around her now, seeped into the sandy ground, will hang around all day, all week. Her head has stopped aching and she is strong enough now to keep moving. She needs to get back to collect the chest and head south, where surely there are buildings and cooked meals on plates. Quietly, on soft feet, she tiptoes past the natives through the dark trees in the dim light. The chest lies, unmolested, where she fell. She re-ties the rope through the brass handle, and drags it behind her once again, down the empty beach.
Clouds cling to the sky, dark and churning. There will be more rain, but at least it will be a reprieve from the searing sun.
Isabella’s heart catches on a hook. Is that a flash? She looks to the clouds to the south. Was it lightning? Or was it—
There. Again. A light, barely noticeable in the pre-dawn gray, sweeps across the clouds and is gone.
A lighthouse. Meaning returns. Focus intensifies. Hope is reborn.
For where there is a lighthouse, there is a lighthouse keeper.
T he beach goes on forever. The sea is almost emerald today, with caps whiter than newly fallen snow. On and on it rushes androars, and Isabella places one foot in front of the other, dragging her load behind her in the sand. The rhythm of walking and stopping begins to change. Creeks are regular enough that she doesn’t go thirsty; and she now knows which berries and fruits are edible, even if they taste hard and dry. But she is human. She is wearing out. The stops become longer. The walks slower, shorter. Walking becomes trudging, lumbering, falling with only her knees to catch her. She tries to move forward a little every day: between late afternoon and nightfall, slowly, preserving her energy. A vast, aching emptiness surrounds her, pervades her, inhabits her. Alone, alone , the ocean seems to say. Alone, alone . Slowly, ponderously, endlessly. If she walks, she is quiet; but when she stops, she speaks without knowing she will speak. She hears her own voice and is alarmed. Why is she speaking? What is she saying? She tells herself to stop, but hears her voice again a few minutes later. Isabella lets the talking continue. She is too tired to control her thoughts. Focus slips away from her, and her mind opens and she can see behind the world now, the great gears turning and the bright hot reality of its meaninglessness. Now she has seen it, she knows she will always feel it inside herself. Safety, food, even happiness may come to her one day, but it is too late. She already knows the truth about life.
Her arms ache. She keeps going.
She keeps going.
I sabella doesn’t count the days. She refuses to go back over them in her mind, because to do so makes her feel the throbbing exhaustion, the desperate fear that there really is nothing to the south. Nothing at all. The nights have been clear with no clouds for the light to reflect off, so she doesn’t see it again. She hasalways been prone to excessive imagining: perhaps the lighthouse was a fantasy. Each day, before she starts to walk, she wades into the warm sea water to clear her head and clean her wounds and gather her courage, and lets it carry her a little while. Her gown, once a good going-to-town dress, is shredded and misshapen, encrusted with blood and dirt. It floats around her like a giant jellyfish. She closes her eyes, feels the motion of the sea. Then opens them and looks south.
And on this day, she sees it. She sees it clear and bright with her own eyes, not half-imagined against clouds.
A light. The lighthouse, sparking into life in the misty distance.
She lurches out of the water, its weight making her cumbersome and slow. She is not hungry now, not tired, nor sore. She is focused solely on getting to the lighthouse. It is perhaps fifteen miles now. Perhaps she can be there tomorrow, before it sparks into life again.
And then, whatever comes next.
I sabella hardly sleeps for excitement. She fights the urge to walk all night; she knows she won’t make it without
Clouds cling to the sky, dark and churning. There will be more rain, but at least it will be a reprieve from the searing sun.
Isabella’s heart catches on a hook. Is that a flash? She looks to the clouds to the south. Was it lightning? Or was it—
There. Again. A light, barely noticeable in the pre-dawn gray, sweeps across the clouds and is gone.
A lighthouse. Meaning returns. Focus intensifies. Hope is reborn.
For where there is a lighthouse, there is a lighthouse keeper.
T he beach goes on forever. The sea is almost emerald today, with caps whiter than newly fallen snow. On and on it rushes androars, and Isabella places one foot in front of the other, dragging her load behind her in the sand. The rhythm of walking and stopping begins to change. Creeks are regular enough that she doesn’t go thirsty; and she now knows which berries and fruits are edible, even if they taste hard and dry. But she is human. She is wearing out. The stops become longer. The walks slower, shorter. Walking becomes trudging, lumbering, falling with only her knees to catch her. She tries to move forward a little every day: between late afternoon and nightfall, slowly, preserving her energy. A vast, aching emptiness surrounds her, pervades her, inhabits her. Alone, alone , the ocean seems to say. Alone, alone . Slowly, ponderously, endlessly. If she walks, she is quiet; but when she stops, she speaks without knowing she will speak. She hears her own voice and is alarmed. Why is she speaking? What is she saying? She tells herself to stop, but hears her voice again a few minutes later. Isabella lets the talking continue. She is too tired to control her thoughts. Focus slips away from her, and her mind opens and she can see behind the world now, the great gears turning and the bright hot reality of its meaninglessness. Now she has seen it, she knows she will always feel it inside herself. Safety, food, even happiness may come to her one day, but it is too late. She already knows the truth about life.
Her arms ache. She keeps going.
She keeps going.
I sabella doesn’t count the days. She refuses to go back over them in her mind, because to do so makes her feel the throbbing exhaustion, the desperate fear that there really is nothing to the south. Nothing at all. The nights have been clear with no clouds for the light to reflect off, so she doesn’t see it again. She hasalways been prone to excessive imagining: perhaps the lighthouse was a fantasy. Each day, before she starts to walk, she wades into the warm sea water to clear her head and clean her wounds and gather her courage, and lets it carry her a little while. Her gown, once a good going-to-town dress, is shredded and misshapen, encrusted with blood and dirt. It floats around her like a giant jellyfish. She closes her eyes, feels the motion of the sea. Then opens them and looks south.
And on this day, she sees it. She sees it clear and bright with her own eyes, not half-imagined against clouds.
A light. The lighthouse, sparking into life in the misty distance.
She lurches out of the water, its weight making her cumbersome and slow. She is not hungry now, not tired, nor sore. She is focused solely on getting to the lighthouse. It is perhaps fifteen miles now. Perhaps she can be there tomorrow, before it sparks into life again.
And then, whatever comes next.
I sabella hardly sleeps for excitement. She fights the urge to walk all night; she knows she won’t make it without
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