#even though its not even an isolated lighthouse its on the mainland.

[mirrortouchedsea]

wip wednesday

Loosely based on @sausagepastry 's lighthouse keeper/merman au

Once the boat was beached on the rocks, Niki scrambled out and pulled it closer so that it wouldn’t get washed away. Kohaku should have been keeping an eye on him and would be down to help in a moment, but Niki was still baffled by the uh, tail, and now that he wasn’t distracted by the rocking of the boat, the fact that there were gills and fins on the merman in front of him. 

“Hey! Wake up!” He tried shouting and shaking the merman. It had grabbed onto the boat out in the water and looked like it was breathing as much as Niki could tell. How something that may or may not have both gills and air breathing lungs would be able to show he was breathing, Niki wasn’t entirely sure, nor was he sure he wanted to know that answer. 

“Niki-han, did you find anythi--oh what is…” Kohaku came to a stop next to Niki, looking at the merman. “Please tell me I’m seein’ things.” 

“I don’t think so, Kohaku-chan. He won’t wake up but I don’t want to leave him in the storm either.” Niki shook the merman’s shoulder again, gently slapping its face to no avail. He pressed a finger to its neck to search for a pulse but he didn’t even know if that would yield any results. There was a faint throbbing though, something like a heartbeat. Could they stay out of water? If only the damn thing were awake and could answer their questions. 

Another lightning strike jolted them back to reality. “Kohaku-chan, start running the bath and get the stove heated. I’ll try and get him in the house.” Kohaku nodded and ran back inside, while Niki contemplated the best way to get the merman back. There was a wheelbarrow somewhere that would probably work well enough to get him up to the door but trying to wheel it up the steps even when it was empty was a challenge. His stomach growled and Niki decided to just grab it and maybe he would just dump it through the door and he and Kohaku could carry it to the bathroom. Yeah, that would work well enough. 

[mazurah]

Fear and Loneliness in Seyda Neen

Seyda Neen reminded Ma’zurah a little bit of home. The tall trees, the smell of water and vegetation, the guar--gods, Ma’zurah had not seen guar since she left Elsweyr--it all conspired to be both painful and comforting.

Her first few steps of freedom after completing the paperwork they made her sign for her release revealed that there was not actually all that much to the town. She could easily see from one end to the other. There were the docks, bordered by the Census and Excise office and a few small warehouses, with a handful of other houses and buildings beyond that. They looked new. Beyond the docks and warehouses on the shore, nestled into the edge of town stood a cluster of older wooden shacks that looked out of place next to the stone and thatch of the new Imperial buildings, like a fishing village that had gotten lost.

Scanning the surrounding area, Ma'zurah saw trees and swamp in one direction, and the sea in the other. She spotted a lighthouse perched at the end of a small peninsula past the last wooden shack; not exactly part of town, but not far enough away to be isolated either. Across a stretch of water, down the uneven coast, Ma'zurah thought she could see something floating like a small moon on the horizon, with buildings standing beneath, but they were much too far to make out any detail.

A cursory search for someplace resembling a shop or an inn revealed the tradehouse, located halfway between the new and old parts of town. Her attempts at conversation resulted in an informative exchange with a Redguard scout who was happy to give her an overview of the local geography.

It was approaching evening by the time Ma'zurah reluctantly turned her mind to what to do next. The tradehouse had no rooms available, and she had her orders: go to Balmora, deliver a package, and receive her next set of instructions. She had been given enough money to afford a fare on the strange, tall insect whose echoing call reverberated like something that should by all rights have been underwater. The ride was exciting, like riding a walking tree while the sun set in fabulous shades of pink and red around her. It was long past dark by the time the insect brought her to her destination.

Balmora did not remind Ma’zurah of home, and she was not sure if she should be disappointed or relieved that not all of this new strange land plucked at her emotions the same way the swamp did. Though the hour was late, there were still people about, mostly Dark Elves who gave her sidelong looks that she did not know how to interpret. She moved past them quickly, too aware of how visible her white fur was in the dark.

Finding Caius Cosades proved more difficult than she had anticipated, and sent her through parts of town she would otherwise have avoided, especially at night. She found him in what had to be the smallest house in the dirtiest alleyway in Balmora. He opened the door bleary-eyed and shirtless, and Ma’zurah immediately smelled moon sugar. It would have been a welcome scent if she had been in Elsweyr, if he had not been Imperial. Instead, it irked her. She had seen what happened to non-Khajiit who used the stuff in the Imperial City, and she did not like it. There was a good reason it was sacred to the Khajiit but denied to all else.

Tight-lipped, she proffered the package. Cosades read the label. His gaze sharpened and he waved her inside, all hint of the effects of the sugar gone from his stance as soon as the door was shut. He bolted it behind him, and Ma'zurah's heart sped up. Her fingers felt the familiar, comforting gestures of an invisibility spell, but she did not put any magicka into it. This man was supposed to be her "superior and patron" in Morrowind? The tip of her tail twitched in nervousness as Cosades read in silence.

Her waiting was rewarded with something that might have resembled an explanation if it had not been so absurd. The Emperor wanted her to become a Blade.

She dismissed the "Emperor" part immediately. She could safely assume he did not mean the literal Emperor. That was how these official types liked to talk; any action taken on behalf of the Empire was always the work of the Emperor. She knew about the Blades of course; they were supposed to be the Emperor's spies and personal guard. She was not exactly sure how she was expected to go directly from imprisonment to becoming a Blade entrusted with state secrets and the Emperor's life, but it seemed suspect at best.

"There must be some mistake," she told him.

He gave her a piercing stare, looked pointedly at the document he was holding, and asked, "You are Ma'zurah, correct? No surname, formerly of the state of Pellitine?"

Ma'zurah nodded mutely.

"No mistake. You are to become a Novice in the Blades, and that means you'll be following my orders. Are you prepared to follow my orders, Ma'zurah?"

Her fingers itched for the invisibility spell, but he was standing between her and the door, which was locked. "What happens if Ma'zurah says no?" she asked weakly.

"Then I will have to put you back on a boat for the mainland and return you to prison." His tone was dismissive, but Ma'zurah could tell he was watching her closely.

There was a long pause as Ma'zurah digested this information.

"Indefinitely," he added as the silence stretched.

The fur on the back of her neck stood up, and she felt a flash of anger for a brief moment before her anxiety subsumed it. She could not afford to lash out. She had to consider her options rationally.

She could probably get past him if she really tried, but if he really was a high ranking member of the Blades, and she could not see any way that he was not, then he would probably just put out a warrant for her arrest. In a strange province with no friends, or clan, or even allies, no real knowledge of the land, and with her distinctive appearance, it was doubtful she would be able to hide for long.

No friends or clan; she had not realized how vulnerable that made her. She was all alone. Her anxiety curdled suddenly into an icy spike of true fear. This had to be illegal, right? This was coercion. But there was no authority she could appeal to that would be willing to stand up to the Blades. Would anyone even believe her?

No running then. Maybe it would not be so bad. It was not her ideal job, and she had no loyalty to the Empire, but maybe she could get something out of it--some money and a place to sleep at the very least--even if the whole thing still rubbed her fur the wrong way.

"May Ma'zurah ask why she has been chosen for this honor?" she finally asked, her tone careful.

The man raised one brow at her. "No, Ma'zurah may not. Now will you take the oath, or am I going to have to send you back to Cyrodiil?"

Ma'zurah took the oath.

The next few days were a whirl of instructions and introductions. She did indeed get some money, and was told to get her bearings in Balmora, and get some equipment and training. To that end, Cosades sent her to three Blades agents in Balmora who would be able to provide the necessary training--for a fee, of course--and assistance in an emergency. When she had returned from introducing herself to them, three small gifts and much advice richer, Cosades gave her the names and locations of four more around Vvardenfell she should introduce herself to at some point. He suggested she start with the Redguard scout in Seyda Neen. Elone would be able to help her get the lay of the land, he said. Ma'zurah did not know how to feel when she realized she had probably met the woman already.

Finally, Cosades told her to establish a cover identity, and instructed her to check in with him next month to discuss its progress. "I don't care what it is, so long as it doesn't point back to us," he told her. "Go back to prostitution for all I care. The point is to establish a history for yourself here."

Ma'zurah scowled and went to sign up with the local Mages Guild instead. When she asked for work, she received an assignment from a distracted, but friendly Suthay alchemist to gather mushrooms from the swamp.

Happy to have such a solid excuse to return to the swamp that reminded her even a little of the jungles of her homeland, Ma'zurah procured a herbalist's bag and a book of local plants in a language she could actually read, and set off the next day, walking instead of riding, taking in the landscape at her own pace. It was beautiful, but lonely. She wished she had someone to share it with.

At least she had direction. She was not sure what she would have done with herself without direction. She had a task, and it distracted her minutely from the horrible anxiety of being so completely alone in a foreign land full of strangers who did not care about her. She wished she had a friend. Just one person who cared would be enough. Maybe then she would not feel as though she was climbing a narrow tree branch over the head of a hungry tiger. She had no one to steady her if she started to lose her balance. The utter lack of social connection was a new experience for her, and not one she liked. She felt vulnerable.

She missed her friends back in the Imperial City. She had not felt so alone since she had found out she would never be allowed to return to Elsweyr, and even then she had still had Dra'nassa. She had gone from a tribe of many to a tribe of two in a single day--a day she had previously considered to be the worst in her life. It had been hard building up connections after that, to replace the support of the tribe she had grown up in with one of her own making, but she had done it. When Dra'nassa had died, she had made enough friends to see her through her grief without despair.

This was worse. Now she had no one. Cosades had made it clear she could not go back to her old life. She would have to start over from nothing again, this time without Dra'nassa's help.

It was enough to make her want to cry. She saw a mushroom and distracted herself with the task at hand. If the fur of her cheeks was wet, the mushrooms certainly did not care.

She had already filled the bag halfway by the time she got back to Seyda Neen. She presented herself to the scout Elone--again--and tried not to feel horrible and ridiculous when she introduced herself as the Blades' newest novice.

The woman seemed friendly enough, and gave her a copy of "Guide to Vvardenfell" with accompanying maps. Ma'zurah was grateful. Maps were expensive. Ma'zurah asked if there was anything she could do to help her in return. Elone pursed her lips and sent her to check on a friend of hers who lived a short way outside of town.

"She was supposed to come see me after she got back from her scouting," Elone told her. "She's late. I'd check on her myself, but I have work I have to finish. It's probably nothing, Jasmine can take care of herself, but it's not like her to stay out for so long. Just check at her house and tell me if she's there. She might just be sick or something."

Ma'zurah agreed and went to check.

The house was locked and appeared empty. There was no answer to her knock, so Ma’zurah peeked through the window, and saw no lights lit. Frowning, she checked the muddy path for tracks, trying to determine if Elone's friend had been home recently enough to leave evidence. Ma'zurah was not the greatest tracker, but she knew enough to hunt animals in deep jungle, and enough to discover a faint set of prints leading up to the house, and another of the same size heading down the path in the direction of the town. Perhaps she had just missed the woman? But no, neither set seemed fresh enough.

She followed the path and the footprints back in the direction of Seyda Neen, resolving to tell Elone of her discovery. She was most of the way back to town when she came across several more sets of footprints--at least three, all overlapping--intercepting the first set of footprints. The trail became smudged and some of the prints scattered and came back, and the next trail Ma’zurah could find led into the underbrush at an angle, away from town. Whoever they were, they had taken Elone's friend with them for reasons inscrutable to Ma'zurah. Kidnapping was not typical behavior for bandits, and surely if the woman had come across friends on the path, they would not have trampled the ground quite so much. Each subsequent scenario Ma'zurah thought of was more worrying than the last.

She followed the tracks to a cave, thanking Azurah for the wet ground. Trampled plants stuck to the mud, making the trail easy to follow all the way to the stone of the cave mouth. It was hidden against a hillside at the edge of the swamp, behind a set of boulders that blocked line of sight from the path. Ma’zurah cautiously poked her head inside, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness, and saw the glow of a fire.

She followed the cave a few paces deeper into the hillside until she found the source of the light: a campfire, with a Dark Elf woman tending it. An overturned rowboat had been pulled into the shelter of the cave as well, and the back wall was blocked off by a fence. There was something wrong here, something obvious Ma'zurah was missing, but she could not pinpoint what.

And she would not find out what was going on by standing here like a lump.

"Hello?" Ma'zurah called.

The woman by the fire whirled, knife drawn. Ma'zurah gasped and cast invisibility on herself and dove for the shadows.

"Ku’or havag?" the woman called, stalking toward the cave entrance.

Ma'zurah could have kicked herself. Why would a woman sitting in a cave at the edge of a swamp respond positively to an unexpected stranger, no matter what reason she had for being there? She should have predicted this kind of a reaction instead of calling out and making it that much harder to sneak past an alert person. And of course a Dark Elf would be speaking the Dark Elven language in Morrowind. Somehow, Ma'zurah had not yet run into the language barrier in any significant way. She was going to have to learn the language.

"Ku’or edur diru?" The woman passed Ma'zurah's hidden form and stared out into the swamp, frowning.

There was a moment's pause, and Ma'zurah huddled against the wall of the cave, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

The woman turned abruptly on her heel and approached the wooden fence set into the back of the cave, muttering something incomprehensible under her breath.

Ma'zurah followed as closely behind her as she dared, practically holding her breath. Her heart was pounding. There was definitely something wrong here. She was sure of it now, even if she could not say why. It was a subtle thing, told in the set of the woman's jaw, or the hardness of her expression. It made the fur on the back of Ma'zurah's neck stand up.

If she could only figure out what was going on, or even just confirm that Elone's friend was here, she would not have to report back to Elone with so little news. She wished she had asked Elone for a description of her friend Jasmine.

The Dark Elf opened the gate and Ma'zurah slipped in behind her. Beyond the gate, the cave split into two paths, the leftmost branch leading up to another fence with a gate in it, and the rightmost branch leading down a slope and out of sight. Ma'zurah thought she could hear running water somewhere below.

The Dark Elf woman took the rickety wooden ramp down the uneven stone slope to the right. Ma'zurah started to follow when the woman called something ahead of herself. Two more Dark Elves appeared at the bottom of the ramp, and the woman spoke urgently to them. Their faces turned grim, and both stalked toward Ma'zurah's position.

Ma'zurah nearly panicked, trying to scramble out of their way without making any noise. She darted up the ramp to the left until she was almost backed up against the fence at the top. Oblivious to Ma'zurah's presence, the two Elves exited toward the mouth of the cave, leaving the woman at the bottom to retreat further down and out of Ma'zurah's sight.

Heart racing, Ma'zurah slumped against the fence, and the invisibility spell broke.

"Hey," a low feminine voice hissed urgently through the fence behind her, making Ma'zurah jump. "Do you have the key?"

Ma'zurah's fingers froze in the process of reapplying her invisibility spell as she registered the words. She peered between the slats of the fence and discovered a brown oval face with wide dark eyes and long black hair.

"Are you Jasmine?" Ma'zurah whispered back.

The face hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Please, you have to get us out of here." There was the faintest edge of desperation in her whispered tones. Ma'zurah's hackles rose again.

"Us?" Ma'zurah asked numbly.

Jasmine stepped back, allowing Ma'zurah to see through the narrow gaps in the fence. Huddled at the back of the small enclosure were two Argonians and a Suthay-raht, all wearing only the barest scraps of clothing. The Argonians both had a greenish tint to their scales, but one of them was shorter with a long row of spikes protruding from forehead to back of the neck, while the other had a pair of spikes on either side of the head. The Khajiit was orange-furred, with black markings around his eyes and nose, and had long mustaches which hung down on either side of his mouth. He was also topless, Ma'zurah observed, feeling faintly scandalized by the display of torso fur. And she could see his ribs beneath his fur, she realized with a different kind of shock. She did not know much about Argonian anatomy, but they did not look too good either.

The pieces slotted into place suddenly, along with the memory of half-heard rumors from Cyrodiil. This was slavery. Those Dark Elves out there meant to sell these people. She had heard the Dark Elves kept slaves, but she had not realized what that meant before. Sudden tears of horror and sympathy pricked at her eyes.

"What should Ma’zurah do?" she asked Jasmine urgently. Jasmine was, she noticed, by far the healthiest looking of the group. "She can… She can run and get help?"

"There's no time,” Jasmine whispered back. “I overheard them say they were going to move us. We have to get out of here before that happens or you'll never be able to find us again. You've got to get the key to the gate, and maybe the keys to our shackles. If I had a weapon, I could fight, but I don't think the others could."

Ma'zurah nodded firmly. "Ma'zurah will be back."

She stalked invisibly down into the depths of the cave, past a branch of tunnel filled with water, and up a wooden deck covered with crates. Fury had eclipsed her fear. Her hands shook with how angry she felt. It was not right. How could anyone hold people captive like this and disregard their suffering? How could they use people's suffering for profit? How could they live with themselves?

The Dark Elf woman was not in sight, so Ma'zurah began searching crates. She had searched two, finding nothing but alcohol and cheap imported clothing before her head caught up to her and she cast a spell, willing her magicka to show her keys.

She saw the glow of something small atop a crate when her time ran out, and the Dark Elf woman walked into view.

Ma'zurah panicked, but instead of fleeing again, she dove for the woman, claws extended, spurred on by the anger that mixed oddly with her fear. The woman only had time to shriek "N'wah!" before Ma'zurah's hands wrapped around her throat, claws tearing.

The next thing she knew, the woman was motionless on the ground, and Ma'zurah's hands were slick with blood. She felt like she could not breathe properly, like someone had punched her in the gut. She had never hurt anyone before in her life, and now…

She scooped up the key and the woman's dagger and retreated up the ramp to free the others before her thoughts could catch up with her and render her useless. Her hands shook as she fitted the key in the lock, and the key nearly slipped between her blood-slick fingers.

The door came open, and Ma'zurah thrust the dagger into Jasmine's hands. "Here. Ma'zurah did not find the shackle keys. Can we leave without them?"

"Keep looking," one of the Argonians advised in a half-cracked voice. "We will not find many willing to remove slave bracers. We will draw too much attention wearing them."

"There are at least two more people around here," Ma'zurah warned, mentally beating her emotions into submission. Her hands were still shaking. "We will have to hurry before they come back."

They filed down into the lower recesses of the cave, Ma’zurah at the front, Jasmine bringing up the rear with the knife. The Suthay-raht looked sidelong at the body of the fallen Dark Elf as they passed, eyes flicking from the claw gouges on her neck to Ma’zurah’s bloody hands. There was something like approval in his eyes.

Ma’zurah cast the spell of finding again, looking for something that might unlock the magic suppressing bracers on the wrists of her companions. The spell revealed another key on the body of the Elf, but it was too big to fit into any of the shackles.

They proceeded further into the cave, uncovering more crates, more clothing, more alcohol, a small stack of coins, and a pile of pillows with what Ma'zurah's nose told her was moon sugar smuggled inside. She dumped one out, frowning at the little purple vials that fell along with the paper envelopes of white crystals. Confused, she sniffed one of the vials and got the overpowering scent of moon sugar and alchemy for her trouble.

"Skooma," the Suthay-raht rasped behind her in explanation.

Ma'zurah dropped the thing hastily. The Clan Mothers always taught that moon sugar was a blessing from Azurah, but skooma was a perversion created by Imperials.

It was also not a key. She searched the crates again for the telltale glow of the spell, but found nothing.

"There are no keys here," she told the group. They would have to keep moving.

They twisted around a narrow gap at the back of the cavern, only to find another wooden fence, and beyond it, a flooded tunnel descending down even further.

"We could dive for it," one of the Argonians offered, and distractedly Ma’zurah realized from her voice that the Argonian was probably female, though Ma'zurah was hardly in a position to judge someone's gender based on their physical attributes.

"I doubt they hid the keys underwater though," the second Argonian concluded.

There was a sudden shout from back the way they had come and Ma’zurah’s breath caught in her throat. The overwhelming emotions she had been suppressing threatened to overtake her again. In her peripheral vision, she saw Jasmine raise her knife and start back toward the noise, and Ma'zurah realized she had also committed herself to protecting these people. She frantically tried to remember everything she had learned about Destruction magic at the Arcane University and ran past Jasmine, readying a blast of frost.

She had just enough time to register that the two Dark Elves who had left had returned with three others in tow, and that they had just stumbled on the dead body of their compatriot, before she loosed the spell in her hands with as much force as she could muster.

There was a reverberating crack and a hair-raising rumble as the telekinetic blast propelling her spell forward connected not just with her foes, but with the far wall of the cave and a low hanging portion of the ceiling. Stone cracked, the ground shook, and before anyone had time to do anything more than scream, the roof caved in, burying the group of Dark Elves and the exit.

A deafening silence followed. Nobody moved.

“Well,” Jasmine began, lowering her dagger.

The mountainous pile of rock and gravel that covered the exit shifted slightly, and a scattering of scree clattered down the heap. One of the torches illuminating the cave flickered and died.

Ma’zurah sat down on the ground and promptly burst into tears.

“Oh no…” moaned the Suthay-raht. “Oh nooo…”

“Let’s not panic,” Jasmine said, with a kind of calm Ma’zurah could not imagine she actually felt. They were stuck here, and it was all Ma’zurah’s fault. She felt herself begin to hyperventilate.

“Be right back,” one of the Argonians said in a matter-of-fact tone. There was the sound of retreating footsteps, then a ripple of water and a splash.

A flicker of hope cut through Ma'zurah's panic at the sound. There might be another way out! She scrubbed at her face with her hands, trying to quiet her emotions. The scent of blood assaulted her nose like a warhammer and she recoiled, trying not to begin hyperventilating again for a different reason.

“Alright,” a deep reptilian voice said from just behind Ma’zurah, and Ma’zurah felt hands under her armpits, lifting her to her feet. “Come on, get up.”

The remaining Argonian clasped his hand around her upper arm and led her through the back of the cave to the flooded tunnel. He stopped at the water’s edge. “Clean yourself up a bit. You'll feel better.”

Ma’zurah nodded gratefully and knelt to wash her hands and face.

“Sorry,” she said guiltily once she had finished scrubbing. The cold water had grounded her flying emotions into a hard but manageable lump, and her newly regained clear-headedness brought with it an awful awareness. These people had been literal slaves, and here she was the only one crying like a newborn kitten.

The Argonian looked at her with an indecipherable expression. Heat blossomed in her face despite the chilly dampness of her fur. Her emotions still felt like a tangle, and she could not find the words to adequately explain why she was apologizing. “Thanks,” she finally said instead.

The Argonian turned his head away. “Don’t mention it.”

Jasmine appeared behind her with the Suthay-raht just as the water rippled and the other Argonian surfaced.

“It’s a bit of a climb,” she told them in her odd rasping accent, “but it looks like there is a way out.

Jasmine nodded firmly. “Alright, gather what you want to take from here, and let’s go.”

Ma’zurah simply sat at the water’s edge and waited for the others. The roiling tangle of emotion in her gut made the prospect of looting the remaining crates totally unappealing, and besides, the others probably needed the things more. They could get new clothes at least.

The Argonian was right. It was a bit of a climb. Once they surfaced on the other side of the flooded tunnel, they had to climb a tall bank to get out of the water, and then up a steep tunnel that opened suddenly behind a cluster of stalactites into the cavern wall above and to the right of the fence that led to the freed slaves’ erstwhile cell. Once they made the drop down, they had only to walk over and open the gate that led to the cave entrance.

“Wait,” Ma’zurah said suddenly, remembering. “Your shackles--”

“We know,” said Jasmine quietly.

“The keys were probably buried,” one of the Argonians explained. Guilt shot through Ma'zurah. No one had cast any blame, but she still felt it.

“We’ll figure something out once we get out of here.” Jasmine gestured them through the gate. “We can go to my house. It’s not far.”

They went to Jasmine’s house. She retrieved a key from a flower pot and let them inside, and the five of them collapsed onto the plush rug in the middle of Jasmine’s floor, relieved and emotionally drained after their ordeal. There was a long moment of silence.

Jasmine got up abruptly and rummaged through her cupboards. She returned with half a loaf of bread and a knife, and served each of them slices.

Ma’zurah chewed hers in silence. As soon as Jasmine’s door had closed between her and the outside world, she had felt her grasp on her emotions slipping. She could feel the tears coming. She could not let the others see her cry again. She did not know what would be worse, having them ignore her or try to comfort her.

She stood up. “Ma’zurah needs to-- Ma’zurah has got to-- Be back.” She fled out the front door and into the little outhouse at the side of Jasmine’s house. She closed the door behind her and took one shaky breath before the tears came in full force and she was sobbing and shuddering. She sat down on the wooden outhouse seat, still in her damp clothing, and rode the wave of her emotions.

She felt bad. And once she felt bad about one thing, more reasons to feel bad flooded her. She could have died! She had not cast invisibility, and instead she had fought, and she could have died. She had never hurt anyone before, but this time she had fought and killed someone. Several someones, actually, but the rest were not nearly as personal as the first someone. They could have killed her, but instead she had their blood on her hands, figuratively and literally, though she did not think she felt nearly as bad about them being dead as she did about having to be the one to commit the act. That also made her feel bad. What was wrong with her that she was more upset about having clawed a woman’s throat out than about the woman being dead? She was no stranger to blood, but killing animals was nothing like killing people. And still, she felt less upset about having dropped a cave on top of a group of people than she did about the memory of warm blood beneath her claws. She should not feel like this!

And then there was the slavery. She had not thought about what slavery was really like before. It had always been an abstract concept that was far away and never affected her personally. To be confronted by the reality of it so suddenly was a shock, though she probably should have seen it coming. She just had not connected the Morrowind of Imperial rumor and speculation with the Morrowind she had been sent to. Was she in danger of being captured and sold? She supposed she was, especially since that seemed to be what had happened to Jasmine, and Jasmine was not even Khajiit! This province was dangerous. She did not feel safe!

Why had they sent her here? She did not want to be here! She did not know anything about this place. She did not even speak the language! She wanted to be back in the Imperial City studying magic and laughing with her friends. She was alone here. She did not have any friends in this strange land--no clan, not even the self-made clan she had gathered around herself after she had been exiled from Elsweyr, and after Dra’nassa had died. She had never been so alone in her life. It was terrifying.

The tears came harder. She felt so bad! The mental refrain felt like a wail.

And she could not leave! She could not leave after swearing an oath to the Blades, or she would be branded a traitor and hunted down and imprisoned for the rest of her life! It was a kind of slavery itself, whether she stayed or tried to leave. She had not done anything to deserve this kind of treatment! Whoever had picked her to join the Blades obviously did not know anything about her. She was the worst pick for that kind of job. They should have asked instead of forcing her to join. She did not want it! She just wanted to leave. But she could not, because they were coercing her, and she was scared. She was scared of being branded a traitor and hunted, she was scared of the Blades, and she was scared of Caius Cosades. Caius Cosades was not a nice man. She wished she never had to speak to him again. She wished she never had to speak to any of the Blades again, even Elone, who seemed nice, but could not be trusted because she was a Blade, and the Blades were not nice people.

She felt so bad. She felt so bad! She was alone in this province, no friends, no clan, no one who cared if she felt bad, and she could not leave, and she was angry and scared, and she felt so bad!

There was a knock on the outhouse door. “Ma’zurah?” Jasmine’s voice was muffled, but recognizable.

Ma’zurah sniffled and scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand. The fur of her cheeks, already damp from the swim through the flooded tunnel, was soaked again. “Sorry, Ma’zurah will be out soon,” she managed to croak out. Her nose was stuffed up, and her eyes were sore and puffy.

“I brought you a change of clothes. I thought you might want something dry.”

Ma’zurah opened the door. Jasmine’s face fell at the sight of her. “Oh dear…”

Ma’zurah shook her head violently. “No no, Ma’zurah does not want to hear it. Jasmine has been through much worse.”

Jasmine drew her brows together. “It’s not a competition. What's wrong?"

Ma'zurah shook her head mutely. There was no way she was going to lay her troubles on someone who still wore the shackles of slavery. The Clan Mothers had not raised her to be a burden.

Jasmine clicked her tongue. "Well, it looks like a change of clothes isn't going to be enough. Come inside and I'll get you a towel. Baadargo is using my washtub right now, but you're welcome to bathe after him."

With guilt, Ma'zurah realized she had not asked for the names of any of the others. How self absorbed was she? Her emotions felt like they had been scraped raw, and tears welled in her eyes again.

Jasmine's eyes went wide. "Whoa, hey, it's alright! You're alright, okay?" Her hands fluttered around Ma'zurah's shoulders, but did not quite touch her.

Ma'zurah nodded agreement, but the tears would not go away. She contemplated retreating into the outhouse again, but she had already alarmed Jasmine enough. She needed a distraction.

"Tell Ma'zurah--" Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat and tried again. "Tell Ma'zurah how Jasmine got in that cave?"

Jasmine's shoulders slumped and she let out a long sigh. Alarmed at her suddenly morose expression, Ma'zurah made a placating gesture. "You do not have to--"

"No, it's-- You deserve to hear it after everything you did for me. Actually, I was meaning to thank you. If you hadn't come along…" Jasmine paused, eyes distant. "I was just trying not to think about it yet."

"Ma'zurah is sorry--"

Jasmine shook her head. "You have nothing to be sorry about." Her shoulders straightened again. "In any case, there's no point standing around out here when we could be sitting inside. I'll find you a towel, and then I'll tell you the whole thing if you want."

Ma'zurah followed Jasmine inside, reluctant to show her face to the others, but unwilling to be rude to the woman who was trying to be nice to her.

As soon as they got inside, the pair of Argonians approached them. Ma'zurah tried to hide behind Jasmine without looking like she was doing so.

"You have been a most generous to host us," the deeper-voiced of the Argonians told Jasmine, making a complicated hand gesture.

“And a kind rescuer,” the second interjected, pointedly looking at Ma’zurah and making the same gesture. Ma'zurah's face felt too warm.

“And we wish to show our gratitude."

The pair of them exchanged glances, and the second one took up where the first had left off. "We have nothing we could offer as thanks, so we were thinking--"

The first one made eye contact with Jasmine. "If you are willing to lend us the use of your cooking fire--"

"And you are willing to wait for us to catch the fish before we cook them…" The second Argonian shoved an admonishing hand against the first's shoulder with a look that might have contained amusement, though Ma'zurah was no expert at reading Argonian expressions.

Jasmine blinked at the pair. "By all means, feel free," she told them, sounding surprised.

"Then we will be back with a feast!" the first Argonian declared, and the pair of them exited the house.

"At least they're happy," Jasmine said with a shake of her head. She crossed the room and searched her cabinets for a towel.

Ma’zurah stood in the doorway and took in the room for the first time. The house was small, probably only two rooms large; modest by Imperial standards, but clean. The room she was in held a kitchen in the Imperial style, a table, a fireplace, a writing desk, and a large bookshelf, but no bed, and no washtub. Ma’zurah could hear the sounds of splashing from the next room. She could even hear the Suthay-raht, Baadargo singing muffled snatches of song in what must have been the Dark Elf language, because it certainly was not Ta'agra. With a pang of loneliness, Ma’zurah realized she had not heard anyone speak Ta’agra since she got to Morrowind. She hugged her arms around her chest.

Jasmine returned with a fluffy towel, which she draped gently across Ma'zurah's shoulders, and led her out of the doorway. Ma’zurah followed her with a painful hope in her chest. Jasmine was being nice, friendly even, and Ma’zurah had been so alone. She desperately needed a friend. She felt like they had the spark of connection; maybe Jasmine could be the friend she needed.

Once Ma’zurah was dry and clothed in Jasmine's loaned dress, she found herself sitting next to Jasmine at the table as the woman began the story of how she had gotten caught.

"I've been working with my friend Elone to track the activity of smugglers along this section of the Bitter Coast--"

Ma'zurah had to interrupt. "Is Jasmine a Blade too?" she blurted out, dreading the answer. Blades could not be trusted, no matter how nice they were. She cringed, realizing what she had just said.

Jasmine gave her a puzzled and vaguely alarmed look. "No, I'm technically an independent contractor. Elone commissions me to help her when she gets assignments too big for one person or she's too busy to go out herself. But now I'd like to know how you know Elone is a Blade. Not many people know that."

Ma'zurah bit her lip. She had probably given away too much already. She had been raised by the Clan Mothers; she was supposed to know the value of keeping secrets. She knew it was expected of her as a Blade, but she just was not cut out for weaving the kind of elaborate subterfuge required of a spy. They should have asked her before dragging her into this mess. She felt bitter about the whole thing, and not a little rebellious. She was tired and lonely. She wanted to tell Jasmine. Besides, if Jasmine knew the truth about Elone, Cosades probably would not punish her for telling the truth about herself as well. Especially if he never found out.

"Ma'zurah is a Blade too now," she mumbled. She felt absurdly like she was telling a dirty secret, though she was not sure she could articulate why.

Jasmine opened her mouth, stopped, and closed it again. "I see," she said finally. Something in her expression became ever so slightly more closed off, as though she was watching her words in a way she had not been before. Maybe she was worried about getting Elone in trouble, or maybe she did not trust the Blades either. Maybe she thought Ma'zurah was like Cosades. The thought made Ma'zurah feel as though she could not breathe. She was filled with the sudden, desperate need to tell Jasmine the whole story; to distance herself from the Blades and prove she was not one of them, not really. She wanted to regain that small measure of trust that she had just lost. She was already so isolated, she did not want to lose this connection. She needed a friend so badly.

"You asked why Ma'zurah was upset," she began urgently, leaning closer to Jasmine.

"Yes?" Jasmine looked surprised at the change of subject.

"It is related."

The story came torrenting out: the illegal prostitution charges, the prison sentence, the inexplicable deportation, the package for Caius Cosades, the extortion. She told her about how she did not want to be a Blade, how she did not feel safe in Morrowind, and how she could not leave. She started crying again in the middle of it, and Jasmine put a hand on her knee. Ma'zurah hid her face in her damp towel, but kept talking until she got it all out.

"I'm sorry, that sounds awful," was Jasmine's quietly horrified response. Ma'zurah's gaze flicked to the magic suppressing slave bracer still locked around Jasmine's wrist and remembered her resolution not to be a burden. She could not bring herself to regret telling Jasmine though, because there was genuine sympathy in her eyes now instead of that quiet wariness. And Ma’zurah would not be a burden if this was a mutual exchange.

"Your turn," she said, sniffling. "You just got captured by slavers. Do you want to talk about it?"

Jasmine closed her eyes. "No, but I should."

She told Ma’zurah about how she had been scouting, and been caught snooping too close to the smugglers' cave. She had made a hasty retreat, and thought she had avoided being pursued, so she had gone home. She was on her way into town to report to Elone when she had been ambushed. She could have fought them off if one of them had not snuck up on her from behind.

"I was so scared…" Jasmine's voice was so small it was nearly a whisper. “They were going to sell me. Who knows what would have happened to me after that. They said I would be… valuable. Because of my looks. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared in my life. Not even when--not ever.” She closed her eyes, and the tears that had been slowly welling in them finally spilled over. She swiped at them with her fingertips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“It is fine." Ma'zurah put a hand on Jasmine's knee. "It seems like a reasonable reaction.”

Jasmine shook her head and covered her face with her hands.

Baadargo chose that moment to open the door to the next room. He looked much better. His orange fur had been combed, and he was dressed in more than just rags. He took in the scene and his eyes gained a quality similar to those of a frozen deer. Ma’zurah tried to offer him a tremulous smile, but he retreated, closing the door behind him quietly.

“Sorry,” Jasmine repeated once her shoulders stopped shaking. She tried to wipe her face with her hands, and Ma’zurah offered a corner of her towel. Jasmine looked at it skeptically, and went to retrieve a washcloth instead.

“In the cave,” Jasmine continued after she had wiped her face and steadied her breath, “you asked me if I was Jasmine. How did you know who I was, and where to find me?”

“Elone asked Ma’zurah to check at Jasmine’s house to see if she was there. Ma’zurah found footprints leading from Jasmine’s house, and she followed them.”

“I see. Thank you. I can’t imagine what would have happened to me if you hadn’t done that.”

Ma’zurah nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but Jasmine had closed her eyes and was sitting very still. She looked like she was waiting, Ma’zurah thought, or listening.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s over.”

“It is,” Ma’zurah assured her. “They cannot sell you, or anyone now.”

Jasmine just shook her head. "The thought of going back out, scouting the Bitter Coast like before…" Jasmine took a shuddering breath. "I don't think I can do it. Not--not yet. Not for a while, maybe, and not by myself."

Ma'zurah nodded sympathetically.

"What are you doing after this?" Jasmine asked, turning her focus back to Ma'zurah with a suddenness that startled her.

"Er, Ma'zurah is doing jobs for the Balmora Mages Guild, she thinks. Why?"

"Do you think--" She stopped and tried a new tack. "You seem like you can take care of yourself."

Ma'zurah nodded slowly. She usually took care of herself by turning invisible when things became dangerous, but she supposed today's events proved she could take care of herself in other ways too. She was not sure where Jasmine was going with this.

"Do you think I could… travel with you for a while? Help you with jobs?" Jasmine's voice sounded hopeful, and her words tumbled out in a rush. "Only if you want the company. I wouldn't be a burden. I have a strong sword arm, and I'm good with a bow. I couldn't ask Elone for something like this, she can't leave the Bitter Coast right now, and I don't know anyone else well enough to be able to ask--"

"Yes!" Ma'zurah felt like she would burst. She would not be alone anymore! She threw her arms around Jasmine's shoulders. "Yes, of course! Ma'zurah would be glad to have your company."

Jasmine stiffened in surprise, then released a breath and returned Ma'zurah's embrace, smiling ruefully. "It will be good to get back on the road again."

Ma'zurah sat back and beamed at her.

"First things first. We have to take care of these." Jasmine tapped the bracer on her wrist. "I don't think it would be safe to ask a blacksmith or a locksmith for help, but I was thinking maybe we could get some scrolls. They might be expensive, but maybe Elone knows someone who--"

"Hold on." Ma'zurah's brow furrowed. The idea of scrolls pinged something in her recollection. "Ma'zurah has a thought. In theory, Ma'zurah knows a spell. She has never used it, but before Jasmine speaks of buying expensive scrolls, perhaps she would like Ma'zurah to try."

"Is it dangerous?"

Ma'zurah pursed her lips. "Not really. Definitely not if it is cast correctly."

Jasmine gave her a searching look and hesitantly proffered her arm.

It took two tries. The first time it failed outright, and Ma'zurah wished she had access to her notes far away at the Arcane University. The second time the lock came open with a muffled click.

“Thank you,” Jasmine breathed, rubbing her wrist and sounding supremely relieved. “I should--we should let the others know.” She rose and knocked on the door to the next room. “Baadargo?”

There was no answer.

Frowning, Jasmine opened the door.

The orange Khajiit was asleep on the floor, curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room.

He peeked an eye open at their approach. “This one can come out now?”

"Why are you on the floor?" Jasmine asked, bemused.

"Where else should this one be?"

"The bed?"

Baadargo looked over at the bed and Ma'zurah followed his gaze. It was a nice bed, with soft, clean blankets smoothed over the top, and not a wrinkle in sight.

"That is the bed of muthsera Jasmine, not Baadargo." The Khajiit's voice was plaintive. "This one did not want to mess it up."

Jasmine tisked, but let it drop.

“Show Ma’zurah Baadargo’s bracer please?” Ma'zurah asked, helping the Suthay-raht to his feet.

He held out his wrist and Ma’zurah opened the lock.

“Fantastic! Can this one learn to do such things?” Baadargo’s tone was wondering, as though Ma'zurah had handed him a precious gift and he could hardly believe it.

Jasmine laughed along with the joy on the Suthay-raht's face, but Ma’zurah gave his question serious consideration. “Does Baadargo have a talent for magic?”

Baadargo’s face fell slightly, though the joy remained. “This one does not know. This one has never had the bracer off long enough to find out before.”

“Never?” Jasmine asked, horrified.

“This one was born with it.”

Ma’zurah gaped at the Suthay-raht. Her mind boggled at the thought of being born into slavery. She could not imagine a life like that.

A look of concern had affixed itself to Jasmine’s face. “If you've never been free, do you have anywhere to go? Or anywhere you want to go?”

Baadargo nodded. “This one has heard rumors. They say the scaled ones in Ebonheart will help those who want to leave. Baadargo was going there.”

“Alright.” Jasmine glanced at Ma’zurah. “I guess that will be our first stop.”

Ma’zurah nodded.

Jasmine spent the next hour packing and preparing her house for her imminent absence. Ma’zurah laid the things in her bag out to dry, lamenting the water damage to her new maps, and then proceeded to sit at the kitchen table and attempt to teach Baadargo how to access his own well of magicka.

At some point the pair of Argonians returned with three large fish and a mudcrab, which they gleefully cooked. Ma’zurah demonstrated again the spell of opening, which prompted the Argonians to speak animatedly of their plans to return to the marshes of their homeland. Jasmine suggested they travel with Baadargo to look for assistance first, and to that end, the five of them hired two fishing boats from the outskirts of Seyda Neen to take them to Ebonheart directly, avoiding the main roads. Jasmine and Ma’zurah stopped to assure Elone that Jasmine was fine before they departed.

When they arrived at the fort, Jasmine had only to ask for “the Argonians” to be directed to the Argonian Embassy. They had barely taken two steps inside before they encountered a tall Argonian in an elegant robe, who quickly divined the situation and whisked the three former slaves away to a safe place.

Then it was just Ma’zurah and Jasmine. Ma’zurah gave Jasmine the details of her job for the Balmora Mages Guild, and the pair of them set off in the direction of Balmora. There was a lightness to Ma’zurah’s step that she had not felt since before she had been imprisoned in Cyrodiil.

Ma’zurah looked over at the Redguard walking beside her. She still missed the life she had lost, the life she could not go back to, but at least now she was not completely alone. Now she had a friend.

[cutieodonoghue]

dark gray (17/17)

summary: Killian Jones operates a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, preferring a life of isolation, until one day a woman and a baby wash up on his little island and change his life forever.

read it on: ao3, ff.net

and also catch up on Tumblr!

a/n: Hi friends! This is the final chapter! Thank you so much for all of your support. I’ve truly enjoyed reading all of your reactions as you’ve re-read or read this story for the very first time. Please raise your hand if you’re interested in an epilogue! I have one written but I’m not 100% on it just yet. Anyway, love you! Enjoy!

///

Seventeen

Top to bottom, the Nolan house is full of the Christmas spirit. They have a tree in their living room, brightly lit with shining ornaments and white bulbs. There are red and green pillows on the furniture and special decorations on every surface available. It smells like gingerbread and peppermint.

Emma’s mother makes Killian a bed in their living room, giving Smee the guest bedroom, but once the lights go out, he climbs up the steps to the upstairs and crawls into bed beside Emma, much to her delight.

Her bedroom is small, but it does its job. Her queen sized bed is covered in blankets, seated on the opposite end of the room from Henry’s crib. The boy rests peaceful, something he’s sure has been a relief to Emma. 

Her eyes brighten and she beams at him. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

She kisses him softly. To be with her again feels surreal, so he’s basked in every second, trying to memorize the way she stares back at him in the quiet moments, the timbre of her laughter when he teases her, the gentleness of her fingertips when she’s finding his, and the way she sighs just a little each time they kiss.

After she pulls away, he brings her fingers to his lips and kisses her knuckles, content in the warmth of her bed and their closeness. It’s been far too long and he’s missed her dearly. 

Even though they haven’t been together for long, it feels to him as if he’s known her for a long time. It’s funny, what he’s missed about her includes all of her frustration and annoyance with him and his behavior. Has it always been love?

“What happened to you?” she whispers, rubbing her thumb over the apple of his cheek. “Tell me the whole story.”

He winces, hesitant. “I don’t know if you want to hear that right now… we should be celebrating being together again. Trying to figure out what life means now that we’re here.”

“I know… but…” Emma stares at him quietly. “I want to know. Tell me.”

Sighing heavily, he inches closer to her under the piles of warm blankets, resting his palm against the mattress between them. He focuses on his hand, thinking back to that day, where he stood on the beach watching her leave on a boat headed to the mainland.

“They came to the island. Outnumbered me.” 

The air on board their ship had smelled thick of smoke, alcohol, and grime. The men had thick accents, but spoke English, and had wasted no time getting to business.

Emma’s fingers trace lines over the healing bruises on his face, tender and worried.

“They wanted to use me as leverage, but I don’t think they knew who I was. Not really. I think they thought, perhaps, I was more important to the government.” He meets her eyes. “They were talking about a nearby cruise ship. Thinking about commandeering it. I’m not sure how, after days of misery, I was able to send an S.O.S., but I did. Then, I was able to do enough damage that the engine stopped. Stalled us for a while.”

He’d been parched and starving, his body numb from the cold air. His fingers were shaking when he sabotaged the engine and his chest ached sharply from a couple of broken ribs each time he took a deep breath.

“They found me and knocked me unconscious.” He closes his eyes at the brutal memory. “And stuffed me into a barrel that they tossed into the water. After that, help came, pulled me out, and they were able to stop them. I guess they’d been trying to put an end to this group for a while.”

Emma covers his hand with hers, soothing him. He meets her eyes, searching them for a moment.

“I just knew I needed to get back to you. You kept me alive.”

She leans into him, their foreheads touching. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” Killian murmurs. “Don’t be sorry. It’s in the past. It’s already done.”

“If we’d stayed any longer…” She stops herself.

He kisses the tip of her nose and then her forehead twice. “You and Henry got away safe. I survived. All that happened is just bad memories now.”

He wraps his arms around her when she curls her body into his. He lowers his lips to her head, closing his eyes. She seems to have lost her words, but her being close to him is more than enough comfort.

As time goes on, he finds that they’ve started to breathe in unison.

“I wish we could’ve had a happier beginning, my love, but I promise that we’ll have the happiest future, even when it’s hard.”

She is quiet for a long time, so long that he very nearly falls asleep to the feeling of her breathing evenly against him.

“I love you.” Emma whispers.

That’s all that matters, isn’t it? They have each other. 

“I love you too.”

/

Killian’s arm is draped directly over her belly, which makes Emma’s heart squeeze tightly in her chest. She feels his breath warm against her neck, and their legs are tangled beneath layers of blankets.

Mary Margaret loved him at first sight. Meanwhile, David had kept his emotions close to his chest, hesitant to accept that this was the man Emma had been with for a month. 

They fed him, gave him towels and fresh clothes to shower and change, and when it came time for bed, Mary Margaret practically sang him a lullaby. 

David, not so much. But it was understandable.

Her father has often admitted to her that this is the part of being a parent he had never been certain of: judging another man to be worthy of his daughter. With Neal, he’d been a little too unsure, to the point that he had to keep apologizing for not having protected her enough. 

But with Killian, Emma finds herself worried that her dad won’t accept him regardless of who he is and how much he means to her. 

Turning to face Killian, she still allows him to hold her. His eyes open, one after the other, and a sweet smile dances playfully on his lips. “Morning.”

Emma cards her fingers through his hair, biting at her lip. She hums. “Morning.”

She listens for a few moments, wondering if her parents are awake yet. “Do you think my parents know you snuck up here?”

“Oh, most definitely.” Killian says, making her laugh. “I made a lot of noise coming up the steps.”

Emma scrunches up her nose and puts her hand on his cheek, preparing to kiss him. “Yeah. You kinda did.”

Killian laughs into a sweet morning kiss, one of many she imagines are to come. The hope she has for their future is bright, and she knows he feels the same. 

When they pull apart, Emma whispers, “It’s Christmas. Merry Christmas.”

He awards her a soft smile, “Happy Christmas, love.”

“How does it feel? It’s your first Christmas away from the island in a long time.”

Killian chuckles. He pulls his hand up over his face and lies flat on his back. Turning his head to her, he says, “I’m just happy to be here with you.”

Her heart very nearly melts. “Killian.”

“Emma.” He smirks when she gives him a daring look, her brow raised. “Truly, I am. I don’t need anything special.”

“You deserve something special.”

She can tell he has something absolutely abhorrent to say before he even dares whisper it. “I do have something special. I have you. We have our little family. That’s enough for this Christmas.”

Damn him. He’s far too charming for his good.

“What about next Christmas?” she wonders, poking a little at what he’d said.

“I’ve got big plans for next Christmas.” She lifts a curious eyebrow as he takes her hand. “We’ll be living in our house by then, so I figure we’ll have it decorated like Santa himself lives there.”

Emma laughs. “Yeah?”

“Giant tree,” he says, gesturing out with his left arm, “Of course. In the foyer.”

She hums. “Yes. Of course. Go on.”

“Lights everywhere. Garland will practically grow from our limbs.” She can’t help but laugh at the mental picture of Killian wrapped in garland. Killian smiles. “Oh, and we’ll have this nice Christmas dinnerware that your mum is going to give us as a wedding present.”

Emma can’t help but smile at him silently. He stops orating, staring at her with bright eyes. 

“Did I mention we’re getting married soon?”

She bites on her tongue, keeping her laughter at bay. “Soon, huh?”

The tips of his ears turn pink with the slightest bit of embarrassment. He reaches for his ear, giving the spot behind it a nervous scratch. 

“Well, I think so.”

Emma lets him squirm for a second or two before she kisses his cheek. “What else is going to happen next Christmas, when we’re married and living in our own house?”

He takes a moment to gaze at her, sleepy, with a lopsided smile on his lips. His hair is such a riotous mess first thing in the morning, something she gets very nearly distracted by, were it not that he’s talking to her about their future and it’s the most heartwarming feeling she’s ever had.

“Presents. Loads of them. Most for Henry, but at least half for you.”

Emma gives him a skeptical look. “That’s a lot.”

“Well,” he smirks, “I hate to brag, but next Christmas, I have a wife and I worship the ground she walks on.”

She laughs loud enough that she has a worried thought of waking someone. Emma slides close to Killian, putting her hand against his chest.

“Well, next Christmas, my only requests are that I want there to be stockings that we hang by the fire. Because we’re going to have a fireplace.” He nods in agreement. “And... I expect a lot of mistletoe kisses.”

“Anything you wish.” Killian kisses her chastely. “And magical snowflakes for the stockings will be safely stored in our freezer.”

Her heart squeezes longingly as she thinks about what next year might look like. One year from now, things will be so much different than they are today. Henry will be so much bigger. Killian will have settled into his new life in Storybrooke. They’ll have a baby of their own.

Fondly, she thinks about what Henry might be like as a big brother. She hopes he’ll be gentle and kind. She knows Killian will be amazing. He’s proved as much with Henry.

“Next Christmas, what if we…”

Henry stirs to life, blessedly pulling Emma out of anything she was about to say to Killian. She’s on her feet in an instant, going to find him in his crib.

“Merry Christmas, Henry!”

/

Emma’s mother busies herself in the kitchen even before he, Emma, and Henry join the family downstairs. She wears a bright red sweater and an even brighter smile.

“Merry Christmas!”

Emma’s wearing what she’d dubbed as her “cozy clothes”, an oversized Christmas sweater and leggings below. To his surprise, she dug into her things to find her thick rimmed glasses, something that makes her even more adorable to him.

“Merry Christmas, Mom.” Emma steps into the kitchen, coming alongside her mother. She’s still carrying Henry, so she’s careful as she gives her a side hug.

“Did you sleep well?” Mary Margaret wonders.

Emma hums. “Yeah. Pretty well.”

When her mother turns back to what she’s doing in the kitchen, Emma meets his eyes and gives him a private smile. He winks back at her.

“Dad still asleep?”

“I’m hoping we can wake him up with some Christmas breakfast. What do you think about cinnamon rolls?”

“Sounds good.” Emma nods. She reaches into a cabinet for a bottle for Henry. “Hey, Killian?”

He moves swiftly into the kitchen, already grabbing for Henry before she can ask twice.

“Thank you.” Emma gives Henry’s fingers a gentle squeeze as she smiles up at Killian. “I almost forgot how well we work together.”

He laughs warmly and carries Henry to sit down at the kitchen island, bouncing the boy just a little trying to distract him.

“So, Killian, Christmas day isn’t usually this laid back…” Mary Margaret says, turning from her bowl of ingredients. “We usually have a lot of guests and family stopping in throughout the day, but this year, we’re going to just keep it simple. We’ve all been through a lot. And I think it’ll be nice for Henry, too. We don’t need to overwhelm the baby.”

Emma hums in agreement. “Last year there were forty people here at once.”

“That’s… a lot.”

Mary Margaret chuckles. “Well, David and I both come from bigger families. I have a lot of cousins I grew up with, and he has a twin with a family of his own. Not to mention all of the friends we have in town.”

It’s not all that surprising to him that they’d be popular. In the short time he’s known David and Mary Margaret, they’ve been more than kind and hospitable. Well, except for David asking some tough probing questions.

He finds that Christmas is far more enjoyable here, amongst friendly faces, than it ever has been. While he doesn’t have any gifts to give or to receive, he does have plenty to be grateful for.

Emma sits at his side for most of the day, both of them loathe to be apart. They’d spent hardly a month together, were separated just as long, and suddenly, they can’t get enough. 

He can’t and won’t complain.

She runs her fingers through his hair, her nails gentle on his scalp, while they watch Henry playing with some toys David and Mary Margaret had given him. Every so often, he’ll look at her, a smile on his lips, and she’ll award him sweet kisses if her parents aren’t in view.

Mary Margaret gives him far too much to eat and drink, and David peppers him with a series of questions that Emma rolls her eyes at.

“So, where are you thinking you’ll live?”

“Dad.” Emma says, offended on his behalf. “Give him a break. He just got to town.”

David returns her frustrated expression with one of his own. “I’m just curious!”

Killian glances at Emma briefly, whose hands cover her face. She’s clearly mortified. “It’s okay. I don’t want to speak for Emma, but I was thinking once I find some work, we could find ourselves a house somewhere nearby.”

David’s eyes widen a little. “Oh?”

Emma sighs. She stands, deciding to clean up the nearby coffee table to busy herself. “Maybe lay off until the holidays are over, okay? Then you can ask your million questions.”

Her father glares at Killian slightly before turning his attention to his daughter. “Sorry, Killian.” He sighs, a playful smile on his face. “I hate to say it, but I’ve been dreaming of this day for a long time. You haven’t given me the opportunity to interrogate any boyfriends before.”

Emma snorts. “Yeah… for good reason. You’re scary when you’re Sheriff Nolan.” She pauses, looking at Killian for a second. “Besides, your interrogating isn’t going to scare this one off.”

Killian winks at her before she takes what’s in her hands to the kitchen in the room beyond.

“She’s my daughter. I have to.”

“Dad… I can hear your glare from here.” Emma’s voice carries in from the other room. “We’re trying to have a nice Christmas.”

“I’m not glaring!” David calls out. He sighs, looking at Killian. “Sorry if I’m asking too many questions.”

“I understand. You’re curious.”

“I’m not…” David stops himself. “Okay, maybe a little. She was in a bad relationship… and I didn’t even realize how bad it was. I guess I’m overcompensating.”

Killian smiles a little. “Rest assured, David. I have no intention of harming either Emma or Henry. I would do anything for them.”

“What are your intentions?”

The abrupt nature of the question is jarring, but he can understand why David would wonder as much. 

Nervously, he scratches beneath his ear. “I don’t think it would come as any surprise if I told you I’m in this for the long haul.” Pausing, he considers his next words with a heavy, cautious heart. “I’ve thought about asking her to marry me.” 

David seems at ease by what he’s saying, but still maintains a fatherly glare as the seconds seem to pass into minutes of silence.

“You know, I think I can ask my friend down at the docks about a job. If you’re interested. Mostly desk work during the winter, but later in the year, you’d be out on the water.”

He smiles, nodding. “That’s awfully kind. Thank you.”

“Well,” David sighs, sitting back. “You’re part of my family now. I have to take care of you.”

Killian finds himself speechless. Years of living on his own, years of his childhood with only his brother at his side… and now, he has become enveloped in one of the most caring families he’s ever met.

He isn’t sure what he did to deserve this, but he’s certainly not upset. If anything, he feels unprepared to give back in kind. 

But, maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe just accepting their kindness and welcoming arms is enough.

/

“I think they like me.” Killian says quietly. 

He sits on the couch with Emma, the room entirely dark with the exception of the television. Her parents and Smee had gone to bed a while ago, leaving them to finish a Christmas movie on their own. 

It had been a wonderful day, filled with sweets and laughs, good conversation and new traditions. And even without a single gift given to him, he feels as if the day had been rewarding in many ways. 

Emma peers up at him. She’s wearing a blanket up to her chin, her head resting on a pillow over his lap. “Of course they do.”

She sits up and decisively stands. Yawning, she asks, “Bed?”

Quickly, and as quietly as they can, they make their way upstairs. Before turning to the bed, they both approach Henry’s crib, settled against the nearby wall. He’s sound asleep, his arms sprawled out around his head while he breathes in evenly.

He’d had a very busy day, filled with new toys and bright Christmas tree lights.

“He’s so tired,” Emma murmurs. “He had a lot of fun today. I’m glad you could be here for his first Christmas.”

Killian smiles softly. “Me too.”

Emma bites on her lip and goes to sit on her bed, playing a little with a string from a quilt. 

“So… how are you handling all of this? Okay so far? You can be honest if you’re overwhelmed.”

Killian smiles to himself. He joins her on her bed and sighs thoughtfully. “I had a perfect day. Thank you for looking out for me.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you made a mistake.”

He tilts his head to the side, upset that she would still think he would be doubting his choice to be in Storybrooke with her. “Emma…”

“I know you love us and you won’t leave…” Emma whispers, “but my parents are the most important people to me after you and Henry, so… if they were too much, maybe we should’ve started out slower.”

“They weren’t. Trust me.” Killian assures her. He shakes his head. “They’re like the parents I’d always wanted.”

Emma sighs with relief. “I’m glad.”

Smiling again, Killian lifts his hand to gently tuck her hair behind her ear. He finds it sweet that she’d care as much as she does about making sure he’s adjusting well to the situation he’s now in.

She hesitates with something in her mind. He can see it, how she bites on her lip and slowly shifts her gaze from the floor to him again. 

“What’s wrong, love?”

Emma turns toward him more. “I have to tell you something.”

He reaches for her hand, shaking his head with concern. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay.” Emma promises, quickly suffocating his fear. She searches his eyes. “Do you know how we were talking about next Christmas?”

He nods, silent. 

“I wanted to ask you this morning…” Emma pauses. She winces a little, lifting her shoulder in a half shrug. “How would you feel if… we had a new baby next Christmas too?”

He can’t help but laugh in surprise, lifting his eyebrows. “Erm… that would require… a little extra effort on our part to make sure it happened in time, I think.”

Emma stares at him, nodding. She smiles nervously, as if wanting him to read her mind. He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. 

He scratches beneath his ear, feeling himself get a little embarrassed, though he tries to play it off as coy, “I imagine your parents would hate it if we started trying right this minute, darling.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not...” Emma takes his hand, bringing it over her belly. “I’m pregnant.”

His eyes grow wide in shock. His mind races while he tries to calculate what exactly she’s saying to him. “You’re… pregnant? A baby?”

Emma nods and laughs with an adorable wrinkle in her nose. She has tears in her eyes now.  “Yeah. We’re having a baby. You and me.” 

He laughs along with her in disbelief. This certainly wasn’t something he expected to hear from her, much less so soon in their relationship. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. He’s still calculating, trying to understand how. “I… we haven’t… we only…”

“It’s... our gift from the island?” Emma says diplomatically, her eyebrow lifted along with the nervous inflection of her voice. 

Killian laughs again, shaking his head slowly. “I’m shocked.”

Emma nods in agreement, eyes wide. “I just found out and I’ve been having a hard time wrapping my head around it.” 

She sighs, seeming to have held onto a breath for a long time. “I was going to try to wait to tell you, but I couldn’t. All day, I’ve been thinking how next year, it’ll be so different because there will be a baby, you know? We’ll have a little baby and Henry’s going to be a lot bigger and…”

He nods, chuckling at how she’s started to babble.

“I needed to tell you before I went crazy.” 

His hand is still pressed to her belly, thumb caressing. Emma leans into him, pressing her forehead against his.

“Are you happy?” she asks, clearly uncertain and nervous. 

“Am I happy?” he repeats her question with a laugh. He pulls away just slightly. 

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He joyfully kisses Emma’s forehead between words before kissing her soundly on the lips, hoping she can tell that he’s more than happy. “It’s unexpected, but… I’m very happy.”

Her gaze is soft and her fingers are gentle on his cheek. “I am too.”

He’d lost literally everything he loved before he settled into his life of isolation. The island had given him nothing but dark gray skies for years, until one day, Emma and Henry arrived. And now, a baby.

Killian takes a deep, clean breath of his future. There’s something so wonderful in the air: a new life, a fresh start, a new beginning. He has nothing but time to enjoy it all.

[nationalparkposters]

Visiting Dry Tortugas National Park

Visiting Dry Tortugas National Park: Some 70 miles west of Key West Florida, in the Gulf of Mexico, lies one of North America's most inaccessible national parks. Renowned for pirate legends, shipwrecks, and sheer unspoiled beauty, Dry Tortugas National Park harbors unrivaled coral reefs and marine life, an annual birding spectacle, and majestic Fort Jefferson, the largest masonry stronghold in the Western Hemisphere. Getting There Accessible only by boat or seaplane, just 60,000 visitors make it to Dry Tortugas National Park each year. Compare that to the more than 330 million people who visited America's national parks last year. But it's really no surprise when you consider what's involved just getting there. The jumping off point is Key West, Florida, and from there, you can choose between an all-day boat ride, and half- or full-day seaplane trips, assuming you don't have your own vessel. Pre-Flight When I visited Dry Tortugas National Park, I opted for the seaplane flight and checked in at the Key West Seaplane Adventures office at 7:30 for an 8:00 am flight. Even though it was late March, the sun was just rising, and filtered by wisps of pink and orange clouds. When the remaining nine passengers arrived, we received our briefing, were introduced to our pilot, and then walked out on to the tarmac together to board the DHC-3 DeHavilland Turbine Otter Amphibian. The plane can carry 10 passengers plus the pilot…and when the co-pilot seat was offered up, I literally jumped at the opportunity! Our pilot has been flying to and from Dry Tortugas for years. He would make five trips to and from Dry Tortugas that day…and after dropping us off, his early morning return flight to Key West would be a solo one. Ready for Takeoff Once we had our seat belts fastened, and perhaps more importantly, our headphones on, the pilot began to narrate our early morning adventure as we taxied out on to the runway. I fired up my video camera…and before I knew it we were airborne heading due east into the morning sun, and just as quickly banking south, then west for a bird's eye view of Key West. It was only then that I had the exhilarating realization I would be setting down in a place I'd only been able to conjure in my imagination — turquoise waters, green sea turtles, bright coral, frigate birds, shipwrecks, and a coastal fortress some 170 years old. The co-pilot's seat offered the perfect view of Key West, its hotels, Duvall Street and Mallory Square, which quickly faded from view. The pilot pumped some music into our headphones…though I wasn't quite sure what to make of his first selection: Tom Petty's “Free Fallin'”! Flying at at 130 knots, we were quickly over an area called the “Flats,” a body of shallow water just 3–5 feet deep extending almost 20 miles to the west. Flying at just 500 feet above the water, these shallows are teeming with Loggerhead turtles and you could clearly see dozens of them swimming about as we cruised overhead. 25 miles out, we flew directly over Marquesas Islands, a coral atoll…and then over an area called the “Quicksands.” Here the water is 30 feet deep with a sea bed of constantly shifting sand dunes. This is where treasure hunter Mel Fisher found the Spanish Galleons Antocha and Margarita — and more than a half a billion dollars of gold and silver strewn across an eight mile area. They continue to work the site, and even today, there are regular finds of huge Spanish Emeralds. But it wasn't long from my vantage point in the cockpit before I could begin to make out Fort Jefferson on Garden Key, and further west, the lighthouse on Loggerhead Key. Fort Jefferson, a massive but unfinished coastal fortress, is the largest brick masonry structure in the Americas. Composed of over 16 million bricks, the building covers 16 acres. Florida was acquired from Spain (1819–1821) by the United States, which considered the 75 mile stretch connecting the Gulf Coast and Atlantic Ocean important to protect, since anyone who occupied the area could seize control of the trade routes along the Gulf Coast. Construction of Fort Jefferson began on Garden Key in 1847, and although more than $250,000 had been spent by 1860, the fort was never finished. As the largest 19th century American masonry coastal fort, it also served as a remote prison facility during the Civil War. The most famous inmate was Dr. Samuel Mudd, who set the leg of John Wilkes Booth following the assassination of President Lincoln. Mudd was convicted of conspiracy and was imprisoned on the Dry Tortugas from 1865 to 1869. The fort continued to serve as a military prison until 1874. Almost There… Our pilot banked the De Havilland to the right, providing a spectacular view of the islands and Fort Jefferson, heading the seaplane into the wind for the smoothest landing I've ever experienced — on land or sea — gently skimming the surface, and we glided effortlessly across the turquoise waters and headed towards shore. One more roar of the engines, a quick turn, and we were up on the beach ready to disembark. We arrived about 8:30 AM…and aside from the 10 passengers on board, a half dozen campers at one end of the Garden Key, and a few National Park Service employees, we had the island to ourselves. As I watched the seaplane take off, heading back to Key West, it struck me just how isolated we were in this remote ocean wilderness. I imagined the islands didn't look much different to Spanish explorer Juan Ponce de León, credited for discovering the islands in 1531. He named them Las Tortugas, or “The Turtles,” as the islands and surrounding waters were aswarm with loggerhead , hawksbill, leatherback, and green turtles. For nearly three hundred years, pirates raided not only passing ships, but relied on turtles for meat and eggs and also pilfered the nests of roosting sooty and noddy terns. Nautical charts began to show that The Tortugas were dry — due to the lack of fresh water — and eventually the islands were renamed as The Dry Tortugas. Taking advantage of the early morning light, I headed inside the fort, making my way up the spiral staircase, and stepped out of the old Garden Key lighthouse built in 1825. The lighthouse is no longer in use, since the “new” 167 foot tall lighthouse on Loggerhead Key, completed in 1858, continues to flash its beacon to mariners, warning of the shallow waters. The view from atop of Fort Jefferson provided a spectacular 360 degree panorama. And besides the few spits of land that make up the park, there was nothing but sky and sea in every direction. About the Park Dry Tortugas National Park, situated at the farthest end of the Florida Keys, is closer to Cuba than to the American mainland. A cluster of seven islands, composed mostly of sand and coral reefs, just 93 of the park's 64,000 acres are above water. The three easternmost keys are simply spits of white coral sand, while 49-acre Loggerhead Key, three miles out, marks the western edge of the island chain. The park's sandy keys are in a constant state of flux — shaped by tides and currents, weather and climate. In fact, four islands completely disappeared between 1875 and 1935, a testament to the fragility of the ecosystem. The Dry Tortugas are recognized for their near-pristine natural resources including seagrass beds, fisheries, and sea turtle and bird nesting habitat. The surrounding coral reefs make up the third-largest barrier reef system outside of Australia and Belize. President Franklin D. Roosevelt established Fort Jefferson National Monument under the Antiquities Act on January 4, 1935. It was expanded to it's current size in 1983, when the monument was re-designated by an act of Congress as Dry Tortugas National Park on October 26, 1992. Its charter: to protect the island and marine environment, to preserve Fort Jefferson and submerged cultural resources such as shipwrecks. Just 100 yards or so from Fort Jefferson is Bush Key. Home to a diverse collection of birds that frequent the islands, it features a mix of mangrove, sea oats, bay cedar, sea grape and prickly pear cactus, reflecting the original character of the islands. A great wildlife spectacle occurs each year between February and September, when as many as 100,000 sooty terns travel from the Caribbean Sea and west-central Atlantic Ocean to nest on the islands of the Dry Tortugas. Brown noddies, roseate terns, double-crested cormorants, brown pelicans and the Magnificent frigatebird, with its 7-foot wingspan, breed here as well. Although Bush Key was closed to visitors when I visited, hundreds, if not thousands of birds filled the skies and the sounds of their screeches and calls filled the otherwise tranquil surroundings. There is no water, food, bathing facilities, supplies, or public lodging (other than camping on Garden Key) in the park. All visitors, campers, and boaters are required to pack out whatever they pack in, so the National Park Service created a wi-fi hotspot — only at the dock — where you can scan a QR code and download a variety of PDFs to your phone or tablet. It's an idea that's bound to catch on with so many mobile devices, reducing the need to print (and throw away) paper brochures. Inside Fort Jefferson, a small visitor's center has a few exhibits and shows a short video. I stepped across the entranceway, and found an equally small office that houses the National Park Service employees who maintain and manage the park. Some of the best snorkeling in North America Although I was only on the half-day seaplane trip, I still had enough time for a quick swim and snorkel on the west side of Garden Key. In the late 1800s, the US Navy built piers and coaling warehouses for refueling, but strong storms destroyed them, leaving only their underpinnings. These pilings, and the deeper water of the dredged channel, now offer an excellent opportunity to see larger fish like tarpon, grouper, barracuda…as well as the occasional shark. Multi-colored sea fans swayed in the gentle current. Colorful reef fish — with their vivid and boldly patterned reds, yellows, greens and blues — were camouflaged amongst the bright coral and sea grasses. Today, turtle populations have diminished, but you may still be able to see green, loggerhead, hawksbill, and leatherback sea turtles. As I walked back to the changing rooms at the dock, the seaplane for my return flight was just landing and I realized my time at Dry Tortugas was coming to an end. If I ever have a chance to get back, I would definitely opt for the full day trip. A week later, after returning home to Colorado and was shoveling snow off of the driveway, a small plane passed overhead and I suddenly thought of my flight to Dry Tortugas : the bright sun, the crystal clear waters, the abundant life — above and below the water's surface — a surreal landscape so captivating, so remote, that even having seen it with my own eyes, I still somehow could barely imagine it. About the Author Rob Decker is a photographer and graphic artist who is currently on a quest to photograph and create iconic WPA-style posters for all 61 National Parks. Rob visited his first national park at age five and began photographing them at age seven on a 10,000 cross-country trip with his family. He would spend the next decade working on his own, building a wet darkroom with his grandfather in the garage and serving as head photographer for the high school yearbook. But Rob's professional training really started at age 19, when he had the rare opportunity to study under Ansel Adams in Yosemite National Park during the summer of 1979, less than five years before Mr. Adams passed away. Since then, he has visited and photographed 50 of the national parks in the US, including those in Alaska, Hawaii, and the Virgin Islands. Click here to see the current collection of posters. https://national-park-posters.com/blogs/national-park-posters/visiting-dry-tortugas-national-park?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=Sendible&utm_campaign=RSS

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 29: The Big Chill (Transcript) - 7th March 2016

tw: graphic violence

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

Some places are more frightening than others. It’s hard to nail down a specific reason why, but even so, I can’t think of a single person who might disagree. Some places just have a way of getting under your skin. For some it’s the basement, for others it’s the local graveyard. I even know people who are afraid of certain colours. Fear, it seems, is a landmine that can be triggered by almost anything, and while history might be full of hauntingly tragic stories that span a variety of settings and climates, the most chilling ones – literally – are those that take place in the harsh environment of winter: the incident at Dyatlov Pass; the tragedy of the Donner party; even the sinking of the Titanic in 1912 took place in the freezing waters of the north Atlantic. Winter, it seems, is well equipped to end lives and create fear, and when I think of dangerous winters, I think of Maine, that area of New England on the northern frontier. If you love horror, you might equate Maine with Stephen King, but even though he’s tried hard over the last few decades to make us believe in Derry and Castle Rock and Salem’s Lot, the state has enough danger on its own. Maine is also home to nearly 3500 miles of coastline, more than even California, and that’s where the real action happens. The Maine coastline is littered with thousands of small islands, jagged rocks, ancient lighthouses and even older legends, and all in the cold north, where the sea is cruel and the weather can be deadly. It’s often there, in the places that are isolated and exposed, that odd things happen, things that seem born of the circumstances and climate, things that leave their mark on the people there – things that would never happen on the mainland. And if the stories are to be believed, that’s a good thing. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The coastline of Maine isn’t as neat and tidy as other states’. Don’t picture sandy beaches and warm waves that you can walk through; this is the cold north, the water is always chilly and the land tends to emerge from the waves as large, jagged rocks. Go ahead and pull up a map of Maine on your phone, I’ll wait. You’ll see what I mean right away – this place is dangerous, and because of that, ships have had a long history of difficulty when it comes to navigating the coast of Maine. Part of that is because of all the islands - they’re everywhere. According to the most recent count, there are over 4,600 of them, scattered along the coastal waters like fragments of a broken bottle. One such fragment is Seguin Island. It’s only three miles from the mainland, but it’s easy to understand how harsh winter weather could isolate anyone living there very quickly, and when you’re the keeper of the lighthouse there, that isolation comes with the job. The legend that’s been passed down for decades there is the story of a keeper from the mid-1800s. According to the tale, the keeper was newly married and, after moving to the island with his bride, they both began to struggle with the gulf between their lives there and the people on the coast. So, to give his wife something to do with her time – and maybe to get a bit of entertainment out of it for himself – the keeper ordered a piano for her. They say it was delivered during the autumn, just as the winter chill was creeping in. In the story, it had to be hoisted up the rock face, but that’s probably not true; Seguin is more like a green hill pretruding from the water than anything else but, hey, it adds to the drama, right? And that’s what these old stories provide –plenty of drama. When the piano arrived the keeper’s wife was elated, but buyer’s remorse quickly set in. You see, the piano only came with the sheet music for one song. With winter quickly rolling in from the north, shipping in more music was impossible, so she settled in and made the best of it. The legend says that she played that song non-stop, over and over, all throughout the winter. Somehow she was immune to the monotony of it all, but her husband, the man who had only been hoping for distraction and entertainment, took it hard. They say it drove him insane. In the end, the keeper took an axe and destroyed the piano, hacking it into nothing more than a pile of wood and wire, and then, still deranged from the repetitive tune, he turned the axe on his wife, nearly chopping her head off in the process. The tragic story always ends with the keeper’s suicide, but most know it all to be fiction. At least, that’s the general opinion, but even today, there are some who claim that if you happen to find yourself on a boat in the waters between the island and the mainland, you can still hear the sound of piano music drifting across the waves.

Boon island is near the southern tip of Maine’s long coastline. It’s not a big island by any stretch of the imagination, perhaps 400 square yards in total, but there’s been a lighthouse there since 1811 due to the many shipwrecks that have plagued the island for as long as Europeans have sailed in those waters. The most well-known shipwreck on Boon Island occurred there in the winter of 1710 when the Nottingham Galley, a ship captained by John Deane, wrecked there on the rocks. All 14 crew members survived, but the ship was lost, stranding them without help or supplies in the cold winter. As the unfortunate sailors died, one by one, the survivors were forced to eat the dead or face starvation, and they did this for days, until fishermen finally discovered and rescued them. But that’s not the most memorable story from Boon Island, that honour falls to the tale of Katherine Bright, the wife of a former lighthouse keeper there in the 19th century. According to those who believe the story, the couple had only been on the island for a few months when Katherine’s husband slipped while trying to tie off their boat. He fell and hit his head on the rocks and then slid unconsciously into the water, where he drowned. At first, Katherine tried to take on the duties of keeping the light running herself, but after nearly a week, fishermen in York on the mainland watched the light flicker out and stay dark. When they travelled to the island to investigate, they found Katherine sitting on the tower’s stairs. She was cradling her dead husband’s corpse in her arms. Legend has it that Katherine was brought back to York along with her husband’s body, but it was too late for her. Just like the lighthouse they had left behind, she was now cold and dark. Some flames, it seems, can’t be relit.

There’s been a lighthouse on the shore of Rockland, Maine, for nearly 200 years. It’s on an oddly-shaped hill, with two large depressions in the face of the rock that were said to remind the locals of an owl. So, when the light was built there in 1825 it was, of course, named Owls Head. Give any building long enough, mix in some tragedy and unexplainable phenomenon, and you can almost guarantee a few legends will be born. Owls Head is no exception. One of the oldest stories is a well-documented one from 1850. It tells of a horrible winter storm that ripped through the Penobscot Bay area on December 22nd of that year. At least five ships were driven aground by the harsh waves and chill wind. It was a destructive and fierce storm, and it would have been and understatement to say that it wasn’t a wise idea to be out that night – on land or at sea. A small ship had been anchored at Jameson Point that night. The captain had done the smart thing and gone ashore to weather the storm inside, but he left some people behind on the ship. Three, actually: first mate, Richard Ingraham, a sailor named Roger Elliot, and Lydia Dyer, a passenger. While those three poor souls tried to sleep that night on the schooner, the storm pushed the ship so hard that the cables snapped, setting the ship adrift across the bay. Now, it’s not exactly a straight shot south-east to get to Owls Head, it’s a path shaped more like a backwards “C” to get around the rocky coast, but the ship somehow managed to do it anyway. It passed the breakwater, drifted east and south, and finally rounded the rocky peninsula where Owls Head Light is perched, all before smashing against the rocks south of the light.

The three passengers survived the impact and, as the ship began to take on water, they scrambled up to the top deck – better the biting wind than the freezing water, they assumed – and then they waited, huddled there under a pile of blankets against the storm, just waiting for help. When the ship began to  actually break apart in the waves, though, Elliot, the sailor, was the only one to make an escape from the wreckage. I can’t imagine how cold he must have been with the freezing wind and ocean spray lashing at him from the darkness, but standing on the rocks with his feet still ankle-deep in the waves, he happened to look up and see the lighthouse on the hill. If he was going to find help, that was his best option, so he began to climb. He was practically dead by the time he reached the lighthouse, but when he knocked, no one answered. A moment later, the keeper of the light rode up the path on a sleigh, having been out for supplies, and realised at once that Elliot needed help. He took him in, gave him hot rum and put him into a warm bed, but not before Elliot managed to whisper something about the others.

The keeper immediately called for help and gathered a group of about a dozen men. Together, they all travelled down to the shore, where they began to look for the wreck of the ship and the people who may still be alive onboard. When they found the remains of the schooner, the men began to carefully climb across the wreckage, looking for signs of the other passengers. It was treacherous work – the wood was encrusted in ice and each step swayed dangerously with the waves. When they finally found them, they were still on the portion of the deck where Elliot had left them, but they seemed to shiver whenever the light of the lantern washed over them. Climbing closer, the men discovered why: Ingraham and Dyer were both encased in a thick layer of ice, completely covering their bodies. They were frozen. Not taking any chances, the men somehow managed to pry the couple free from the deck of the ship and the entire block was transported back up the hill to the lighthouse. All that night, they worked fast and carefully. They placed the block in a tub of water and then slowly chipped away at the ice, and as it melted, they moved the limbs of each person in an attempt to get their blood flowing again, and somehow, against all logic and medical odds, it worked. It took them a very long time to recover, but Ingraham and Dyer soon opened their eyes. Ingraham was the first to speak, and it was said that he croaked the words “what is all this? Where are we?” Roger Elliot didn’t survive the aftermath of the shipwreck. Maybe it was the trauma of climbing up the hill to the lighthouse, soaked to the bone and exposed to the freezing winds of the storm. Perhaps it was an injury he sustained in the shipwreck itself, or on the climb to the lighthouse. Dyer and Ingraham faired better, though. They eventually recovered and even married each other. They settled down and raised a family together in the area, all thanks to the man who died to bring them help when all seemed lost.

Later stories from inside Owls Head lighthouse have been equally chilling. Although there are no other tragic events on record there, it’s clear from the first-hand accounts of those who have made Owls Head their home that something otherworldly has taken up residence there. The Andrews family was one of the first to report any sort of unusual activity on the property. I can’t find a record of their first names, but the keeper and his wife lived there along with her elderly father. According to their story, one night the couple was outside and looked up to see a light swirling in her father’s window. When they climbed the stairs, they found the older man shaking in his bed from fright. Some think he might have seen the old sailor, a common figure witnessed by many over the years. When John Norton was keeper in 1980, he claimed to have seen the same apparition. He had been sleeping, but when a noise woke him up, he opened his eyes to see the figure of an old sea captain standing over his bed, just… staring at him. The old sailor has been blamed for mysterious footprints that tend to appear in the snow, footprints that could be found on the walk toward the house. The prints never seem to have an origin point, and always end abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Others have claimed to feel cold spots in the house, while some have gone on record to swear that brass fixtures inside the lighthouse, fixtures that were usually tarnished and dark, would be found mysteriously polished. None of the keepers have been able to figure out who was doing the cleaning for them, though. There have been other stories as well, tales of a white lady who has been frequently seen in the kitchen, of doors slamming without anyone in the room, and of silverware that has been heard to rattle in the drawers. Despite this, though, most have said that they felt at peace with her there – more at peace, at least, than they are with the old, bearded sailor.

In the mid-1980s, Andy Germann and his wife, Denise, lived there while tending the light. They moved in and settled into life on the harsh coast of Maine. Andy divided his time between tending the light and a series of renovations to the old lighthouse, which left the yard outside rather chaotic and full of construction materials. One night after climbing into bed, the couple heard the sound of some of the building supplies outside falling over in the wind. Andy pulled on his pants and shoes and left the room to go take care of the mess before the wind made it worse. Denise watched him leave, and then rolled back over to sleep with the lamp still on. A short while later, she felt him climb back into bed. The mattress moved, as did the covers, and so she asked out loud how it had gone, if there had been any trouble or anything unusual, but Andy didn’t reply, so Denise rolled over. When she did, she found that Andy’s spot in bed was still empty. Well, almost. In the spot where he normally slept beside her, there was a deep depression in the sheets, as if an invisible body were laying right there beside her. Of course, it was just the dent where Andy had been sleeping moments before. At least, that’s what she told herself, but thinking back on it later, Denise admits that she has doubts. There were moments when she was laying there, staring at the impression in the sheets, that she could have sworn the shape was moving. Maybe she was too level-headed to get upset, or perhaps she was too tired to care. Whatever the reason, Denise simply told whoever it was to leave her alone, and then rolled over and fell back asleep. At breakfast the next morning, she wanted to tell Andy about the experience, thinking he would laugh it off and help her to explain it away, but before she could, he told her his own story. It turns out Andy had an unusual experience of his own the previous night. He explained how, as he had exited the room and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, he saw what he could only describe as a faint cloud hovering close to the floor, and this cloud, he said, had been moving. According to Andy, when he walked down the hall, it moved right up to his feet and then passed on through him. That’s when Denise asked Andy where the cloud had been going. “Into the bedroom,” he told her. “Why?”

You don’t have to travel to a lighthouse to bump into tales of the unexplained or otherworldly. You can hear them from just about anyone you meet, from the neighbour down the street to your real estate agent, but lighthouses seem to have a reputation for the tragic, and maybe that’s understandable – these are, after all, houses built to help save lives in a dangerous setting. It might be safe to say that the well for these stories runs deeper than many place – but are they true? Like a lot of stories, it seems to depend on who you talk to. Keepers across the decades have had a mixed bag of experiences. Some see odd things, and some don’t. Maybe some people just connect to the stories more than others and go looking for hints and signs where there are none. One recent family described their time there as “normal”. They never saw ghosts, never watched objects move, and felt right at home the whole time they were there. Another family, though, acknowledged that something unusual seemed to be going on in the lighthouse. They would find lightbulbs partially unscrewed and the thermostat would constantly readjust itself – perhaps whatever it is that’s haunting the lighthouse is just very environmentally conscious. It’s easy to laugh off most of these stories, but we’ve never lived there, we’ve never heard or felt something that can’t be explained away, and like most samples of data, there’s always the outlier. Another family who lived at the lighthouse in the late 1980s claimed to have experienced their fair share of unusual activity, though. One night, while Gerard and Debby Graham were asleep, their three-year-old daughter, Claire, quietly opened her eyes and sat up in bed. She stared into the darkness for a moment, as if carefully listening to something, and then climbed out of her bed and left the room. Her little bare feet patted on the cold floor of the hallway as she made her way down towards her parents’ room. Inside, she slowly approached the side of their bed, and then tapped her father on the arm to wake him. When he did wake up, he asked Claire what was the matter. The little girl replied that she was supposed to tell him something. “Tell me what?” he father asked. “There’s a fog rolling in,” Claire replied, somehow sounding like someone infinitely older. “Sound the horn”. When he asked her who had told her this, the little girl looked at him seriously. “My friend,” she told him, “the old man with the beard.”

[Closing statements]

[mikemortgage]

The island Canada forgot: On Campobello, citizens are left exiles in their own land

Victoria Matthews can understand the attraction of Campobello Island, N.B., to an outsider. It can seem a magical place, with rocky coastlines, dramatic ocean vistas, big tides, bogs, lichen-shrouded forests, clams to dig for and wild blueberries to pick by the bucketful come summer.

There are lighthouses, seabirds, breaching whales and, for history buffs, a star attraction: Roosevelt Campobello International Park, 1,134-hectares centred around the family cottage of former president Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his wife, Eleanor.

There are also the locals, about 800 or so permanent residents, such as Matthews. They hold community fundraising suppers, watch out for their neighbours and welcome scads of mostly American cottagers and tourists who stream across the Roosevelt International Bridge from Lubec, Maine.

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But despite Campobello’s postcard-worthy attributes, the 23-year-old Matthews has pretty much had it with the place. It’s not that the island doesn’t feel like home. It’s that Campobello makes her feel as though she is a Canadian living in exile — physically, politically, practically, medically and economically separated from the rest of the country — which, more or less, she is since the bridge is the island’s only physical link to mainland North America and it’s not to Canada.

“At this point, there is not a whole lot I can say that I love about Campobello,” Matthews said. “Like, for example, our grocery store, it is really limited in choice. The only meat is ground beef, chicken and steak, and the fresh food spoils real quick and there is no fish, well, once in a great while our convenience store will have some fish. But if I want to buy real food, I have to drive all the way to the superstore in Canada — and that means I have to drive through the States to get there.”

There used to be a 30-minute privately owned summer ferry service connecting Campobello to Deer Island, N.B., but the service stopped in 2017 after the boat sank and it has yet to resume operation. To get to mainland New Brunswick to buy, say, groceries, islanders must cross an international bridge, clear U.S. Customs, turn right, drive 85 kilometres through Maine and check-in with Canadian customs in St. Stephen, N.B.

After all that, they are ready to go shopping, but not, ideally, for oranges, mangoes, potatoes grown in Western Canada, rice in burlap bags, avocados, more than 12 plants or a new pet parakeet, all of which are banned by U.S. customs.

Once back at the border, the islander must declare all the fruits and vegetables they have purchased to U.S. agents, and do the drive in reverse to get home, including passing (again) through Canadian customs. All told, one shopping trip equals four border crossings.

The star attraction of Campobello Island is Roosevelt Campobello International Park, 1,134-hectares centred around the family cottage of former president Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his wife, Eleanor.

But Matthews has more pressing needs than groceries. Her three-year-old son, Walter, has mild autism. He was assigned a caseworker in St. Stephen in October and a plan was made for the specialist to commute to Campobello four days a week to work with him. That plan hasn’t been initiated yet, because the Canadian specialist is waiting to receive a passport.

“It is a little frustrating,” Matthews said.

Islanders with plumbing problems speak of the impossibility of finding a mainland New Brunswick plumber willing to travel through Maine for a job. The same goes for electricians, septic bed maintenance companies, freshwater well-digging operations, washer and dryer repair technicians, major construction firms, furnace repairmen and veterinarians.

To get treatment for an ailing cow, an island farmer, and there are a handful of them in a predominantly fishing community, requires a permit from the U.S. Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service (APHIS) to import the cow into Maine for the drive north to Canada — which nobody bothers doing. What they will do, according to Campobello Mayor Stephen Smart, is arrange for a lobster boat to take the beast on a cross-water trip to the New Brunswick mainland.

Island residents will also spend the majority of their income in the U.S. to avoid the multiple border crossings, the mayor said, regardless of the less-than-robust Canadian dollar.

“If our community is going to survive and not become a ghost town or simply a summer residence for the Americans, whom we actually do like, we need an easy way for Canadians to come and visit us, as far as tourism goes, and a clear way for us to get to Canada without going through the U.S. border,” Smart said. “Some people here, they don’t leave the island, unless they can leave it by boat. We’re down to 800 people. Our high school graduating class is down to four kids. I see transportation as a critical barrier to growth.”

Campobello’s day-to-day isolation from the rest of Canada irks Senator David Adams Richards, an award-winning New Brunswick author who sits in the Senate as an independent.

Richards is an outspoken critic of Bill C-21, a new amendment to the Canada Customs Act intended to crack down on smuggling and facilitate the sharing of traveller information between U.S. and Canadian border officials. The act received Royal Assent before Christmas, and the senator suspects it will amplify the daily headaches islanders already experience in relation to the border.

“The residents of Campobello must travel through a foreign country while transporting goods and services from one part of N.B. to another,” Richards said in an email to the Financial Post. “The regulations imposed and the new regulations enacted will make it almost impossible to conduct daily affairs.

“Even the basic transportation of household goods can be scrutinized by border security working for the U.S. government; in theory and in practice, the people of the island have been stranded by a good degree of thoughtlessness.”

Minister of Public Safety and Emergency Preparedness Ralph Goodale’s office in a statement to the Financial Post said the “traveller’s experience will be entirely unchanged” by the new bill.

The anti-smuggling component of the bill, moreover, is intended to target items such as “stolen vehicles and materials that violate Canada’s anti-nuclear proliferation obligations,” the statement added. “To deal with these problems — which are not serious concerns with respect to Campobello Island shipments — C-21 gives Canada Border Services Agency officers the discretion to require reporting and to conduct examinations, as and where necessary.”

There used to be a 30-minute privately owned summer ferry service connecting Campobello to Deer Island, N.B., but the service stopped in 2017 after the boat sank and it has yet to resume operation.

The one thing Senator Richards, Mayor Smart, Victoria Matthews, Campobello’s Progressive Conservative MLA Greg Thompson and Liberal MP Karen Ludwig can unanimously agree upon is that, ultimately, the island needs a year-round ferry service binding it to mainland Canada.

Thompson, a long time Conservative MP under Stephen Harper, has been bemoaning the “thickening of the border” since 9/11. But he said getting a ferry into action would take two to five years minimum, and that’s assuming all the players involved had already discussed how much it would cost and who was going to pay for it, a hypothetical dialogue that hasn’t happened yet.

“I am a big fan of magic wands, but you don’t often get control of the wand,” Thompson said.

Some lay the blame for the island’s isolation on East Coast Ferries Ltd., which operated the Deer Island-to-Campobello seasonal ferry loop until last season, when its ferry sank. The company has since built a new ferry, dubbed the Hopper III, but it is in bureaucratic limbo, awaiting a visit from Transport Canada officials to certify it safe for the coming summer.

Widespread chatter ensued in the absence of the ferry service last summer, ensnaring islanders, the New Brunswick media and different levels of government. But for all the noise, nobody apparently bothered to call Leanne Silvaggio, manager of East Coast Ferries Ltd., to ask what was up with the boat.

“Pretty well everybody likes to talk to everybody else except for us,” she said. “It wasn’t that we didn’t want to be running the ferry last summer. We had to rebuild the whole ferry, and it just didn’t get done in time.”

Silvaggio has heard, though not directly from Thompson, that the province is interested in extending the Campobello ferry’s operating season, starting earlier in the spring and running it later in the fall. (Thompson later confirmed that extending the ferry’s operating season was a logical interim measure and something the province will be pursuing.)

“If that is the plan, we’re interested,” Silvaggio said.

Extending the season would be a definite plus, but it is not a permanent fix, something Brent MacPherson, founder and chair of the Campobello Year Round Ferry Committee, a citizens group dedicated to its namesake task, wants to resolve.

MacPherson is 62, semi-retired and married to a native islander, Victor Mitchell. The couple moved to Campobello a little more than a year ago, but recently pulled up stakes after Victor, a hairstylist, got sick of commuting across Maine to get to his four-day-a-week job at Pure Hair & Esthetics Studio in St. Andrews, N.B.

A view from the Franklin Delano Bridge that connects Campobello Island with Lubec Maine.

The 160-minute round trip was long, to be sure, but the border crossings are what rankled Mitchell, 66, most. As a hairstylist, he travels with a bag containing clippers, scissors, a blow dryer, combs, brushes and other related tools that U.S. border agents repeatedly questioned him about.

Even more aggravating was when the pair traveled together as a couple. MacPherson believes, admittedly without any proof, that he and Victor were flagged at least “six to 10 times” by the U.S. simply because they were married men.

Nonetheless, MacPherson loves Campobello, wishes he still lived there, and was instrumental in pushing for a federally funded feasibility study on a year-round ferry service.

Phase one of the study was a survey completed in October. It revealed 81 per cent of island business owners feel that “crossing the border today is more difficult than five years ago, mostly owing to lengthier American border controls.”

It also found that a majority of islanders purchase between “21 and 100 per cent of their goods in the U.S.” Three-quarters of the respondents said they would happily divert their dollars to Canadian businesses — a total pegged at about $3.1 million annually — were they linked by a year-round ferry.

“There are strong regional economic benefits associated with a year-round ferry,” the survey concluded.

It is a conclusion Scott Henderson can’t dispute. Henderson is 56, and a Campobello native. He runs a small construction company that relies on twice-weekly deliveries from a supplier in St. Stephen. Henderson makes the order, and the supplier deals with the border-related paperwork.

Construction being construction, there is always something more he needs — a nut, bolt, light bulb, other bits and bobs — so he drives across the Franklin Delano Roosevelt bridge several times a week to Lubec Hardware on Water Street. He also gets gas and does his banking in Lubec, because Campobello doesn’t have a gas station or a bank.

Henderson reckons he spends a $1,000 a month at the hardware store — the owner doesn’t take Canadian currency at par — money, being Canadian, he would prefer to spend in Canada.

“I am 56 and I’ve lived here all of my days. I think everybody has thought about moving off the island at some point. Some of our elderly spend two or three days a week going back and forth to doctor’s appointments in Saint John,” he said.

“Sometimes, living here, it just feels like you are in the middle of nowhere. But when you take all the bad things out, all the inconveniences, and just look out at a summer’s day, you see that living here is pretty tough to beat.”

• Email: joconnor@nationalpost.com | Twitter: oconnorwrites

from Financial Post http://bit.ly/2CDGrXF via IFTTT Blogger Mortgage Tumblr Mortgage Evernote Mortgage Wordpress Mortgage href="https://www.diigo.com/user/gelsi11">Diigo Mortgage

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A Car-Free Vacation

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A Car-Free Vacation

Want to really get away from it all? Away from computers, away from the phone, and even away from… cars?

If you’re ready to say buh-bye to traffic jams, parking tickets, and high gasoline prices on your next trip, here are a dozen beautiful vacation spots where horses, bikes, golf carts or walking shoes are the transportation of choice.

Mackinac Island, Michigan

1. Mackinac Island, Michigan

Visitors to Mackinac island in the Straits of Mackinac (pronounced MACK-in-naw), between the Upper and Lower peninsulas about 285 mi/460 km north of Detroit, can step back in time. Autos may have made Michigan’s fortune, but they’re banned from this island—horse-drawn carriages, saddle horses, bicycles and walking are the only means of transportation.

Although many visitors see the island on a day trip, we recommend spending at least one night there. The lodging isn’t cheap (though you may find some bargains in early spring and late fall), but it’s worth it.

Once the throngs of day visitors depart, the island becomes even more like the 1800s: The streets are dark and largely empty, and the utter quiet is broken only by the occasional sound of clomping hooves. An overnight stay will also give you more time to see the island’s sights.

Monhegan Island, ME, Photography by Navin

2. Monhegan Island, Maine

Artists and urban-dwellers have been seeking refuge on Maine’s car-free Monhegan Island for years, drawn in by its rugged terrain and timeless solitude. Photographers will find Lobster Cove hard to resist, with its many flat rocks on which to set up shop and capture the surf and even a shipwreck. Anyone interested in learning about the history and culture of the area can head to the Monhegan Museum, set in what was once the home of the lighthouse keeper and showcasing the works of many local artists. In fact, an artists’ colony on the island has been in existence for more than 100 years, with several works available for purchase at the numerous artists’ studios – an artistic reminder of the island’s peace and tranquility is guaranteed to top the typical gift-shop coffee mug, hands down.

Catalina Island, Photography by Joyce Collins

3. Catalina Island, California

Catalina Island lies 22 mi/35 km off the Southern California coast, but it feels like a world away. Just the name conjures images of the quaint seaside village of Avalon, picture-perfect harbors and sandy beaches. Catalina is everything that Los Angeles is not—small-scale, nostalgic and slow-paced—and therein lies its charm.

Visitors often compare the island’s compact town of Avalon with Amalfi, Italy, or a resort town on France’s Cote d’Azur. Perhaps it’s those rocky palisades rising from the sea that suggest a Mediterranean locale. Or maybe it’s the tiled fountain, quaint storefronts, and the Moorish-style casino. Foreign visitors have been known to ask local shopkeepers whether they accept U.S. currency. In all, the island promises a delightful departure from urban inconveniences—the more so because Catalina, alone in Southern California, disdains the automobile.

Lake Erie Islands by David Fulmer

4. Lake Erie Islands, Ohio

Situated across from Cedar Point Amusement Park on Lake Erie, Put-In-Bay and Kelleys Island (part of Ohio’s collection of islands) do not require a rental car when visiting. While vehicles are permitted on the islands and can be transported via ferry, golf carts are actually the best way to get around. Since the carts can be used on actual roadways, a valid driver’s license is needed to drive one. Families will love carting around town to explore the caves, wineries, and lighthouse. Bikes and walking are also great ways to get around either town. And when it’s inevitably time to visit the “Roller Coaster Capital of the World,” you can ferry over to Cedar Point Marina with ease.

Bald Head Island, NC

5. Bald Head Island, North Carolina

Located at the tip of Cape Fear and accessible only by boat, Bald Head Island boasts a rich history — it played a part in two American wars and was once a pirate hideout for the likes of Blackbeard and Stede Bonnet.

Today the island is still the most secluded of the Brunswick Islands, offering a quiet, picturesque vacation destination. It’s only reachable by ferry and no cars are permitted. In fact, more than 80 percent of Bald Head is conservation land where visitors can enjoy nature hikes and view sea-turtle nesting areas, but the only way to get around is by foot, golf cart or bicycle.

San Juan Islands, Washington, Photography by Jeff Gunn

6. San Juan Islands, Washington

These 172 spectacular islands—lodged between the Olympic Peninsula, northern Puget Sound and Vancouver Island, approximately 70 mi/115 km northwest of Seattle—are a must-see for any visitor to Washington. Fishing villages dot the coves, embracing a simpler time, and many artists reside on the islands, drawn by the scenery and solitude. At the very least, take the four-hour ferry ride through the archipelago. The boats depart from Anacortes.

Bald eagles and orcas frequent the cool waters of Puget Sound near the islands, and the west coast of San Juan Island is one of the best whale-watching points in the U.S. Sightings are most common in summer when orcas hunt in groups (called “pods”). You can sometimes spot whales from the shore at Lime Kiln State Park.

Go bike riding (Lopez Island is the best) along the winding coastal roads, and go beachcombing after storms. Keep an eye out for eagles, deer, seals, porpoises, and otters.

San Juan Island National Historical Park documents an anticlimactic clash between U.S. and British forces in the mid-1800s. The “Pig War” started over a hog and ended with a standoff that redrew boundary lines. Another possibility is the Whale Museum (phone 360-378-4710; http://www.whale-museum.org) in the village of Friday Harbor.

Orcas Island is the most scenic of the four ferry stops, with rolling hills and the 2,400-ft/730-m Mount Constitution. The mountain is the centerpiece of Moran State Park, a place of hiking trails, forests, and waterfalls.

Sea kayaking is another great way to see this part of the state and allows for up-close observation of the wildlife. The Cascadia Marine Trail, a 150-mi/240-km route from Olympia to the border with Canada, runs through the San Juans.

South Padre Island Fire Walk

7. South Padre Island, Texas

This 1.8-square-mile barrier island along the Texas Gulf Coast may be best known for its bawdy spring break ritual, but the island equally boasts experiences for couples, families, and just about everyone in between – all within a compact stretch of surf and sand.

The Island offers thousands of hotel rooms, motel rooms and condominiums to rent and all the amenities and recreational activities you could want at a beach resort — boating, swimming, fishing, surfing, sailboarding, beachcombing on long white beaches, birding, camping, in-line skating, parasailing, bungee jumping and eating and drinking. You could even sign the kids up for a sandcastle-building contest.

Side trips include visits to Matamoros, Mexico (across from Brownsville), or the Laguna Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge, a 7,000-acre/2,800-hectare marshland that’s home to thousands of waterfowl, as well as coyotes, javelina, bobcats, and deer.

Nantucket Historic District, Photography by Daryl Grider

8. Nantucket Island, Massachusettes

Not designed with cars in mind, Nantucket’s narrow cobblestone streets are best explored on foot or by bike. Follow the island’s winding lanes past historic clapboard homes of sea captains and pre-Civil War buildings – many of which are now home to boutiques and galleries, as well as the island’s famous Whaling Museum (housed in an 1847 candle factory).

The island sits at the confluence of two bodies of water, 30 mi/48 km out from the mainland. The north side faces the gentler waters of Nantucket Sound, its main harbor nestled within the protection of a barrier beach. Facing south and up around to the northwest are the more temperamental waters of the wild Atlantic Ocean.

At Nantucket’s northwestern peak, Great Point is the long swath of sand and stunning beach that ends where the waters meet, tangling together in frothy, dangerous tumult. For years, the island’s position demanded a life dependent on the sea, a legacy that continues to shape its fortune.

Visitors to Nantucket are drawn by the island’s rich and storied history and its distinct culture, shaped and beautifully preserved by its isolated location at sea. The entire island is a National Historic District because of its wealth of architecture dating back to the 18th century. There are more than 800 buildings on Nantucket that predate the Civil War, a distinction that even historic Boston can’t surpass.

Halibut Cove, Alaska, Photography by Andrew E. Russell

9. Halibut Cove, Alaska

Located in Alaska’s Kachemak Bay State Park, Halibut Cove is nestled among mountains, glaciers, and forests and is accessible only by boat. It’s home to just 38 people, according to the 2010 Census, and one of the only floating U.S. post offices is located here, along with a popular floating coffee shop. The cove is lined with stores, cabins and art galleries, which are also accessible only by boat, and you’re likely to see a variety of wildlife, including sea otters, harbor seals, and humpback whales.

Tangier Island Virginia Photography by J. Albert Bowden II

10. Tangier Island, Virginia

There are few cars — but plenty of golf carts — on this 3-mile-long island in the Chesapeake Bay. Boating, biking, crabbing, and kayaking are popular activities. Tangier Island truly feels like a world unto itself because of its isolated locale and its history. British forces used it as a staging ground during the War of 1812, and the island’s residents speak with a distinctive Cockney accent.

Daufuskie Island, South Carolina

11. Daufuskie Island, South Carolina

Without a bridge to the mainland and only a few paved roads, Daufuskie Island harkens back to a simpler time. This small wooded isle is located between Hilton Head, S.C., and Savannah, Ga., and is accessible only by boat. Golf carts and bicycles are the only forms of transportation on the island, but what makes Daufuskie truly unique is its Gullah population. Gullah are descendants of freed slaves, and the inhabitants’ culture is evident in the island’s food, music, and local art.

Although the island is mostly undeveloped, it does have a resort, two golf courses, and a local art gallery. White sand beaches, ancient oaks, Spanish moss and historical landmarks all lend a deep country feel, while the eclectic arts scene keeps the spirit of the island alive and thriving.

Smith Island Pelicans

12. Smith Island, Maryland

Smith Island is Maryland’s only inhabited offshore island in the Chesapeake Bay, but it’s actually composed of several islands. In the last 50 years, the island has lost more than 3,000 acres of wetlands due to erosion, and restoration efforts are underway to restore the island and prevent further erosion.

Smith Island is a good place to bicycle, listen to the gulls, watch sunsets and learn about the work of the Chesapeake Bay watermen. Residents have been harvesting seafood from the bay for generations (settlement began in 1657, and a bit of the original settlers’ English accent can still be heard in the voices of some of the 400 residents). There are no supermarkets, no police and little worry about crime.

An active fishing community that boasts some of the nation’s best crab cakes, the island is also the birthplace of the Smith Island Cake, which was declared Maryland’s state dessert in 2008. The famous dish features six-15 thin layers of cake filled with frosting — but locals say it’s the cooked chocolate icing that really makes the dessert unique.

[heimwee2456]

Although Amsterdam’s popularity is well deserved, travelers who stay only inside the city are missing out on some of the Europe’s most enchanting countryside. And in a country as tiny as the Netherlands, day-tripping is an easy thing to do, wherever you come from. Within about half an hour of leaving Amsterdam’s main station, you can be deep in the Dutch countryside surrounded with tulips, colourful houses, quaint waterways, black-and-white cows and scent of the sea.

One of my favorite day-trip destinations is the aptly named Waterland, being home to three picturesque villages: Edam, Marken, and Volendam, all situated on the coast of the Markermeer.

Waterland from a bike

I’ve visited all three of them, but I decided to start with Marken: a lovely little hamlet lying on a tiny peninsula, my favourite out of these three locations.

Marken was separated from the mainland by a storm in the 13th century. This was followed by centuries of isolation for its population, who made living as fishermen. Floods were regular and often disastrous back then. To protect their belongings and themselves from the water, the inhabitants created artificial dwelling hills on which they built their houses. As fishery became the main economic activity, the population grew rapidly. When the Afsluitdijk was finished in 1932 and the IJsselmeer lake created, access to the sea was blocked and fishery activities almost came to an end. It hasn’t been until 1957 that Marken was reconnected with the mainland and became a peninsula when a dike was built. Nevertheless, the village still has the look and feel of a fishermen’s town and an island, because the Marken’s authentic nature has been preserved and the inhabitants kept many traditions alive.

Please understand that this is a normal village, with people that have been living here all their lives!

Havenbuurt and Kerkbuurt are the two main parts of Marken village. The harbour quarter is the more touristy part and where you will find most of the restaurants and tourist shops. You’ll also find a quite convenient boat connection to Volendam here. Despite the fact that Havenbuurt is nice and picturesque, the beauty of Marken village is in the church quarter. Located on a little hill around the village’s church, its charms are easily seen when you get there. The narrow alleys, the old wooden dwellings, the labyrinth of passageways and the occasional glimpse of “real” (not tourist-focused) life, made Kerkbuurt a mesmerizing place. With the exception of the Marken Museum, there’s not exactly a lot to see in terms of traditional sights, but the quarter’s own very special atmosphere makes it worth the visit. Plus, it’s almost tourist-free, compared to Havenbuurt.

Havenbuurt

While you may not encounter too many people still dressed in attire that was all the rage in similar fishing communities back in the previous centuries, you’ll find many of its historic homesteads still standing. The houses are built on stilts or poles, or clustered on the hills to provide protection from fluctuating tides.

Kerkbuurt

Even though Marken is more about the atmosphere and the architecture, there is still a number of famous landmarks for visitors to seek out on their strolls:

The most iconic structure in all of Marken is certainly the so-called Paard van Marken (Horse of Marken), a monumental lighthouse that rises from the easternmost point of the peninsula; the current structure dates back to 1839. The peculiar name stems from its shape, which consists of a 16m high tower attached to two pyramidal-roofed houses. Since it was privatized a couple of years ago, it’s closed to public.

Most visitors to Marken find that their curiosity is soon piqued by the local culture, and the Marker Museum (Marken Museum) exists to satisfy this curiosity. Spread over six former fishermens’ houses, the museum is devoted to the fine and decorative arts, handicrafts and folk costume of Marken. The traditional dress of Marken is a symbol of “Marker” culture, but now seldom appears save for special occasions – and, of course, at the museum. Visitors can also explore the preserved 1930s interior of one of the houses, which retains the furniture and decorations that its inhabitants have installed.

The Kijkhuisje Sijtje Boes (Sijtje Boes Lookout House) is, just as its name implies, a little house to peek into to see the period furniture and decor that its owner Sijtje Boes provided it with. It doubles as a souvenir shop, the oldest in Marken, which the entrepreneurial Ms. Boes founded in the early 1900s; even back then, Marken’s distinctive folk culture drew visitors to the then-island.

In addition, Marken also has a wooden shoe workshop (Dutch: klompenmakerij) located at Kets 50, where visitors can observe both the machine-assisted and manual production of traditional wooden shoes, and perhaps pick up a pair of their own.

Because Marken is just a small island, you can easily round it on foot. If you circle the entire island on the dike, the distance is about 9 kilometers.

The best way to reach Marken is by car – then it takes about 30 minutes to reach from A’dam. If you don’t have a car, no worries, you can also reach it by public transport. From Amsterdam Centraal station, just head to the bus terminal (behind the station, on the water side), and take Bus 315 which runs to Marken once an hour. The entire trip will take you about 40 minutes, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

Please, forget about all those overpriced group trips to Marken! For the bus you’ll pay only a couple of euros while for those trips about 60€ for each person!

You can stay the night and enjoy the town after the day tourists have left, for example in the nostalgic rooms of Hotel Hof van Marken, which offers a nice view over the harbour and IJsselmeer lake, but staying on the mainland (for example in Volendam, Edam or Monnickendam) is way cheaper.

Marinapark Volendam where we stayed. Sometimes you gotta go for a vacation even though you live like 90km away. Worth it!

As for the dining experience, there’s a handful of restaurants, too. As Marken is originally a fishermen’s town, there’s a lot of sea food around. Hotel Hof van Marken also has a restaurant.

Restaurant Land en Zeezicht – nice location and a lovely outdoor terrace. The food, however, gets mixed reviews. I had a pretty great experience there but I’ve heard of some people not being contented with their meals at all.

De Visscher – this pub serves descent food and has a great view.

Snackbar De Verkeerde Wereld – this cafeteria sells fries and snacks, but also has a range of simple dishes for lunch and dinner. Baguettes and omelets but also fried fish, steaks, spareribs etc. Closed on Mondays and Tuesdays.

Or you can just easily enjoy some original Dutch (being sold by a Czech lady, what a paradox) poffertjes!

I’m lactose intolerant, but WHO’D CARE WHEN IT COMES TO POFFERTJES???

Although Marken doesn’t seem as popular as other historical landmarks in the Netherlands (compared to for example Zaanse Schans, Kinderdijk or Keukenhof), it tends to get quite crowdy. Therfore I’d like to recommend you to begin your trip in the early morning, so you can fully catch the town in its biggest beauty and glory.

And don’t forget to bring yourself a raincoat!

HUGE HUGE HUGE DISCLAIMER BY THE WAY: I’M AWARE OF THE FACT THAT THE PHOTOS ARE TERRIBLE, BUT I FORGOT TO TAKE MY CHARGER AND HAD TO TAKE PHOTOS WITH AN ANCIENT PHONE WITH 5MPX CAMERA – I’M SORRY!

Have a great day!

Enchanting Marken

Although Amsterdam’s popularity is well deserved, travelers who stay only inside the city are missing out on some of the Europe…

Enchanting Marken Although Amsterdam’s popularity is well deserved, travelers who stay only inside the city are missing out on some of the Europe…

[yahooin-travel-inspirations]

A beach bum's guide to Malapascua Island

Main Photo: Ocean Vida

There’s not a lot of places in the world that can truly make you feel like you’re on a deserted island paradise. Malapascua, a tiny island located just 8 kilometres northeast of Cebu, Philippines, is one of these hidden gems. This is not your average beachside tourist trap; there are no luxurious five-star hotels or busy markets. The pace of life is unhurried here. What Malapascua does offer, however, is a golden chance to disconnect, unwind, and rejuvenate — perfect for us lounging beach bums!

How do I get myself to Malapascua?

Photo: Airports Worldwide

There are several ways to reach the island, namely via Cebu or Masbate. While you can depart for Malapascua via a ferry from Masbate in the north, this journey is exhaustingly longer — the ferry ride alone will take up 6 hours of your time. We will thus detail the fastest way to reach Malapascua: via Cebu.

To get to Malapascua, you will first have to board a flight to the nearest airport in Cebu Island. From the Mactan-Cebu International Airport, you will have to make your way to Maya Port in the northern part of Cebu, the port of call for boats to and from Malapascua. How you get to Maya Port is entirely up to you. Whichever option you choose, the three-hour drive will allow you to enjoy a scenic ride with glorious mountain and sea views (or simply to catch some much needed shut eye!)

Hop on a bus for a modest fare of around 160-200 pesos, depending on whether the bus is fitted with air-conditioning or not.

Hire a private car or minivan to take you to Maya Port – although this will set you back an average of 2,500 pesos (around SGD 70) for a three-hour drive.

Once you’re at Maya Port, your next step would be to board a public boat (known as bancas) to the island itself. Depending on the tide, you may be asked to board a tiny dingy first – this will carry you to the larger boat in deeper waters. You can actually see the island of Malapascua in the distance while looking out from Maya Port, so that will definitely get the excitement going! The ferry ride will only take around 20-30 minutes, and you’ll step out into the sunshine on Malapascua’s white sands in no time.

It’s important to remember that public boats only run between 6.30am in the morning to 4pm in the afternoon. With this in mind, you might have to time your flight arrival and overland transfer so that you arrive by Maya Port at least before the last boat leaves. Otherwise, you will have to spend a night in Cebu City before making your way up to Maya Port the next day.

With all that said though, if you’ve pre-booked your resort stay or any packages with a dive shop, they can arrange for your airport transfer to and from Malapascua — for both your overland and ferry rides. This will make things much easier for you, and you won’t have to worry about missing your ferry or rushing to get a bus ticket.

Where should I stay on the island?

Photo: TripAdvisor

The beauty of Malapascua lies in its raw, untouched nature. It’s relatively underdeveloped as compared to other beach destinations, and as such, does not boast luxury hotels or swanky resorts. You may not see any infinity pools here, but you’ll have the entire Visayan Sea to yourself. And isolated from the mainland, you’ll feel like you’re in a world of your own.

There are only a handful of accommodations around the island, most of which are either mid-range resorts or backpacker hostels. Some of these resorts have private beaches, and rooms that open up to a fantastic view of the surrounding ocean (check out Tepanee and Blue Coral Resort!) If you’re diving throughout your stay on Malapascua, you might want to pick a resort that’s within close walking distance of your dive shop — you won’t want to wake up any earlier than you have to if you’re going for an early morning shark thresher dive!

If you’re travelling to Malapascua, take our advice — pre-book your stay wherever possible. As there is a limited number of accommodation options on the island, you might not be able to find something on short notice. This is especially important to remember if you’re visiting the island during the busy dive season (which peaks between December and April.)

When’s the best time to travel to Malapascua?

The peak dive season runs from December to April, so the island can get a little crowded with divers. You can dive all year round in Malapascua but this is the best period to do so, with better visibility and more active marine life. The warm climate extends all the way until May, with very little rain.

The name ‘Malapascua’ means ‘bad christmas’ in the local Cebuano language; the island was purportedly given this name when the Spanish explorers first landed here on a stormy Christmas day in the 16th century. While the first half of the year sees warm tropical heat, the second half is decidedly wetter (as the Spanish explorers found out way back then.) The ‘rainy season’ happens between July and December, with a mild chance of typhoons, and there are also lesser visitors to the island during this period.

What transportation is available on the islands?

This island is tiny — walking from its northernmost tip to its southernmost end, which spans around three kilometres, will only take you around 30 to 40 minutes. A leisurely stroll around the entire island will need no more than three hours. The only motorised transport allowed on the island are motorbikes, so if you’re looking for a quicker way to get around, you can rent one for a day for around 100 pesos. Alternatively you can try to hitch a ride from the friendly locals for a modest fee.

Living the beach life on Malapascua

Photo: Geo

Back in 2013, Malapascua was hit back super typhoons Haiyan and Yolanda. While it has certainly bounced back since then, the island does show some remnants of its battered past. There are much fewer coconut palms dotting the beaches, and some buildings within the village centre still remain roofless. Regardless, Malapascua’s beaches hold a unique charm. Bounty Beach, the island’s main and busiest strip, is perfect for sunbathing and just watching the world go by. There are a bunch of restaurants and bars along this strip as well, so a refreshing drink or satisfying meal is never too far away.

Photo: Wandersugar

If you want to venture a little further, go on a day trip to Calanggaman Island. Calanggaman is situated about a mere hour’s boat ride away from Malapascua. Keep your eyes peeled during the boat rides to and from the island — there’s a good chance to see some dolphins up close (we sure did!) You might have seen videos of Calanggaman’s picture-perfect sandbar floating around Facebook recently — it’s been featured in many travel videos as of late, and for good reason! Calanggaman is a beautiful, pristine island with pearly white sand and crystal clear blue water. The view here is breathtaking! The dives here are equally impressive too; you’ll find plenty of little critters living within the rock walls. After your dives, you’ll get a chance to visit the island itself for a barbecue lunch and a relaxing afternoon swim.

What activities are there on the island?

You will find that most tourists to the island come here primarily just to dive. Malapascua is a widely known mecca for scuba enthusiasts, as one of the very few places where in the world where you can spot the thresher shark. The threshers are a rare deep sea species, listed as vulnerable and likely to become endangered in the near future. But despite their descreasing numbers, Malapascua is still possibly the only place in the world where you’re almost guaranteed a thresher shark sighting on a daily basis.

Thresher shark. Photo: BBC

Divers wake at the crack of dawn, file onto little boats, and head out into what seems like the middle of nowhere, right smack in the vast open ocean. The boat captains know this place and its coordinates by heart, locating it with ease. This is the world famous dive site, Monad Shoal, an underwater island with a cliff that descends down hundreds of metres. It is from these murky depths that the hypnotic threshers rise from, batting their long, glittering tails as they glide through the reefs. At approximately 5.30am each morning, the threshers make their way to the shallows, where schools of cleaner wrasses eagerly await them. They come here to be cleaned, picked at, and groomed by these fish. It’s a wonderful symbiotic relationship, one which affords divers a glimpse into the mysterious lives of this pelagic creature.

But Monad Shoal is hardly the only star dive site around Malapascua’s shores — the island is home to over 25 brilliant dive sites, blessed with vibrant coral beds and a diverse underwater ecosystem. Besides Monad Shoal, some of the must-visit sites are:

Gato Island: Just a short boat ride away is Gato Island, a marine reserve which in itself includes at least six distinct dive sites. Gato Cathedral, for example, has some stunning underwater pinnacles and rock formations, while the aptly named Nudibranch City is home to a wide array of colourful nudibranches. Another site, The Cave, is highly recommended — here you can swim through a 30 metre long tunnel in almost complete darkness, and find resting whitetip sharks at the end of the tunnel.

Kimud Shoal: Some dive shops may offer trips to Kimud Shoal, another sunken island close to Monad Shoal. The peak of the island sits around 12-16 metres from the water’s surface, while its steep walls descend more than 200 metres deep. You can see sharks, rays, and even dolphins here at Kimud Shoal, but the true highlight of this site is the chance to see schooling hammerhead sharks. They reportedly populate around the area between December and May.

Lighthouse: This is hands down one of the best sites in all of Malapascua, and the best time to visit is when the sun goes down. You can experience two separate dive sites within the vicinity of Malapascua’s sole lighthouse, both of which offer a vast array of marine life that come alive at dusk. It’s here that you can witness the rare psychedelic mandarinfish, performing an even rarer mating dance. The second site houses a small Japanese plane wreck from WWII. This may be a shallow dive site, but there’s a impressive amount of creatures to be spotted here — octopuses, sea snakes, pipefish, and dozens upon dozens of shy hermit crabs, just to name a few.

Mandarinfish. Photo: Wandersugar

Chocolate Island: You’ll come across Chocolate Island en route from Maya Port to Malapascua. It’s a pretty little hill that rises above the sea, but it’s even more impressive underwater. The island’s walls lead down a gentle slope into a field of soft corals. The corals here embody warm colours, which looks almost like fall foliage. Expect to see moray eels, baby cuttlefish, and even shimmering flatworms!

Diving in Malapascua. Video: Wandersugar

Even if you don’t dive, you will have the opportunity to snorkel around the island and see some spectacular flora and fauna. Some dive shops even offer booze cruises around Malapascua, where you can snorkel and drink to your heart’s delight as you take in lovely views of the ocean. Feeling adventurous? Hire a boat and go island hopping, or jump off a 10 metre high cliff near the lighthouse. Take a walk and meet the locals as you explore the villages throughout the island. The locals sometimes host fiestas around the island, complete with beauty pageants, discos, and food aplenty! There are also an assortment of idyllic restaurants and bars around the island to try out. For foodies, check out Amihan Restaurant & Pizzeria, located a short walk away from the main Bounty Beach strip — indulge in some excellent western fare while enjoying the sunset view.

About the author:

Cherylene Renee is an adrenaline junkie, with a thirst for travel and adventure. She bungee jumps, scuba dives, and hunts for the world’s most insane rollercoasters. Check out her adventures and travel tips on Wandersugar.com, and follow her on Facebook and Instagram.

[readingisawayoflife]

The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman

What a beautiful cover eh? Its dark but that`s fitting for such a beautifully tragic novel. Honestly my sister`s friend recommends the most incredible books with well written story lines and characters, that are just so, so sad. The depth of the desperation that entirely consumes the novel is what really gets to you. To put it plainly, it`s bound to remind you of a Fray song or two.

My rating: ****.5/5

Summary (From Goodreads)

After four harrowing years on the Western Front, Tom Sherbourne returns to Australia and takes a job as the lighthouse keeper on Janus Rock, nearly half a day’s journey from the coast. To this isolated island, where the supply boat comes once a season and shore leaves are granted every other year at best, Tom brings a young, bold, and loving wife, Isabel. Years later, after two miscarriages and one stillbirth, the grieving Isabel hears a baby’s cries on the wind. A boat has washed up onshore carrying a dead man and a living baby. Tom, whose records as a lighthouse keeper are meticulous and whose moral principles have withstood a horrific war, wants to report the man and infant immediately. But Isabel has taken the tiny baby to her breast. Against Tom’s judgment, they claim her as their own and name her Lucy. When she is two, Tom and Isabel return to the mainland and are reminded that there are other people in the world. Their choice has devastated one of them.

Characters (my opinion)

Tom~  Hes a soldier that has seen his fair share of brutality and cruelty. He sees everything black and white (right and wrong) even though the war has corrupted his urgent morality. To me he is constantly at war with himself, over past family trauma, and you know the actual war, and then when the dead guy washes up to the shore with the baby his conscience is so tumultuous it breaks your heart (and his heart too). His  astounding love for his wife Isabel is his redemption and his downfall. Everyone thinks of him as stoic and detached and he is He relies on facts and routine to keep him grounded even when he feels like everything is up in the air. As the story goes on he’s a character you can see developing, in a regressive way. While you do start to see more emotion, his perspective becomes more scattered and panicked even though he is portrayed as calm and collected. 

Isabel~ out of everyone in this devastating novel, I feel the most sad for her. She lost two of her brothers in the war. She desperately wants to have a child and is unable to. Shes slowly getting closer to the literal and figurative edge with each death. Shes completely in love with a child that’s not hers, and a husband that to her seems soulfully out of reach. She gets driven further and further into isolation and is torn apart by the only people that can pull her back. Naturally, she goes crazy. It’s not crazy in an obnoxious way, its silent and crippling from the inside out. Her hopeful character that is a light for Tom develops into someone much more hopeless and her perspective becomes darker and darker. oh and spoiler alert* she gets freaking cancer and dies without ever seeing her only essence of a child ever again.

Hannah~ Ok, so everyone hated her husband, and her husband died and she didn’t know what happened to him or her baby, then when she found out the baby was alive everyone thought she was crazy. She feels like everyone is always controlling her life and she kept suffering for things that weren’t her fault. While I feel for that, I don’t like her. I feel like she doesn’t love her actual child anymore, she loves the idea of the baby that she had. She kind of realizes this when her child is returned to her, but she just doesn’t treat her kid properly to me. She loves her late husband more then anyone and she uses her child to hold on to her memories of him, rather then seeing the child as her own person.

Lucy-Grace~ The infamous child that washes ashore. What a sweetheart

There are so many other characters that play an important role and have great perspectives (shout out to my girl Gwen and even Septimus is a good guy, ooh and Frank -love him) but yeah those are the most important. 

My favourite quotes 

“You only have to forgive once. To resent, you have to do it all day, every day.”

“Perhaps when it comes to it, no one is just the worst thing they ever did.”

“That's how life goes on - protected by the silence that anesthetizes shame.”

“The law's the law, but people are people.”

“If a lighthouse looks like it's in a different place, it's not the lighthouse that's moved.”

and bonus because i love stars and the symbolism in this novel

“And the stars: the sky gets crowded at night, and it is a bit like watching a clock, seeing the constellations slide across the sky. It’s comforting to know that they’ll show up, however bad the day has been, however crook things get. That used to help in France. It put things into perspective—the stars had been around since before there were people. They just kept shining, no matter what was going on. I think of the light here like that, like a splinter of a star that’s fallen to earth: it just shines, no matter what is happening. Summer, winter, storm, fine weather. People can rely on it.”

“ A lighthouse is for others; powerless to illuminate the space closest to it ”

[cutieodonoghue]

dark gray (5/?)

summary: Killian Jones operates a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, preferring a life of isolation, until one day a woman and a baby wash up on his little island and change his life forever.

read it on: ao3, ff.net

and also catch up on tumblr!

///

Five

Killian comes into the room three times in the night when Henry cries.

His exhaustion is mirrored in Emma's own miserable appearance, sagging eyes and lips pressed together tightly without any need for communication.

He sits in the chair under the window next to the fireplace and she tries not to notice the way his hair sticks up in every direction as he threads a hand through it with his gaze lazy on the flickering fire.

Henry needs to be changed after his third feeding and Emma winces as she lays him down on her legs to do the work.

Emma just fastens the pin on the side with practiced ease and she pulls his little outfit on as snugly as it will fit before taking the boy into her arms and allowing him to play with her finger as she waits for him to drift off.

She nearly falls asleep herself, sitting up in the bed, but Henry doesn't feel like sleeping and she can't just put him down like this, so she drops her shoulders low.

"Can you just go to sleep?" She's begging and Henry just blinks his big brown eyes at her. She sighs.

"Do you know any songs?" Killian asks, voice thick with sleep.

Emma shakes her head, looking over at him. "You don't have to stay here, you know. You can go back to sleep. He's just going to stay up until he's ready."

He shakes his head and stands, pulling the chair to the edge of the bed. He plunks back down and takes a breath.

"I haven't sung in a long while," he tells her, clearing his throat a little. He braces himself with another breath. "So pardon my pitch."

Emma tilts her head to the side in mild curiosity, a swelling of surprise in her belly. "Believe me, I have no judgment. I can't sing for my life."

He smiles the smallest bit, almost shyly, and Emma looks down at Henry before Killian starts in, low and deep.

His voice is beautiful and stunning to say the least. She hasn't heard anything like it, and the song he's singing is equally as such. It's a song about a man calling for his lost love at sea. She thinks it's probably a song that he used to hear at some point in his past.

He sings with passion and she keeps her gaze fixed on Henry's tiny face while he drifts off peacefully. He's asleep before the song is finished, but Killian keeps singing anyway.

They sit in silence for a few moments once he finishes singing.

Turning to him, Emma intentionally meets his eyes. "That was beautiful."

Killian smiles slightly. "My brother Liam used to sing it to me when I was afraid of the storms."

She smiles at that, finding herself genuinely interested in his past. Interested in the fact that he used to be afraid of thunderstorms. Interested in who he used to be, and of what happened to lead him here.

She finds herself suddenly wide awake, wanting to sit up for the rest of the night discussing themselves.

But at the same time, she knows it wouldn't be right. They're still just acquaintances and when she leaves him, she'll never see him again, so it isn't as if there needs to be a relationship here.

Emma hands Henry off to Killian so he can settle the boy into his crib. He stays sitting there in silence for a few moments with her, so she thinks he must want to talk.

She's not good at this, but she manages to find something to say.

"Did you lose him?"

He stares at her and then looks down at his lap, lip going between his teeth. He struggles for a second or two. "Aye."

Emma closes her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

He scoffs, sitting up straight and running his hand over his head. "Don't apologize, love. No one ever sticks around, do they? Death is inevitable. I made my peace with that a long time ago."

He shoves himself up onto his feet and returns the chair to its spot. She watches him, the way his features have darkened with the obvious pent-up anger over this topic.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He pauses where he's standing by the door and glances over his shoulder. "Not entirely."

"Okay."

He leaves the room after a second at the door and she sees his hand clench up into a fist before falling to his side on his way out.

She wonders if she'll ever figure him out.

There are so many layers, she's beginning to see now, and if she doesn't figure out what he's about now, she probably never will. It's odd that she wants to, because she's had a life of messy relationships and idiots and people who claimed they wanted her but never did.

Wanting to learn about someone else is unsettling. So maybe she shouldn't want that.

Maybe she shouldn't wonder about what Killian Jones' history looks like, about who he lost and who he's hiding from. Maybe she shouldn't want to help him see that living alone on this island is doing more harm than good.

It's evident already that he doesn't care much for himself. She can't say much for his grooming standards, but based on the amount of cleaning she'd done, it's obvious that a part of Killian is careless and hopeless, as if he doesn't want his life to be long-lived.

She can't think of anything sadder, really. Living on this island, in this house, for another fifty years- into his old age? That sounds like it would kill him faster than anything.

People aren't meant to live alone. If there's something she's learned in the past few years of living with David and Mary Margaret, it's that.

It's probably a matter of time before it all comes crumbling down for him and she hopes with bated breath that it isn't while she's still here with him.

/

In the morning, Emma is greeted by the sound of Henry's hungry cry and a groan from the other side of the wall.

After a few moments, Killian enters the room and hands the baby to her. He looks exhausted, as if his sleep had been restless. Hers had been, too.

Henry's cries soften as soon as she holds him, but he still needs comfort, and she hums a little to him, muttering the words under her breath as she strokes over his hair and cheeks.

She bites her lip when Killian comes back into the room with the bottle in his hand.

Emma takes it from him and starts to feed Henry while Killian sits at the foot of the bed. He runs a hand over his face and sighs. "How does your leg feel?"

She shrugs. "A little better, I guess."

He smiles a tiny bit and nods. "Good. I'll get you some ice." Killian pauses and, as if he remembers something important, he tells her, "Snowed this morning."

Emma's eyes widen. "What? Are you serious?"

Killian chuckles and nods. She looks toward the window and finds that it's fogged over in a white sheen and she laughs.

"Can I go outside and see it?"

He shrugs. "Suppose so."

Emma smiles at him excitedly. He seems curious, with the way his eyes shine back at her, and how tentatively stretched his smile is.

She's oddly really happy. The idea of snow brings back memories of real life, where she belongs, and they sit warm in her chest. Clearly, Killian can sense that, though he stares at her like she's being silly.

"Sorry. I just…" Emma shakes her head. "It's just that the first snow of the year, my mom has this tradition that we do."

She pauses, a smile filling her face from ear to ear. She can practically hear her mother's bright voice in her ears.

"She says that the first coat of snow is the most magical and we usually bottle some up and leave it in our freezer until Christmas Eve. Then we'd sprinkle it in our stockings because she says the magic in the snow would bring even more happiness than Santa could ever bring."

He smiles at her explanation, a genuine one, his teeth showing and sparkling in the early morning light.

Her own smile fades as she looks down at Henry, realizing that her parents have no idea where she is and no clue of how to find her. She hasn't even tried to contact them.

Is there even a way to do that?

They might think she's dead and that definitely makes her heart ache, because she knows that they love her more than she thinks is even possible and losing her would absolutely drive them to the brink of insanity.

"Were you with your parents when you fell from the ship?" Killian asks, suddenly pulling her back to reality.

"Yeah," she smiles a little, shaking her head. "We were on the way back home from England. My parents thought it would be fun to take a ship across the Atlantic instead of flying." Emma sighs, laughing a little with bitterness. "It was our Six Year Gotcha Day vacation."

"Gotcha Day?"

Emma lifts her eyebrows. "Yeah. It's silly… I was adopted. We were celebrating my adoption day."

Killian nods in understanding. "Ah."

Henry finishes eating and she tucks the bottle down beside her while she lifts him to burp him, the cloth she'd used all night draped across her shoulder while she gently pats his back.

Killian has an unreadable look on his face, which isn't much of a surprise.

"They celebrate everything," she tells him. "They would celebrate a good day at school if they had the time." A slightly bigger smile fills his lips at the idea. Emma frowns again, longing to see her parents at the forefront of her mind. "Do you have, like, a radio or something? So that we can get word to them that I'm okay?"

He looks hesitant for a moment, squinting one eye in a painful sort of way. "I- I may've smashed it in a drunken stupor."

She opens her mouth and nods slowly. He cringes, pressing a hand to his forehead.

"In about four weeks the supplies will come. Then you'll be free to leave. He should have all of the necessary equipment back on the mainland."

Emma furrows her brow. "How far away are you from the mainland?"

He shakes his head. "About forty-five miles."

She hums, tilting her head curiously. "Why don't you have a boat, then?"

His gaze turns dark and he shifts his eyes away from her, looking down at his lap. She feels a stirring of past emotions bubbling forward, as if it's all too painful for him, and he pushes off of the bed, stalking toward the door before spinning around.

"I don't operate sea craft any longer." It's all he says, but she sees the pain in his eyes and it makes her wonder yet again what exactly happened to him.

Again, she finds herself watching him walk away from her knowing just a little bit more and a whole lot less about him than when their conversation first began.

Emma bites her lip and glances down at Henry as she sets him down in her arms. "Well, Henry, what do you think? What do we do today?"

Henry gurgles and makes adorable noises, a toothless grin filling his face for a moment. She laughs.

"You'd better be glad you're cute, otherwise I don't think I would like being woken up so much at night." She laughs again when he makes a vocalization. "Oh, really?"

Emma pokes his nose and he closes his eyes. His smile widens.

She wonders where he comes from and who his parents are, wonders if they know he's missing, and if they're looking for him.

She sighs as she cradles him tighter to her chest. He certainly would be missed if he was hers.

"Emma, I've got to go check on the lighthouse," Killian comes back into the room. She looks at him with wide eyes. "So if you want to try and move around, I'll come back in about an hour or so and help you."

Emma nods. "Okay."

He walks closer to her, putting a bowl of something down on the nightstand.

"Do you think he'll need another bottle?"

She shakes her head. "No, but if you could grab another one of those diaper cloths, that would be good."

Killian nods and then whisks himself out of the room. Emma looks over at what he's left for her and smiles a tiny bit because he's left her a bowl of oatmeal.

Emma smiles down at Henry. "He might think he's tough, but I think he's a real softie inside, Henry. There's no need to be scared of Killian."

A half second later, the man waltzes back into the room with one of the diaper cloths and a roll of bandages. He holds them out purposefully.

"For your forehead, if you'd like to replace the bandages."

Emma softens. "Oh. Um, yeah. Thank you."

He nods and then leans in close to her, focusing intently on the gash on her forehead. She had only had a quick look at the residue during her cleaning, the blood seeping through the bandage and coloring it a light shade of brown.

She bites her lip as he pulls the tape off. "So you were in the Navy. Were you a doctor?"

He scoffs. "Not by a long shot." He grabs the roll of medical tape and uses his teeth to tear away a square. It's a practiced motion, as if he's done it a lot. "But with time, you learn how to pull off simple fixes."

Emma hums. He applies more tape to her forehead. His fingers brush against her eyebrow, as if he's examining her, and she finds his eyes in an instant that sucks the breath straight from her lungs.

"There we are." Killian says, voice low and gentle.

He doesn't move away from her. She can feel his breath, warm against her cheek, and the longer she stares into his eyes, the more she wants to understand him.

The brush of his fingertips slows to a gentle caress that shouldn't feel as meaningful as it does.

She sees the moment he recognizes the intimacy of the moment, of sensing just how close they are. It hits her all at once, too, and she allows herself to release a soft, shaking breath as soon as he stands upright.

His eyes fall away from her and he straightens his shoulders. "I'd better get going."

She rolls her eyes as he backs away from her. He turns the caretaker switch off and on again so easily that it's a wonder she's still breathing.

"Thanks."

She doesn't say it, but she means to say thank you for everything. For singing Henry to sleep, for saving them when he could've let the water drown them, and for caring when he obviously isn't built for it.

He nods. "Not a problem, Emma."

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 23: Rope and Railing (Transcript) - 14th December 2015

tw: death, infant death, details of decomposition, gore Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

There is the world we all know, with its streets and houses and the bustle of everyday life, and then there is the other world, filled with places that are set away from the centre of our lives, places that most of us rarely interact with. Graveyards are a good example of this, and maybe even hospitals. We go there for specific reasons, but only rarely if we’re lucky, but standing at the farthest edge of society, in a place it has held for thousands of years, is a structure we rarely give a second thought to. Not because it’s unimportant or because it’s irrelevant, but because it’s literally on the edge of our world: the lighthouse. There are few buildings that harbour such powerful meaning and purpose in our world. Without fail though, they have stood watch for millennia, right on the border between safety and danger, between darkness and light, between hope and despair, and yet by their very nature, they are isolated and nearly forgotten. Since the earliest known accounts right up to modern times, the purpose of these buildings has changed very little: to cast a light into the darkness so that sailors might better understand where they are and what’s ahead. They rarely waver, they frequently save lives, and they’re universally understood, which is why we have such a hard time believing that even there, in the narrow walls and never-ending stairs, stories have taken root that chill the mind. There doesn’t seem to be a lighthouse in the world without some whisper of unusual activity, some tale of tragedy or rumour of lost love. Oftentimes, those stories speak of dangers from the world outside; others, though, hint at something worse – a darkness that’s right inside the walls, because every now and then, horror is born where the light is the brightest. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

For thousands of years, sailors around the world have used coastal lights to avoid risky waters and locate safe harbour. In an age before GPS, electrical lights or anything more complex than celestial navigation, the lighthouse was often the only thing standing between a ship’s crew and certain death. One of the oldest lighthouses in the world is the Tower of Hercules in Spain. It dates back nearly 2000 years and is the oldest known functional Roman lighthouse. It illustrates the simplicity of a design that has changed very little over the centuries – a bright light held as high as possible, with room in the building for a caretaker or staff. And it’s that last bit, the staff, that sits at the centre of nearly every whispered tale of lighthouse folklore. After all, without people there would be no tragedy. That’s our legacy as humans – we bring pain and fear with us wherever we go, even to the edge of the world, and the staff who lived inside each lighthouse eventually comes to call the place their home. It’s the centre of their life. Occasionally, though, it also becomes their final resting place. There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of stories of unusual activity inside the walls of lighthouses all around the world. One such place, the Heceta Head Lighthouse in Oregon, has a reputation that goes back decades. There is a long-forgotten grave on the property that belonged to an infant. According to local legend, the baby was the daughter of the lighthouse keeper and his wife, and when she died, the mother fell into a deep depression from which she never fully recovered. Since the 1950s, nearly every keeper on duty has reported unusual activity inside the lighthouse. Screams have been heard in the middle of the night, cupboards that were purposefully left open were often found closed, and objects have been seen to move in front of people. In the 70s, a groundskeeper was washing the windows of the house, inside and out, and while he was in the attic he turned to see a silver-haired woman floating inches above the floor. The man, clearly frightened, bolted from the attic and refused to return, and so he was given permission to clean the outside of the attic window by way of a ladder. In his effort to rush the job, though, the man broke the glass, but rather than go back into the attic to clean it up, he left it. Later that night, the lighthouse keeper was pulled from sleep by the sound of glass moving across the floor above him. When he checked the next morning, he found that the glass had been swept into a neat pile.

Another lighthouse, this one near Fairfield, Connecticut, holds an equally chilling history. Three days before Christmas in 1916, keeper Fred Jordan set off for the mainland in his rowboat, leaving his assistant, Rudy, in charge of the light. Rudy watched Fred row off into the distance, which turned out to be a good thing, because Fred’s boat capsized about a mile from the island. Hoping to rescue his friend and boss, Rudy climbed into a second boat and rowed after to help. Unfortunately, though, strong winds had pushed Fred far from the location of the accident, and Rudy was never able to find him. Two weeks later, Rudy claimed to have seen Fred’s ghost inside the lighthouse. According to his entry in the logbook, a light descended the stairs right in front of him, and then began to act strangely; it moved toward the keeper’s quarters, disappearing into the room. When Rudy caught up, the light was gone, but the logbook had been opened. Rudy checked the date on the page, and it was the date of Fred’s death. In 1942, two boys were fishing near the lighthouse when their boat capsized in an eerie echo of Fred Jordan’s accident. Thankfully, though, a strange man happened to be there, and he pulled both of them to shore on the island, telling them to walk to the lighthouse for help. Once there, the current keeper of the light welcomed them in, gave them both warm drinks and allowed them to dry off. They told the keeper of the man who had helped them, but he knew of no one else on the island who could have done such a thing, and that’s when the boys saw an old picture on the wall and recognised their rescuer in the photo. That, they were told by the keeper, was Fred Jordan. There are countless stories like these, scattered all around the world like the debris of a ship that broke upon the rocks. The ghosts of the past have a way of finding us, it seems. Sometimes, though, it is us who creates the most frightful experiences, not some otherworldly force. More often than not, it is people, not ghosts, who haunt lighthouses.

The Smalls are a collection of raw, lifeless, basalt rocks that stretch out into the Atlantic, roughly 20 miles from the coast of Wales. The first light built there was small and rough, not much more than a house lifted high above the water on half a dozen or so oak and iron pylons, which allowed the waves and wind to pass through. It had been financed in 1776 by a man from Liverpool named John Phillips and constructed by Henry Whiteside. To show just how much faith he placed in the structure, Whiteside himself lit the flame and tended the light for the first winter, but this wasn’t a room at the Hilton, believe me. It was a simple, one-room shack, affixed to the top of a platform with a light room above it. A rope ladder and trapdoor allowed access from below, and a narrow gallery and railing circled the perimeter of the building, which allowed the keepers to step outside and do repairs. It was required that the trapdoor remained closed at all times unless someone entering or exiting the house, because the door itself constituted the majority of the walking space of the room. It was, for all intents and purposes, a treehouse, strapped to a small rock in the cold Atlantic, but it served its purpose, and Whiteside survived the winter without incident. He even devised a system for passing messages to the mainland using the cliché “paper note in a glass bottle” method. After his short time in the lighthouse, Whiteside passed the torch – literally – to a pair of men who would be the professional keepers of the light, and that’s how the Smalls lighthouse operated for over two decades, with a pair of men living in isolation, 20 miles from the mainland. Weeks would go by without contact from others. During the winter, that silence could even be months-long. Now, I’m an introvert, so I have to admit that the idea of weeks and weeks of silence, with piles of books and lots of writing to keep me busy, sounds like heaven, but during the winter of 1801 things were far from Utopian.

Thomas Howell and Thomas Griffith were the lighthouse keepers at the time. According to what we know of the two men, Griffith was a young, tall, powerfully-built labourer. Howell, on the other hand, was a small, middle-aged craftsmen who had worked for years as a cooper, making barrels. Both men were from Pembrokeshire, were married, and had families that lived on the mainland, but the thing people remember the most about them is that they didn’t get along. In fact, they hated each other, and everyone knew it. It was said that during their infrequent visits to the mainland, the men could be seen in local pubs arguing constantly. The fights covered a wide range of topics, and witnesses claimed that there was nothing the men could agree on. Sometimes their shouting would get so out of control that the pub would actually empty just to get away from them, but not once were they ever seen to come to physical blows. People expected it, though. During the winter of 1801, the weather contributed to their intense isolation. Relief keepers couldn’t dock at the island. Supply ships tried to reach the rock but failed, and because of that fresh water and food began to run low. They tried to use Whiteside’s method of sending a message in a bottle, but no one ever answered, most likely the work of those same storm-tossed waves that kept away the supply ships. One thing they didn’t run out of, though, was fuel for the light, and so Howell and Griffith stayed busy. After all, those same storms that kept supplies and human contact from reaching them was also threatening the ships that passed through the Smalls. Their duty took precedent. It was most likely in the service of that duty that Thomas Griffith took ill. Some reports say that it was a sickness that laid the big man low; others make mention of an accident, and of how Griffith slipped and hit his head one day while working in the house. Regardless of the cause, every record of the event agrees on the conclusion: after weeks of failing health, Griffith, so young and fit and full of life until then, tragically passed away. And just like that, Howell found himself completely alone, stranded on a rock in the Atlantic with only a corpse to keep himself company.

Howell had a problem on his hands - well, two problems, actually. The biggest of those was that he and Griffith were known to quarrel constantly, so he didn’t have the freedom to simply toss the man’s body into the sea and trust that others would consider him blameless. No, he needed to make sure everyone knew that Griffith’s death was not his fault, and so he kept the body – which led to his second problem. With no burial, the body would be left exposed to the elements, leading to decomposition. It probably didn’t take long for Howell to look around the small room he shared with the corpse to understand how bad an experience that would be, and so he began to plan. Taking apart some of the storage cabinets in the room, Howell constructed a makeshift coffin. He knew his way around a hammer and saw and managed to build something that worked, but Griffith was big and Howell was alone, and, well… he was in a hurry. When he finished, he took the large box, along with Griffith’s corpse, outside onto the gallery that surrounded the house like a porch. It was cold outside, and that would help delay the decomposition, but it was also harsh there. Waves crashed against the lighthouse constantly, and so as a precaution Howell tied the box to the rails. The winter storms had other ideas, though, and one night soon after moving the coffin outside, a great wave washed up and smashed the box to pieces. All the wood and nails and rope that Howell had cobbled together to contain the body of his dead partner disintegrated and fell onto the rocks below - all of it, except Griffith’s body. According to the reports from those who rescued Howell months later, Griffith’s corpse had managed to get tangled in the rope and railing at the edge of the gallery. Even though waves continued to wash over it, and the occasional seagull approached for an inspection, nothing knocked the body free, which meant rather than spend the coming weeks in peaceful retreat, Howell had a front row view of his partner’s decomposition. I have to imagine that there were many moments when he regretted his decision, when he had to fight the overwhelming urge to rush outside, cut the ropes and kick Griffith’s body down to the waves below. It certainly would have ended the nightmare that he found himself living in, but it also would have stirred up the suspicion and judgement that he was hoping to avoid. And so, week after week, month after month, Howell lived in the small room of the lighthouse, tending the flame and maintaining the building, all while the rotting corpse of Griffith stood watch outside. He later spoke of how one of the body’s arms hung loose and would swing and wave toward him. It sounds like the kind of tale Edgar Allan Poe would scratch onto the page at night, echoes of the tell-tale heart thumping monotonously in the background, but for Howell this was reality, and it drove him mad. When a rescue boat finally landed on the small rock almost four months after the death of Griffith, they discovered the rotted corpse on the gallery and an emaciated, shell-shocked Howell inside. He was alive, but the prolonged exposure to the sight of the corpse had wounded him deep in his mind and his soul. It was said that even when he was finally on the mainland and brought into the care of his family and friends, many of them failed to recognise him. Howell was alive, but there was very little of him left inside. Like an abandoned lighthouse, his flame had gone out.

Everyone loves a good ghost story. There is mystery, and horror, and moments that put you on the edge of your seat. They’re great around the campfire or the kitchen table, and they have a way of uniting people. Fear, after all, is a universal language. But not every scary story has a ghost at the centre of it, and while many of the frightening tales from the lighthouses of the world contain some element of the supernatural, perhaps it’s the stories without them that frighten us the most. Isolation, loss, guilt and hopelessness are emotions that can happen to any of us, no matter where we live or what we’ve been through. Maybe that’s what makes the story of Thomas Howell so chilling - it could literally have happened to us if we had been in his shoes, and everything he experienced would have been just as frightening and traumatic to you or I as it was to him. Alone and isolated in tight quarters with dwindling supplies, the rotting corpse of the man he hated, swinging in the wind and rain outside the window of his bedroom, and no sign of a rescue ship on the horizon, day by day, week by week, month by month. It’s a horror that would drive any of us mad. Ironically, though, help had tried to reach him. Ships sailed, people watched, but every time they came close, they turned back, satisfied that everything was alright. It wasn’t the light that convinced them, though. It was something else, something that multiple ships and witnesses confirmed together afterward. Every time they got close they could see, high up on the gallery surrounding the light, the shape of a man. But he wasn’t calling for help or beckoning them to come dock on the island. No, according to those who saw him, this man did nothing but lean against the rail and wave, over and over again.

[Closing statements]