The Lighthouse Has Roots

July 3rd, 1929.

I had arrived early that day in the town of Gloucester. The Americans were still setting up their fanfare and decor for their celebrations. A woman adorned in her nation’s colors clung to one of the burly fishermen. Children ran about the stone streets with their sparklers, illuminating their smiles and youth-filled eyes. 

Gloucester was a town of little importance, a prominent fishing town for sure, but it had no great name for itself. A rich history of substantial fish catches, and owner of the state’s oldest whisky bottle, clinging to some semblance of import. My business there was even less significant. A handshake, a signing over of properties, and the accommodating drink after. 

I walked through the town, readying itself for tomorrow’s Feuerwerk display. I thought it an auspicious occasion, myself being in the States at the time of their proud display of revolution. I found their proud display of red, white, and blue amusing, considering their latent oppressors bear the same colors. 

My reservation at the hotel was set, and the large briefcase I had doubled to store my clothes in was getting heavy. My English was quite good, so asking for directions was of little trouble, though I’m sure my accent gave many pause. As I had walked into the colonial-style room and set my coat within the armoire, I opened the glass door to the balcony, which may very well have the best view in town for the next day’s lights. The town sprawled out before me, its great fishing bay filled with boats, its houses all aligned in jutting rows, a park off up towards a hill, and a large lighthouse at the other end of town. It reminded me of two lovers gazing out windows away from one another, as I almost felt as if the lighthouse was looking back at me. 

I readied myself for a walk before the evening’s business dealings. I adjusted my flatcap, and made for the lobby. I looked at a corked wall as I exited. Seeing more than two dozen faces stapled and hammered onto it. I found it heartening, before then realizing its purpose was for the lost. Tommy Green, 10 years old, please call… Amy Parch, 23 years old, missing for 10 days. My gaze quickly shifted towards the exit after my heart sank. 

Back out onto the street, it seemed no one else cared for their forgotten, or perhaps they were using the festivities to assuage their own ennui. I took a new path as I walked towards my desired end goal, the lighthouse. The walk was filled with taking in the sights of this modest town. Sets and displays were like precursors to a chaos that would unfold on the morrow. I expected the walk tomorrow would prove to be a more dazzling affair. 

I reached the grand white spire before I knew it. Well maintained for the most part, aside from a peeling paint patch and a barnacle accumulation at its rocky base. Part of the structure drew me to it, perhaps by its grand design or something else. I slowly placed my right hand up to it; it was warm from the sun, but nothing remarkable. 

The meeting was held at the seaside restaurant for the well-to-do, its portions minuscule, and I’m sure the tavern down the road serving the full dish was one-third the cost. Luckily, liquor is an appetite suppressant. The langweilig men were nothing of note, and neither were their words. Signed, dated, and notarized, my company, now the proud new owner of an American factory.  

My end of the receipt, locked within my all too heavy briefcase. My detour to the restaurant’s bar was perhaps not the smartest move, as my stumbling gait back to the hotel was far more difficult. My mind swished and sloshed with the memories of home, my wife waiting for me, and then slid into the darker recesses of my mind. Ones I do not care to share with you. 

My juggling for the door key was a show for the fly on the wall, I’m sure. My next act of plunging facefirst into the bed was met with silent applause from my insect roommate. 

That night, I dreamed of the view from my balcony out into the town, quiet, torches dimmed, as that same grand spire made its great rotation upon the bay. It’s light, filled with millions of tiny sparklers, slowly streaking across the boats in the harbor, cascading over the hill set to be filled with the town’s denizens tomorrow, and then finally towards m-

I jump awake from my dream as the shattering of my glass door explodes inward. A bird, of some considerable size, came squawking in, making a bloodied beeline towards my mirror. Another shattering of glass ends its life. My eyes blinked and adjusted several times, before I could get my body to move. I slowly walked towards the dying bird of prey, its eyes still reflecting a light I could not pinpoint. Its blood seeps out, catching my foot, the dampness causing me to recoil.

I did not sleep well for the rest of the night. The hotel’s apologies and recompensation did little when I was told no other rooms were available. There I slept, the curtains failing to block the wind leading into the room, the bloodstains still present. At least they did away with the unfortunate bird. 

July 4th, 1929

I felt uneasy the minute my eyes began to open. My room, cleaned of the mess of the intrusion, still hid nothing from last night’s affair. The mirror, now a board of wood, my balcony door providing all the protection that a tent flap offers. 

I made my way downstairs, purposefully avoiding the happy, longing faces of the corkboard. Something caught my eye as I left. To the side of the building, in a dirt patch in between cobbled roads, was a dirt mound. Peering from the center of the mass was a bauble-hilted white protrusion. It stunk of sea, like something dredged from the deepest ocean depths that even bottom feeders rejected. I investigated as long as my nose would allow. I saw a thin line along its top, almost like that of a glass of a bottle, I swear I could almost see a light shallowly skimming across its rim. 

I took my leave.

The laughter and hardy speak of the American language was just as prominent as the smell of cooked meat that pervaded the air. I jeloused at their acclaim for nationalism. Mine, laden with shame, did not allow me the same luxury. I saw men with their women and children, hand blatantly on their spouse’s hip, pulling them closer. I longed for my own wife across the sea. She was the one who kept me comforted and proud. Here, I felt as foreign and forgotten as those on the corkboard. 

My meandering about the town, waiting for my departure tomorrow, was one filled with awe, depression, and curiosity. A cocktail of emotions, I’m sure few recognize. I stood upon the hill, on which the later evening events will be based. I gazed out upon the view as those around me joked, laughed, and played. I stood there as stoic and silent as the watchtower to the shore. 

It was then that something befuddled me. To the northwest and the southwest, two more white spires stuck out.  Surely inland from this location. Why? Why would a lighthouse be inland? Their reflecting glass bulbs were undoubtedly directed towards me. I could feel it. Suddenly, I felt all eyes on me, not from the Americans, but from somewhere else. Foreign, intruder, invader perforated my mind, as I quickly short-stepped down the steep hill back to the semi-safety that my hotel room provided. 

The knob lock engaged, and the chain door interlock sealed. As I backpedaled to the bed. My eyes were not shifting in worry to the door, but to the open gateway to the light seeping through the curtains of the broken patio door. I dug up the whisky from the hidden latch of my briefcase, no doubt an addition to my usual encumbrance, now a saving grace. Hours passed as I slipped slowly from my bedside. The light illuminating from my windows ebbed from yellow, to orange, to red, slowly engrossing into the black of the night. 

Then the shots came, the rattle of war. I ducked behind my bed, at the grazing shrapnel that did not come. My mind replaced itself. F-Feuerwerks. I slowly rose from the wooden floor, feeling a fool, yet internally still stuttering at every pop. 

I thought my earlier paranoia might be distilled by the blazing artwork display outside. I carefully drew the curtains back, as the fresh sea air encompassed me along with the brilliance of the sparkling bombs in the sky. I enjoyed the show for a splinter of a second. Before I saw the cascading light of the lighthouse once again. No holiday would halt its duty as it shone across the black sea. 

As it slowly rounded, I saw something within its light. A pappus, like that of a weed, entangled within. They float within the light, interchangeable with the same sparklers the children held. I watched as they floated into the bodies of the people within the town. Unknowing and unfeeling of this intrusion. 

Before I had a chance to cower again, the light struck me with its oppressive glow…

Oh Gott.

Bitte, ich halte das nicht aus!

Es tut mir leid, was ich getan habe – bitte, Gott, vergib mir!

Das Licht.

Das Licht…