present situation occupied their minds.
Finally Bird spoke, “Come on lads, there was another keeper here.”
Inside the lamp room all was still, warm and quiet, the exact opposite to the conditions outside were the elements battered the beacon. Slowly he descended the ladder into the quarters.
The sight that met him there was as much as a shock to him as was what he had seen outside on the walkway. All the candles had burnt down to nothing, only the natural light shining through the soul window gave the room any illumination. The log was open on the table, a pen lying on top of it sat there its top removed and long forgotten. Finally in a chair sat an old men. Bird did not recognise him at first, he had a white bearded and long white hair. His skin was pale, and his eyes stared into space. The man was wearing the uniform of a keeper, but who was he?
As Bird approached him with more then a little caution he looked deep into his lifeless eyes. How close dare he approach this strange figure? Was he solid, or a spirit. The ghost of the lost keeper perhaps? It was at that point he could feel someone behind him, a wave of relief came over him as in the window he court sight of the reflection of his own crew mates. Both like him were gazing in awe at the ghostly figure sitting in the chair.
Bird slowly approached holding out an arm behind him warding of his two friends, he didn’t want them exposed to any more upset then they had already exposed too.
Outstretching an arm towards the keepers face he braced himself, what would the reaction be, if any? Nothing came, so what was the next course of action, check his breathing or give his burly fame a nudge?
He took another step toward the chair when the two dark eyes suddenly moved and focused on him.
All three men jumped back in freight at the sight of what they first thought was a corpse move.
Only the eyes where active, they looked at the three men standing before him in the dim light. Slowly they focused on the figure standing closest too him.
The three strong crew of the herald returned the stare, all were struck dumb. Bird knew this man, suddenly like the rising sun filing the land with light, light came to his mind. The figure sitting in the chair was Griffith, one of the keepers. This realisation of the fact struck him with cold reality, the man he had known before from his previous visits was in his forties. A well built strong man with a great mop of curly black hair that with his full bearded framed florid face was now a pale image of what he was once was. There was no wonder the Bird had thought him a spirit so white was his face.
The ghostly looking figure inhales deeply as though being woken from a deep trance so dark that Gods light could never reach him. His dry cracked lips slowly parted as he tried to speak. It had been so long since he had uttered a word to anyone he no longer knew exactly what to say. His throat was as dry as dust. His muscles grinded against one another as he tried to swallow. “Ah…” was the only sound which came from his bone dry mouth.
Bird’s horror at the sight of the man immediately turned to sorrow and pity. Taking the duffle bag from his shoulder he hurriedly took out a bottle of brandy and uncorked it. Taking a tin cup off the floor he poured a generous slug of the brown liquid, “Here, drink this.” He told the keeper and raised the cup to his lips. Tipping it gently towards him Griffiths felt the hot liquid run down his saw throat.
The effect of it caused him to cough and splutter before slumping back down into the chair. “What happened here?” Bird asked in a quiet tone.
The keeper said nothing and looked into space once again as though his brain was trying to recall the events of the past months. The two dark eyes in his deep sockets darted around the room finally settling on the three newcomers. Did he know where his was?
Slowly the index finger on his right hand raised itself from the chair arm and pointed toward a small wooden table sat against one of the walls. The finger was thin and white, the nail bitten right down, it must be cursing him pain. A look of terror had appeared on his face, was there something or someone behind the three men? If the look on his face was in anyway an indication then it was the most terrible aspect.
All three men froze, none of them wanted to be the first to turn and look. Bird took a drink of the brandy to fortify himself before slowly turning round. Thankfully he saw nothing apart from the room and his two ship mates.
“The log.” David said after a moments though, “He’s pointing at the log.”
With a huge sigh of relief the keeper rested hi arm back down on the arm of the chair. At last his story would be known, a story of his ordeal. He hoped that it never told outside the group of men there that cold winter night, he would never know.
As skipper it would only be right for Bird to read the log, so he read silently while his crew busied themselves with their duties.
Sitting at the table he turned the pages back over the days, weeks and months. It became clear that the head keeper had not entered anything into the log for several weeks judging by the dates quoted.
The hand writing also changed further he looked back in time. The last entry date was two months previous and was in an almost unreadable scrawl. Ink had blotted all over the page where the pen had either been dragged or slipped. It looked as though the pen had been refilled with the utmost of carelessness and his hand or arm dragged across the page. Around three months ago the hand writing was neat and consistent with the entries to that point, so he made this his starting point.
Friday 20th December 1801.
The supply boat was due today, but never arrived. The sea conditions were such that I do believe the skipper could not moor his vestal to the island with any safety. We have provision aplenty, out individual spirits are high.
Tonight I fetched supper, pickled onions and the last of the salt pork, as usual ‘he’ complained about the something trivial. I cannot recall.
Saturday 21st December 1801.
Today was the shortest day. The lamp functioned perfectly over the whole of the hours of darkness. Supply boat did not come, weather stormy, strong westerly wind blowing. The tower rocked like it had no other night. My colleague for that’s all I can call him as now tried to undermine authority as captain of this light by informing me that the shift system we use was not effective.
Sunday 22nd December 1801.
No problems to report. Did not speak to Howell today. Weather stormy, wind, unchanged.
Monday 23rd December 1801...
As Griffiths woke early that morning he could hear the perpetual sound of the wind howling around the legs of the lighthouse. The sea was as it had been for many days, crashing against the rock beneath them. Al was as it had been the previous day, would Howell speak to him today? Sitting up in bed he swung his out and looked around. Slowly his focus sharpened, nothing significant had changed since the previous evening. Howell he could see sitting in the chair opposite, “Anything amiss last night?” Griffith asked.
Howell did not reply.
Getting out of the bed the lighthouse skipper crossed to the small galley where he found the stove had burnt itself out during the night. Opening the front grate he moved the ashes around hoping to find any trace of wood or coal still alight. “Didn’t you stoke this last night?” he said turning to face his fellow keeper. Again no response came from the lips of Howell. Griffith noticed that his old enemy had not moved a single muscle since he had woke. Was he playing some kind of game? If he was he would not rise to it.
An hour or so passed. Griffith occupied himself with the daily running checks of the lamp, lighting the hearth and recording the weather conditions in the log. Once the lamp was inspected he descended down the ladder onto the island surface. He would do this most days weather permitting. Life in that one room could be more then a little claustrophobic. He and Howell were not the best of friends, indeed their disagreements and quarrels were legendary. He would spend only a short time walking around on the rock, but the time was a most welcome rest bight from his work and living quarters.
From the corner of his eye he could see Howell watching him from the lamp room. A few moments later when he looked again the figure of Howell was gone. Griffith shook his head before climbing back up the ladder to the lamp room.
A week had past now since the supply ship had failed to arrive, as he looked out of the glass room at the horizon he knew that a boat wouldn’t be arriving for days. The weather had set in for the winter now. What they would do without supplies he did not know, no food, water or relief from now until, wellspring possibly?
The prospect of living in close proximity with Howell until the spring was not one he relished, his patients where running a little thin with the man as it was.
In the living quarters Howell had resumed his position in the chair as he had been before. Griffith said nothing, he had noticed him looking down on him earlier from the lamp room. He crossed to the galley and placed the kettle on the hot plate.
“A watched kettle never boils?” he said to himself casting a glance over his shoulder and waiting for a response, still none came.
The whistling of the kettle grew louder as the water boiled. He poured out two cups full of tea, “Tea up.” He said not looking at Howell. Griffith took his own cup up to the lamp room away from his companion.
His watch had now officially started. Sipping his hot tea he looked out to sea and pondered on its many wonders and horrors which it contained. From below he could hear Howell getting into bed. This pleased him, maybe after a sleep his colleague may be a little more accessible. Griffith would let him go off to sleep before descending back down into the living area.
The last dregs of tea rolled down Griffith’s throat. It was almost cold now, he too could feel a distinct chill in the air. Quietly he descended the ladder into the living quarters and tip toed across to the stove. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the figure of Howell under his covers, as silently as he could he put a chair down by the now warm stove and sat down next to it. He faced the palms of his hands towards the hot stove and left them there until the warmth penetrated the outer layer of skin. Once the heat became unbearable he retracted them furiously rubbing them together generating as much heat as possible.
Quietly once again he put the kettle on the hot plate. This act was all to do with timing. As soon as the spout started to whistle then he would take it off the heat and pour his drink.
Once the hot cup was full he sat back down to enjoy the fire once moor.
For the first time since entering the living quarters he took a look around. In an instant panic gripped his very soul. All moister in his mouth disappeared, his finger ends became numb once more. The fleeting glimpse he had observed in a moment had sent such a chill down his back unlike any other he had experienced before.
Slowly his shaking head turned toward the centre of the room, sitting in the chair, just as before was Howell, still unmoved from when Griffith had seen him an hour or so earlier. “Howell?” he said in a shaky voice. Griffith must have suspected something if he had broken the silence, “Howell, this game isn’t funny.” For a moment or so he looked at his fellow keeper in the chair. The figure did not move a muscle or breathe for that matter.
Slowly Griffith stood up from his chair, he was waiting for Howell to laugh at him for showing an amount of concern. As he edged toward him though nothing came. Eventually Griffith was standing directly in front of the chair, he spoke his name once more, “Howell?” still no answer came.
The captain lifted a finger and poked Howell in the left shoulder blade. The body and head of the seated figure did not move. It was then that he noticed how pale the other keeper was, a flash of raw panic ran through his mind. With a shaking hand he touched the back of Howells wrist, it was ice cold.
Quickly he withdrew it. It took a lot of courage, but from somewhere he summoned up enough will power to take Howells pulse. Two fingers placed themselves on the ice cold neck. He could find no movement.
Instantly it was clear to him that his fellow keeper, Howell was dead. He fell backwards into the chair in which he had sat previously. His disbelieving mind quickly thought over the past few hours and how he could not tell that this man was dead.
How long had it been since his passing? The body of the man was as stiff as a board, surely he must have died several hours previous?
This could not be so, when he was aloft in the lamp room he could hear Howell preparing for bed, only an hour before when he himself was down on the rock Howell had appeared on the balcony. Had he stood there at all? All the evidence was against that likelihood.
He had made a drink for his opposite earlier, was that still there? He dare not look.
Howell was dead, but how? No signs of physical injury were visible.
His thoughts then turned to himself, what was going to become of him? He would have double the rations now, but what about the longer term. It was widely known that he and Howell didn’t get on. In this situation her could accused of murdering him either after an argument or mealy to access to his rations. In a normal situation Griffith would have thrown the dead body over the side of the lighthouse, what to do now though? It needed a great deal of thought.
He emptied the tea out of his cup and into a bucket, then from a small cupboard he took a bottle of rum and poured himself a generous slug.
Time was lost to him as he way up the various options open. He could not leave the body in that room, such thing was macabre. He had to move it. The lamp room was out of the question also. The operation of the lamp must be up most in his mind. Only one other place was available to him, that was out on the balcony. The room was growing dark and the body was beginning to smell by the time Griffith stopped hammering and stepped back to look at his handy work. He had managed to put together a makeshift coffin out of pieces of timber canalised from the lighthouse and drift wood scavenged at low tide.
With great effort he dropped the body into it, before nailing down the lid.
Outside it was dark and the sea heavy. There was no way that he could do anything tonight, he would have to watch the lamp. In the morning he could move the casket and then catch up with his sleep.
As the night dragged on toward midnight Griffith stayed in the lamp room. He did not want to descend into the room in which the casket lay containing the body of his dead colleague. Sitting against the exterior wall he fought against the onset of sleep and listened to the battering waves and howling wind outside. Mixed in these noises he could swear that he could hear the sound of someone or something moving in the room below.
Tuesday 24th December.
Griffith woke with a jolt, the sun was up, his first thought was of the light, it was still burning. A wave of relief came over him quickly followed by a similar feeling of anxiety. He knew he had to move the coffin from down below.
Griffin had been dreaming the previous night, an unseen spectre had attempted to put out the light which shone into the dark night, he had tried to fight against it but seemed paralyzed, not being able to make a move against it. Was this all due to the terrible situation, the thought that there was no hope for him?
The job was now in hand. Griffith had spent an hour in preparation for this moment. In one of the roof beams which crossed the lamp room he had secured a hook and pulley system through it he threaded a rope. One end of the rope dangled freely in the lamp room while the other he tied around the coffin. Pulling on the rope he took up the slack, then slowly he began to pull and slowly the casket began to rise. On each long pull of the rope the coffin inched higher. The sound of the body slumping in it made no difference to the crates position. Again he started to winch.
Finally the coffin sat in the lamp room. This was not the final resting place. With great effort Griffin managed to man handle the wooden box outside onto the balcony. With the waves high and the wind lashing it became obvious the rope which he had just used was needed to tie down the casket to the balcony. After all this effort he didn’t want it being swept out overboard and out to sea.
He breathed a sigh of relief as finally the door to the outside world was closed, he would not step a foot outside that door again, he told himself until the rescue boat arrived, if it ever came? Finally that morning he climbed into bed.
That evening he woke. For the first time he realised that today was Christmas Eve, though no celebrations were planned for the following day. He shouldn’t even be on the island for the season of good will.
The lens which increased the intensity of the light was turning, the lamp itself was burning freely offering a warning to all mariners who travelled this part of the coast line. He did not know that a vestal had not passed this way for a several weeks now, no craft could leave port so foul was the weather.
He looked out into the dark night and tried to make piece with himself, but was suddenly brought back to the here and now by a noise. He spun around to pear across the lamp room. Momentarily he was become blinded by the flash of the lamp, there it was again, the noise. The sound was a tapping on the window. Quickly he reached the spot where he thought the noise had emanated from, but as the light swept around he saw nothing reflected in it.
A shiver ran down his neck. He decided to return to the living quarters and have a hot drink.
With his hands wrapped around the tin mug he stayed close to the fire and watched the single candle burn, the only light in the room. Somewhere in the night Christmas Eve changed into Christmas Day, salvation for the world, but the world had forgotten about him. Through the window he could see the glare of the light as the lens rotated, the fact that it was still working was the only small relief for him.
For the hours of darkness of that Christmas morning he started out of the window into the darkness, the waves continued to pound against the rock making the tower rock uncomfortably. As the dawn broke Griffiths eye lids became heavy, they could not remain open for much longer. He came too with a start as from above him in the lamp room he heard the heavy footsteps, someone was up there walking around. His first reaction was that a boat had come to his rescue, but the sea was too rough for any craft to even attempt to dock.
There was only one other person up there…
With that horrifying thought at the forefront of his mind Griffith past out.
Wednesday 25 December.
Griffith’s dreams that day were naturally occupied with Howell. In one he found himself sitting opposite his dead colleague at the dinning table toasting each others health with a glass of red wine. They were in a restaurant wearing dinner suits.
In contrast another dream saw him all alone on Smalls Island on hid knees in front of the light house, the wooden legs though did not the supports of the beacon, but the legs of the dead keeper, boots the size of a two man rowing boat.
As he looked skywards the huge white face of Howell stared down at him. He was pleading for forgiveness off the dead keeper. Howell could only laugh and tell him that he was going to hang for murder. Nobody, he was told would believe that he didn’t kill his fellow keeper in cold blood after an argument. With that a deep dark bell tolling the crashing waves the figure of Howell produced a hang mans noose from his rear.
Griffith a looked up at it in horror, he could feel the rope tightening around his neck, the feeling of breathlessness came over him.
Knowing that this was only a dream he forced himself to wake. He found himself in bed breathing heavily and sweating. He was fully clothed still. Though he could not recall getting into bed he came to the conclusion that he have done at some point. Once his breath had steadied he pushed the covers back. A terror overtook him as he did so, something was in the bed, slowly he turned his head to the left seeing another head on the pillow. It was the head of Howell, blue and cold, his tongue hanging out. Worst of al a rope was tied around his neck.
Griffith screamed out loud as he opened his eyes. He was still seated at the table, it was still Christmas Day, a dream within a dream? That what must have happened?
He still needed to sleep, but the sun had set. His shift had started. Making a cup of tea he thought to himself, how long could the tea last? It was the only stimulant available, when he ran out of it life would become difficult.
The same storm had raged now for several days, how long was it exactly? His mind couldn’t work it out anymore. The only respite he could recall was that morning when he stood on the island and saw Howell watching him. For the first it crossed his mind that Howell must have been dead by that point. For a long moment he remained frozen to that thought.
By the time midnight came he had drunk half a bottle of brandy, strictly against regulations, but now he had lost his sense of reality. His decline had started.
Thursday 26 December.
He woke in the afternoon, an hour or so before darkness fell. The sound of the wind howling around was starting to have an effect on his sanity. As it rushed through the legs of the tower it spoke to him, words, but what words did it say?
Friday 27th December.
Griffith looked out of the window, he desperately looked for any sign of a rescue boat, the slightest hint of light was all he wanted to see. The waves rolled ten feet tall or more, the rain lashed down rattling on the wooden roof of the tower. He had not given up hope yet.
Saturday 28th December.
It was two o’clock in the morning as Griffith sat writing in the log, a single candle was the only illumination to be had in the room. The message in the log was full of hope for his rescue.
Then he stopped mid sentence, from above in the lamp room the sound he had heard nights before returned, heavy footsteps clunked around the room. Again and again they circled.
Griffith started to shake with fear. He grabbed the bottle of brandy and downed what was left in it. Fortified he grabbed a boat hook and started to climb the ladder up to the lamp room.
Pushing the hatch open and peering through he passed a candle around from side to side looking for any signs of life?
There was nothing to see in the lamp room, the sound of footsteps continued, desperately he looked around but could see nothing. It was behind him, the footsteps approached him from the rear. Quickly he spun around the candle light flickering, but in the instant before the wind blew it out he saw the grotesque features of Howell staring at him in the darkness.
Griffith took a sharp intake of breath such was the shock followed by a gasped word, “No?” he shouted in disbelief and stepped back, he dropped to his knees and fumbled around in his pocket for the matches. With shaking hands he managed to light the candle. By the time the moon had come out from behind the storm clouds. The lamp room was empty once again, save himself.
The eerie moonlight illuminated each of his raged features which made up his face, the candle light formed flickering shadows across the room, the lens turned, but still no one was there with him.
Slowly Griffith looked outside to see if anyone, if Howell was out on the balcony. He walked to the door, dare he open it?
The moment he turned the door knob the wind caught hold and flung it wide open ripping it out of his hand. The makeshift coffin which had occupied the walkway days earlier was snow gone though the body of Howell remained. It hung there caught between the railings. The corpses arm hung down swaying in the wind in a beckoning motion.
Griffith turned away, he could feel his gut twisting around, sickness was coming over him.
“Sunday 29th December,” began Bird, his two men engrossed in the tale. “The last entry of the log reads…
I dare not go up to the lamp room as he wanders up there every night now. I know it is still shinning as I see it glare from the window. I hope a rescue boat will come soon as I cannot put up with the persistent haunting for much longer.
That’s it?”
“But that was over two months previous.” The young seaman said, “What’s he been doing since?” the lad looked around the thick set figure of his captain and stole a glance at the seated man.
Bird came to the conclusion that time for debate was not a luxury he had. The forecast brake in the weather would not hold out for much longer. After waying up the alternatives he issued his orders. “Right, here’s what we do. Take our friend here down to the Herald, David I’m putting you in command. I’m staying here.”
Both other members of his crew looked at each other with incredulity, “What?” David asked.
“Look, this man needs medical attention, and someone has to watch the light.” His voice was that of authority.
“But the diamonds that haunt the isle?” the youngest member of the crew was well versed in the ways of the church and of superstition. He feared the departed souls of old mariners, such things where not to meddle with.
“I will be fine, after a life at sea there’s nothing much that haunts me.”
The wind had already started to pick up while black storm clouds approached from the west. Flashes of light bounced along the horizon and the distant rumble of thunder echoed throw the heavy air.
He watched his ship bob away across the rough sea, in his heart he had a feeling that he would never see her again. He watched until the craft was visible no more.
The living quarters were a mess. The keepers were assigned only two duties to speak of, one was maintain the running of the lamp while the other was keep their living quarters clean and tidy. The later had obviously not been adhered too.
Griffith set about making god the room. Empty food cans littered the floor as did several empty bottles which had at one time contained varying spirits.
Once the room was tidy and cleaned down he set about stripping the two beds of their sheets. He did not want the incoming keepers sleeping in the bed belonging to a dead man. He bundled the sheets up and put them in a linen sack. As the bottom sheet was removed from one of the beds a book dropped out of the folded sheet and landed on the floor. Griffith stood for a moment and stared at it.
Slowly he bent down and picked it up. It was leather bound with no visible text on either cover or spine. Holding it in his left palm the finger of his right hand tapped the top of it gently. Should he open it and look at the contents? His curiosity easily got the better of him, so he gently opened the book.
Instantly he could see what it was, one of the keepers was keeping a personal dairy. The only name to be mentioned was that of Griffith, so it must have belonged to Howell.
Bird sat down at the table, along with the book a bottle of rum, a glass and a wheel of cheese occupied the table top.
For most of the afternoon he read the dairy. He could for the large part of it not believe what he was reading. General opinion was that the two keepers were constantly at one another’s throats, hardly ever speaking apart from in disagreement. The dairy told otherwise. It spoke of how Howell could not wait until his return to the light house, his chance to be with Griffith once again. On land they had too avoid one another to keep up the pretence. Now finally away from public they could be together, people didn’t understand their predicament.
It went on to describe of how they had to make both beds look well used, though only one bed would ever be in use at one time. ‘A man shall not lye with another man’ that’s what the bible said and that was the general opinion of the masses, he wrote on more then one occasion.
Some of the passages contained in the book he could not read, the thought of the two men together made a shudder run down his back.
He was one of the people Howell must have been referring too.
At sunset Bird turned on the lamp. He had a feeling of peace about him as he looked out of the observation window. He knew that the man who had died here departed this world a happy man.
He would keep the dairy, if it came to the point were Griffith looked as though he was going to swing for his fellow keepers death then he would make the book available to the public. Griffith would still face disgrace in the publics eyes and would still be imprisoned for the crime of homosexuality, but that was better then death.
As Bird slept that night he was not aware of an opaque figure sitting at the table, he was writing an entry in the dairy. After a short while he stopped and put down the pen and turned to the bed which bird slept in. with a smile on his face the figure disappeared.
Bird woke suddenly, all was dark. From above him he could hear the sound of footsteps walking around in the lamp room. The Captain turned over and returned to sleep, but woke suddenly some time later as he felt some else climb into the bed with him.
