CHAPTER 8: The Island
MY MOTHER, who had been to the Island once before, first pointed out the Lighthouse to me from the ferry. The Lighthouse seemed only a line. A short vertical line, with one end in the sea and one end in the sky. How unaspiring it seemed! Such a puny human effort to draw a mark an inch up the dome of the great sky. A mere budge of the pencil, a dash of graphite, gray against pale blue. But suddenly, at the top of that stubby thing, there was a glint!
“It’s on!” The exclamation broke from me.
“No,” she answered, pressing my hand, for she, too, was excited. “It shines only at night. The sunlight has caught the windowpane like a mirror.”
Then a wave of homesickness lapped within me, for I thought of my forest and the shiny objects my mother hung among the dark trees.
“Why did you hang the mirrors in the woods?” I asked.
But she didn’t answer.
Instead, she asked me how was my stomach and did the motion of the water make me queasy. When I looked at the water, I felt contempt. The color was more green than the dark blue of the English poets, and the waves were small and choppy.
“It’s not wild enough,” I said.
“You always loved a storm,” she said. And she told me again how when I was a small girl, only freshly equipped with language, when it rained I had said, “Harder,” and begged her to make the rain bigger and more extreme.
“How do you like the Lighthouse?” she asked.
“I wish that it were taller.”
She laughed. “Accept the world, Una. It is what it is.”
Gradually, the vertical line of Lighthouse widened, so that the Lighthouse seemed not like a mere pencil line but a brush stroke with width as well as height, inching up the sky. For a time, the sunlight on its high glass glared steadily, but as our angle of approach changed, the whole column went gray and lightless. It grew taller and more satisfactory.
I could see the shaft was made of stone, and some of the stone jutted out so that it appeared knobby as a spine instead of smooth-sided. It tapered like a candle as it grew taller, and at its base was a stone house, the roof of which was shake shingles, covered with a splash of pink roses.
“Oh, the roses,” I said.
“They lie on the roof in the sun all day.”
“And the goats!”
“They’re nimble enough not to fall off the island rocks into the ocean.”
“Did they swim here?”
“The goats were brought by boat. Like us.”
I admired their dark, spiky horns and their big, dark udders.
“My sister shovels up their manure to feed the roses. Perhaps you can help her.”
In Kentucky, small white roses grew in sunny places in the woods, and I loved them well, but these were pink and so profuse, I could scarcely believe in them. The roses climbed up to the roof on wooden trellises, and on the roof lay another trellis which roses’ stems wove under and over. Those roses were the first time nature surprised me; for the first time she exceeded not only what I wanted but what I had imagined possible.
“We’ll have goat cheese for supper, I imagine, and toast, and rose-hip tea.”
At the corner of my eye, I saw a goat jumping, jumping as though to greet us. And then when I looked closer, it was a white apron flapping, and a little girl, jumping and jumping—Cousin Frannie. And I remembered that Aunt Agatha had written I would be good company for her little girl, isolated on the Island. She was four, and I loved her at once for her joyful jumping.
Soon we were disembarked, and when I hugged Frannie, I felt I was hugging a sturdy little churn. The moment I let go of her, the dasher inside made her jump and jump again with joy. Her hair was the color of nutmeg, between red and brown, and across her nose and cheeks were scattered freckles of the same nutmeg color. Her eyes were as green as the sea, and forever I forgave the sea for not appearing blue.
Oh Una, oh Una, oh Una, you’re here was all she said, over and over, in a voice like little bells jangling—with that same pleasant discord. And I held her hands, and big girl that I was, jumped up and down with her. Breathlessly, I asked could we pick the roses and could we pet the goats, and my aunt sent us off to do whichever we preferred without demanding so much as the semblance of proper introductions.
We scampered away, through a gate, up rocks till I knelt to pet a little white goat, and its hairs were very distinct, long and wiry, not nearly so soft as a cow’s, but less sharp than a pig’s. With its insistent, solid little head, the kid nuzzled hard against my chest and hurt me where my bosom was beginning. I looked up from my kneeling to Frannie and, laughing, said, “Make her stop butting.”
“You can’t make her do anything,” Frannie answered. “You yourself must stand up.”
But she took the goat by her shoulders and pulled her back. I stood up, and then the goat butted at my knees.
“Does she have a name?”
“You can name her.”
“She’s ‘Apron,’ then, because she is white as your apron.”
Then I looked up and, for the first time since our landing, noticed the Lighthouse, which was, indeed, a great gray tower so stern and austere in its height that I let my gaze slide down to the cottage.
“I’ve named the Lighthouse,” Frannie said.
“What?”
“His name is ‘the Giant.’ ”
I thought it fit him perfectly, and I took Frannie’s hand, and we walked rather soberly back to our mothers, who, from that little distance, appeared as blotches of windblown color. My mother’s dress was ocher, as was my own, and Aunt Agatha’s dress was deepest indigo. I was startled that here on the bare rock of the Island, colors suddenly had meaning, as though the light itself were defining. Only the stone of the Lighthouse seemed sullen, as though there was no color there to be brought out by even the strongest sunlight. My mind went dizzy with abstraction—the great gray upward sweep, and at its base, a blotch of yellow, a blotch of blue: mothers.
“He can’t move,” Frannie said confidentially. “He can’t step on us.”
OUR MOTHERS’ NAMES were complementary—Agatha and Bertha. Their names belonged together. I wished my mother would not go back to Kentucky, but she planned to stay with us on the Island only a week.
My mother was slightly taller than her sister, and her dark brown hair tended more toward black than red; it was parted smoothly in the middle and soft wings framed her lovely forehead. Aunt Agatha was shorter, and rounder, like her daughter; her brown hair tended toward red, and it was frizzy. She pulled it straight back from her forehead, but a cloud of fine frizz hovered at all the edges. About Agatha, who was the older, there was a certainty, while about my mother, the dominant air was gentleness. I later came to think that they both knew the foolishness of the world, to which Agatha remained unyielding while my mother, less certain that any view could be absolute, responded with pliant accommodation.
For our first meal, they sat together on one side of the rough table, Frannie and I sat together on the other, and Uncle sat at the end of the table facing a small window. From my bench, it was easy to watch the two sisters, and I rather regretted that I did not myself have a sister who was a friend and with whom I could compare myself, the better to understand both my singularity and our commonality. But I had Frannie.
I saw that little Frannie was mostly a replica of her mother, though she had Uncle’s green green eyes. I had Agatha’s eye color, which was the same deep blue as her dress, but my hair color was dark, like my mother’s. The texture of my hair was even more wavy and frizzy than Agatha’s, and everyone who saw it in Kentucky said I had gypsy hair. My body was and is slender, like my mother’s. I was glad of that, as I didn’t like large breasts on women, though they fascinated me on cows and on the goats and seemed quite comely there.
My uncle Jonathan had crisp red hair, and freckles, like Frannie, all over his face and arms to match. He was clean-shaven, and his hair stood up thick and tall and bright. I wondere
d if he could get a cap down over his hair, but perhaps he didn’t need one.
When he caught me staring at his head, he said, “All lighthouse keepers must have red hair, you know.”
I gasped.
“Should the light go out, I myself would stand at the high window and glow.”
I bowed my head in confusion.
The white goat cheese bubbled in a wrought-copper chafing dish, in the center of the table where we could all reach it. “Now, take your toast,” Uncle said, “and spoon the cheese on it. Here are the herb leaves—dill, sage, and thyme—roll the herb you like best between your fingers”—he did so to illustrate—“and sprinkle it over the cheese. Careful not to burn your tongue.”
I did burn my tongue the first time, but then I noted how they all held the toast and melted cheese before their mouths and blew on it before biting. So between the talking, sometimes in the middle of the sentences, there were little huffs and puffs of breath. In a blue bowl there was a pile of stiff, dark green vegetable, all dried, and Aunt told me it was seaweed and good for me.
Glancing toward the small window at the end of the table, I saw twilight was coming on. Uncle Jonathan and Aunt Agatha and Frannie, with my mother joining in, began to sing a song about a lighthouse keeper, but I did not know the words. While they sang, Uncle put a hurricane glass over the candle, the glass settling nicely into a circular groove in the wood of the candlestick holder. I could well imagine that he would not want to climb all the way to the top only to have his candle extinguished accidentally. Then he went to a low door in the side of the room and opened it. The stone steps, quite steep, began at once and bent around the inner wall of the tower.
“The steps are blocks of Belgium granite,” my mother said through the singing, “brought over as ballast in the ships.”
Uncle bent down and passed from the house to the shaft. His voice took on an echo in the tower, and I saw the circle of light disappear.
“Sing la,” my aunt commanded, “till you know the words,” and so I did, with loud and lusty LAs, for it was nicer to join in than to hang back. We seemed most peculiarly snug, we two girls and two women, with the colorful driftwood fire—red, blue, green, yellow flames like feathers—the strange food on the table, and the pretty copper chafing dish. Even the window through which I could see the graying sky was peculiar, for its walls were stone and very thick-sided. I watched the light outside gray until it matched the stone.
Soon we could not hear Uncle’s voice at all, he was so high up. A chilly wind blew down the tower, and Aunt told Frannie to close the door, but I felt uneasy that the door be closed behind him while he was ascending the stone vault.
Then Mother and I sang them a slave song, “Go Down, Moses”—rapt, Frannie breathed, I want to learn it—so we sang it again till she had the words and her eyes glowed with the heroism of Moses. Then Agatha and Frannie sang “Loch Lomond” with a jaunty Scottish accent. After a while, we sang marching music, and Uncle came through the wall, or rather the wooden door in the wall, blowing a harmonica. The notes came and went with his breathing, and his mouth slid back and forth.
“Make a square,” he called, and we all hopped up and circled and danced, Aunt Agatha making the call. What a jolly evening, my first at the Lighthouse, and how my mother’s eyes sparkled beyond their loving glow!
That was not all. Tired out, we sat before the fire, and Frannie passed around saltwater taffy, and Aunt Agatha read Lord Byron aloud. In Kentucky, only the Bible was read aloud when we gathered, but Mother had always read me her poetry books from the trunk when Father was away. When bedtime came to the Lighthouse, my mother went to her traveling locker and took out a quilt she had made for a gift. My aunt exclaimed, “Twelve stitches to the inch, Bertha,” and Uncle asked the name of the pattern.
“Log-cabin,” my mother said, “light and shadow.” It was a very beautiful quilt, pieced with strips, like logs of different lengths, instead of blocks, except there was a small square block in the center, and the section as a whole formed a square before the pattern repeated.
“The red square in the center represents the hearth,” I said, my mother having explained it to me in Kentucky. “Because it is the center of the house.” Actually, the fireplace was in one end of our cabin at home, and not in the center, but I had known that my mother was speaking symbolically.
“The dark green tones are for the forest all around us,” Mother said. “The brown tones are for the deer and the bear and the trunks of the trees.”
“And everything pale is the light, when it can get through.”
“We will let Una have it on her bed,” my aunt said, “and it will remind her of home.”
“I should very much like Una to keep up her own sewing,” my mother said.
“I’ll make you a quilt,” I promised, and I went to stand beside her,feeling again that it would be hard to let her go home. I thought of my father and his black beard and long black hair. And the whip with a handle of black, braided leather, and its long black lash.
“Bertha and I used to run races with our needles,” Aunt Agatha told me.
“Frannie,” her father said, “show your auntie and cousin your seashells now.” I knew that he had seen the shadow of memory darkening my mood; he would defer bedtime till ocean charms occupied my thoughts.
After Frannie fetched her collection, housed in a basket woven of sea grass, with a woven lid, Uncle took out shells one by one and explained that many had come from far away. As I touched their whorls and knobs and spines and admired their spots and shadings of brown, pink, purple, he described to me what oceans the shells had lived in, and what kinds of people and what languages were spoken in those distant places, and what the people wore and ate. It was the most marvelous telling I had ever heard, and yet I grew sleepy listening. Sometimes Uncle himself was in the stories, for he had been a sailor to the South Seas.
I was nodding when he said, “The mouth organ is a proper sailor’s instrument because it slips in a pocket. There’s no room to spare on a ship. Would you like to learn to play, Una?”
I said yes, but then I thought of sliding my mouth in the same place as his, and I did not like the idea.
“We’ll wash it off with good strong soap,” he said, “and then you can play with it.” I stole a shy glance at him, that he should have known my secret thought, that he should have responded so kindly!
“Now,” Auntie said, “let’s go outside so you can see the light. Close your eyes, Una, and we’ll lead you down to the point, and then you can look back.” I got up, half asleep, and Uncle took one elbow and Aunt the other.
“I’ll tie a scarf over her eyes,” my mother said.
So they led me out. My feet felt afraid of the unfamiliar slants and textures. I felt the night’s chill on my arms. Ocean waves were splashing against the rocks, and I heard a goat nicker. I listened to our pairs of feet, sometimes on stone, sometimes on grass, and then on crunchy sand.
“Now there’s a large rock behind you, to sit on,” Aunt Agatha said.
Someone untied the blindfold, and there it was—so high in the night my heart flew into hiding. The light seemed to cut the blackness. It was as though a star had come down to speak to us. The sides of the light flared like a megaphone, and what the light said was Loud, Loud, Loud.
“My senses are confused,” I said.
“It is a wondrous thing,” my mother said.
CHAPTER 9: A Difficult Farewell
AT HOME, in Kentucky, I had liked to stand my paper dolls against the windowpane so that they were surrounded by light. On the Lighthouse, as we moved in the morning of the first day, my mother, uncle, aunt, and cousin seemed similarly defined to my eye, as though they stood always against brightness. Though the cabin window’s light had seemed to elevate the dolls and make them more important than mere flats of paper, here the light almost overwhelmed the human figures—my mother, my aunt and uncle, my little cousin. Four-take-away-one would leave but three to populate the m
oated Lighthouse. No, add one. Me.
We all worked outdoors that day. Mother and Aunt Agatha sat in chairs on the little pier and mended fishing nets. Frannie and I frolicked about, at Aunt’s particular command, which countermanded my mother’s suggestion that we take up the hoes—Frannie had a small one—and cultivate the soil between the rows of onions and radishes. To please Frannie, I consented to splashing water on the ground to make mud pies. From a dirty little basket, she promptly lifted a nest of cunning tin dishes with fluted edges just for the purpose of holding mud dainties. Frannie informed me one of the flat rocks was the oven-rock, and there we would leave the pies to bake.
I noted that Frannie, like myself when I was younger, used far too much water in the mixing of her pies, so that they were unnecessarily soupy, and would surely take a prolonged time to firm. But I said nothing. At one point, I noticed some small, purplish rocks, and I said that we might pretend they were currants and raisins and add them to the batter, but Frannie objected. “I save them for him,” she said.
“For whom?”
She gestured toward the tower, and I noted Uncle up on the encircling platform washing the windows of the lantern house.
“For your father?”
“No. For him.” She gestured again, as before. “For the Giant. I’m making him a collar of all the prettiest stones.”
Still I felt confused.
“I’ll show you. The collar is on the ground around him. Like a path.”
She scampered up the flat rocks till she reached the base of the tower, and there I saw several patches of stones, some dun, some purplish.
“The colors show up best when they’re wet.” She picked up a small dun rock. “These turn golden.” She licked the rock and held it toward me, and it was like a smooth lump of gold. “And those purple are red as rubies”—I reached out and took her hand to restrain her—“when they’re wet.”
“Why do you do this?” I replaced the golden stone among its dull fellows.