A Solitary Lighthouse

(Posted on Christmas Eve 2024)

Built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks, some leagues or so from shore, on which the waters chafed and dashed, the wild year through, there stood a solitary lighthouse.

 --- from A Christmas Carol: Stave Three by Charles Dickens

Old Willie climbed the winding steps yet one more time.

Always damp, the smell of wet limestone and burning timber filled the chamber as he stepped carefully upon each slick stone abutment with a full flask of grog strapped across his heaving chest. He was getting too old for this, his knees knew it, his heart knew it, but every evening his soul insisted that he forget about those two sorry complainers and rise, rise, ascend to the top yet again, and on this Christmas Eve night he did just that.

And there awaited poor Benjamin. Poor cold lonely Benjamin, looking suitably drab in his grey longcoat and cap, keeping the iron basket filled with the burning lumps of coal, and his soul screamed that he was too young for this! And yet the coal kept burning through and Benjamin kept scooping fresh replacements and the lantern surely glowed strongly whether his spirit did or not. Alas, it was Christmas Eve and somewhere out there in the boonies he knew a beautiful young girl waited for him, outfitted from head to toe in the red and green glory of the Yuletide, ruby lips and twinkling eyes, awaiting her handsome lighthouse keeper whether she knew it or not. But he could not escape this lonely vigil, not for several hours yet, and he was sworn to hang steadfast by feeding the fire and keeping this light.

But what is this?

Cast by dripping candles scattered across the curved staircase wall a shadow now ascends, could this at long last be the material manifestation of the ancient maritime ghost, the briny myth raised from out of the stormy depths? But even now the shadow recedes and a man of flesh and bone takes its place, an aged specter with milky moribund eyes and a whiskered toothless grin.

“Aye Benji, it is only me, your old fool Willie, here to relieve you early if only you might first partake with me in some good Christmas cheer before absconding with your merry self.”

For the old man was fond of the boy, he favored him as a grandfather might a grandson, and all he could offer him on this night of gifts was a special brew of rum, lemon juice and cinnamon spice as garnished by the windswept salt of the sea, and, as diminished as it might appear, the presence of his very own flesh and bone. 

“Good God old man, you scared the devil out of me, or at least my most recent impulse to commit misdeed in this world,” and now Benjamin chuckled in relief, happy to satisfy his mentor’s request as long as the partaking was brief and the liquor strong. He would not admit it to his friends perhaps but the truth was that he’d become quite fond of old Willie as well.

“So what have you got there, friend?” he inquired, pointing toward the sheepskin vessel that hung proudly atop the man’s sunken chest, and Willie swung the flask over his head and tossed it to his eager apprentice. And then, as if it was the only proper method of response, he broke into song and danced a spry jig:

    ‘Tis time for the hearth and the old Yule log,

   ‘Tis time for the earth and its Yuletide fog,

   ‘Tis time for the spit and the roasted hog,

   ‘Tis time to get sauced on the Yuletide grog!

   And in the mornin’ let the Missus flog,

   Have no cares, for me the life of a POOCH!

  Despite his decrepit state the aged reveler displayed a rather loosened stride and his vocal delivery was quite spirited and punctuated with an ornery wink and Benjamin suspected that the flask had already been significantly drained prior to the little man’s arrival, yet when he shook it he noted with delighted surprise that there seemed to be plenty of the tawny liquid swishing inside. 

And so they passed the next half hour sharing the grog and rehashing old stories primarily revolving around the excitement of sudden springtime storms and the unapologetic fury of the overheated summer and the inevitable boredom that descended with autumn’s grace. Willie had seen it all, he’d been the unofficial witness to all local coastal events over the last half century or so, some good but most very bad, and although rescues were possible, more often than not after the splintering of wood and the faraway shouts came only the tell-tale shards, the torn debris, the sad washed-up human remains. He’d collected more than his share of corpses in the foamy wash and so knew well the fragility of human life, its preciousness, and the final unyielding judgment of a death by drowning.

Willie took another swig and glanced at the boy. Benjamin’s short tenure had seen nothing of the sort as of yet, but give it time the old lighthouse keeper thought.

Oh Lord but give it time.

Benjamin admired the fellow and enjoyed his company, yet in the end he mostly felt pity for old Willie. Although he had never seen it for himself he knew that Willie lived alone in a tiny hut comprised of thatched bush and hammered wood on the outskirts of the deep forest. What’s more, his faithful hound Wallace had perished in late September, the victim of a mad insect’s bite or some other internal malady of the variety that rendered the beast prone upon his spine for two days and two nights, whimpering and trembling until at long last and mercifully the poor creature slipped away into the eternal void. Benjamin knew that the loss of Wallace had both comforted and distressed the old man, fully understanding that he would forever miss his faithful hound and yet in the end the suffering had become too much. Despite it all old Willie maintained an upbeat attitude and Benjamin could not help but hold his friend in the highest of regards.

Benjamin knew of all this and of Willie’s many favorite sayings and yarns as passionately extolled time and time again. But there was so much more that he didn’t know about his friend, so much he might have liked to have known but knew better to ask, and Willie apparently never deemed his past worthy of much oral exposition.

The hour was growing late, the nighttime air frigid with gusts from the roiling sea, but old Willie implored Benjamin to join him up and out on top for but a moment before the lad departed.

“Are you feverish man, has the wicked grog finally permeated the very last corpuscles of your dwindling cranial flab?” he responded in unfeigned alarm. “My pink bum has no earthly business up and out on top at such a time as this, and as for yours, I suppose you may do as you foolishly desire!”    

The old man leaned forward with a grin, his breath stinking of molasses and barnacled wit.

“Imagine that, a strong young thing such as thee, fearful of a little cold, of a little disagreeable breeze – my boy, you would do well to stay clear of my own cold bed once the sun goes down and the fire burns out.”

“I should think so,” Benjamin answered with a smirk, and he considered the old man’s cold bed and reckoned it hardly superior to a rattle-boned coffin. “Add blankets,” he offered as a kind afterthought, but Willie had already moved on.

“Fortify yourself boy for there is nothing like a Christmas Eve night! Comes but once a year! The air tingles with a certain magic that no chilled breeze could ever stiffen as we find comfort in warmed hearts stoked by our boundless good cheer. Ye, lift the flask and indulge!”

“Aye, that may be so my old friend, yet still, the nose already bleats with a frosty toot.”

Yet even as Benjamin spoke these words old Willie was shuffling up the wooden ladder and pushing open the small roof hatch door. Instantly the cold air sought the warmer latitudes below and fell hard into the lantern with the swirling sleet and Benjamin could hear a high-pitched howling as the wind cut into carved wood above. The old fool has really lost it he thought, and for a moment he was rightly concerned about the lighthouse’s very future should its long-revered caretaker no longer be up to the task. And yet with one last look at the remains of the burning coal basket and as so satisfied with its contents the young man buttoned up his coat and followed Willie on up and out.

Benjamin found the atmosphere up top not nearly as unsettling as previously feared but it was still plenty cold. Up here a complete circle of darkness seemed to be pushing in from all around, the barren land behind them as indistinguishable as the brooding sea to their front, and although no gulls cried the beating of the waves upon the rock mingled with the groaning sky to complete a symphony fit for solemn meditation.

And then came the bells.

Benjamin stood straight at attention like a well-trained birder. He couldn’t be certain, after all his head was already plugged with a coming malady, but the sound of the bells did not go away.

“Do you hear that Willie, do you hear that chiming sound? For the love of Jane Gertrude Edwards, do you hear those ringing bells?”

The brittle old man tilted his head up toward the sky.

“Aye,” he said in wonder, “I hear the bells, I do indeed, and that means we are not too late after all,” and he swiveled his head upon his shoulders and scanned the heavens, for exactly what Benjamin could not even begin to imagine, for the darkness was complete and the thickening cloudbank was lowering by the minute. He found no real reason to bother to ask either, because this strange episode would surely soon pass and Willie would descend into the warmth of the lantern and his stuffed pipe, and then Benjamin would gather his few things along with his strewn-about thoughts and take leave.

“Do you see it?” the old lighthouse keeper croaked with a nod toward the heavens, and with mild annoyance the bundled lad turned to see just what on earth the old fellow could be referring to, and of course he saw not a thing.

“No,” he answered with hint of annoyance, “I see nothing, not even the raw frost that streams from my very throat, not even the red tip of my dripping snout,” and he knew that there could be no thing in this sky, for the moon was new and any lighthouse man worth his salt was keenly aware of the phases of this vital orb. But just then, alas, back to the northwest, the faintest of flickers, perhaps the tiniest and fleeting of ignitions.

Long ago yet not too far away, deep within the boiling innards of the bustling dark city, a child was born. With no father and only a sick frightened child for a mother, the baby boy was snatched away from her trembling arms and tossed adrift into the clamoring milieu of what passes for public compassion and then straight into what can only be called a very private suffering, into the government homes, into the orphanage. Every day a struggle, every day a fight, and at night there was not even a drop of the healing dose that all human beings long for – a simple dose of love.

How is it that the one who has been shown not even a smidgen of love knows so well the true measure of it? How can this be when those who are drowning in its deluge pay little heed while allowing it to seep away unnoticed down the mossy gutter? Call it instinct, a primal need as strong as the search for sustenance or even the struggle to breathe air, but he felt its void so deep down within his being that his very bones ached without it.

Those doling out the public compassion didn’t bother with much of an education and the boy quickly became a man and quietly went about his new business, that of working hard while making few friends and somehow finding a method to get by, to complete one more day, its only reward being the opportunity to find a method to get through one more night. The weeks went by, a blur really, then months, then yet another year of meaninglessness, until, incredibly, time stopped: he had met a girl at a popular pub. He quite fancied her and she seemed to return his feelings but her father would have none of it, this young man being nothing more than an unworthy phantom bumbling his way through his own wretched nightmare, a squab with no parents or siblings or family history, with absolutely no experience regarding the fine art of giving and receiving love, and their courtship was quickly denounced and his exit ensured. Rebuffed and no longer feeling love for this land, or for any land, he fled to the sea, to the long endless horizon and the vast unknowable worlds that lay beyond, but he never got on the ship which was meant to carry him far and forever away.

For there was a solitary lighthouse nearby built upon a dismal reef of sunken rocks in need of a strong reliable hand and he possessed that, and he possessed time, and he sensed that maybe here he might be needed, and, given the right circumstances, need can turn into a certain kind of love.

Ten minutes later back down and inside the warm lantern young Benjamin still could not comprehend what he had just witnessed with his very own eyes. Beyond queer was that patch of bright light which flared so briefly, the faint silhouettes of two beings hovering within, and before one could really think about it ‘twas all gone. Nothing left but the descending fog and the intermittent suggestion of wandering stars. But it was Willie’s anticipation of the phenomenon that had truly been the most befuddling aspect of the entire experience for if it had indeed just been some random cosmic event, the manifestation of some tumbling rock spat out from the capricious heavens, then that would not be so odd if still quite unusual.  

But the old man had waited for it – he had clearly advised of its coming.

Now warming his hands by the fire Benjamin thought to choose his next words very carefully. But before he could choose them the whiskered visionary spoke.

“Fear not my boy, ‘twas nothing really, just the reminder that we all need a little light, a little love, from time to time.”

His eyes were still glowing.

And now the boy spoke freely, the dam of timidity broken by the other man’s own carefree plunge.

“Really now William, I have never heard you mention this indefinable thing called love, have you perhaps taken one too many swigs from your oily bag there?”

Benjamin rubbed his eyes and attempted a wry smile and added, “Perhaps have we both?”

“Why bother to speak of it when one has the opportunity to demonstrate it – to put the bloody thing into action? Speaking of which, gather your things boy, the time has come for you to take leave, to flee this lonely place and celebrate the glorious night with those whom you love, or might love you if given half the chance.”

Benjamin leaned in toward the old man.

“You don’t really believe that I am going to let you off that easy, do you? Come clean with it man – I must know your secret!”

Old Willie wondered how deep down he dared venture. Perhaps he had already gone too far but he sensed that this might be it, there might not be a next time, and the opportunity to pass along this mystical treasure was perhaps the last gift he might be able to bestow. And what’s more, he knew that Benjamin was worthy of both its endowment and responsibilities.

“There’s no secret lad – only my stubborn silly attachment to a shred of faith. Promise me only this – no matter the circumstances, no matter whether your old fool Willie still walks this world or not, you will attend this very spot next year and await the return. Beyond next year you may do as you wish – but in twelve months time you must return. And then it is my belief that you will begin to understand.”

Benjamin was perplexed, growing angry, duly impatient.

“Wonderful! So over the next twelve months I’m supposed to act like nothing ever happened all the while you and I labor side by side, conducting serious business mind you, and with you as my sane dependable cohort? Really now, you’ve topped yourself this time old fellow,” and he roared with a forced laugh and drained what remained of the suddenly insufficient flask.

Willie fought off the impulse to respond by suggesting that that was precisely what grog was good for, to ease and possibly even enhance the passage of time, but instead alluded to the magical tonic of the pursuit of attractive and often mischievous maidens, of losing one’s self in the whimsical swirl of fragrant petty-coats and then what lies underneath. Oh but he was goading the lad onward, almost daring him to chase after the very thing that he had not much experienced in life himself, and finished by gaily noting, “my dear Benjamin, I’m sure you’ll find a satisfying way to muddle your way on through the next twelve months.”

“Okay – have it your way my friend, as you wish I am indeed off to seek my Christmas fortune, that pot of gold beneath the tinseled tree and perhaps a stunning candidate for which you just made reference, or at the very least an agreeable easy chair to relax these bones and a tub of warm salted water to soak these aching feet.”

“And of course a jug of jolly plum wine!” the old lighthouse keeper cried with yet another wink.

“Why of course – yes, very good my dear mysterious friend, a big jug of jolly plum wine, good for both the spleen and the reconfiguration of an unsatisfied confused mind.”

“Off you go!” Willie exclaimed, and by the time Benjamin had reached the quaint inland with its scattered cottages and country pathways and old stone church he had already forgotten about the mysterious light, about the absurd promise regarding his attendance one year hence, but not Willie, no, not him. For he would always remember the long ago Christmas Eve midnight when standing atop this very stark and forlorn tower he had cried out to the open sea, “please, oh Lord, I need something, anything, to give me hope, to show me some love!” and the plea had been answered almost immediately in the form of a visitation, the glowing orb containing the two apparitions that shone light upon this dark little slab of cold rock and rising tide. He knew not who sent it or from where it exactly came, only that he surely knew why:

    The earnest good man is eventually gifted the grace of the heavens.

 In this world that grace would be all that he’d require.

We all hear of the tragic ends to dreadful nights, of the prayers that were never answered while the storm blindly raged on.

But what of those others, the lucky ones who found the light in all that mad darkness, the unknowingly saved?

We hear not of those but that does not mean they do not exist. They do and in numbers too great to count.

These men all wander home to their wives and children never knowing how close they came to extinction and not knowing who to thank if somehow they did gain insight into their providential salvation. Even this very moment a ship tosses on the turbulent current out there beyond the breakers, its captain and crew clenched into a tight knot of growing concern, but the coal basket remains stoked and the heat gives off a light that shines through the bitter gloom and now a crewman spots it, he cries out pointing and they all rejoice, their bearings quickly determined and their course restored. The slimy hull of the vessel will scrape not a thing this night, gliding through welcoming waters and in a few hours the entire crew will reunite with family and friends as they share a full glass and a smile by the warm, cheerful fire. As if nothing ever happened, as if their fates had always been secured, but deep down inside their bellies there must be at least a stirring of gratefulness for that hallowed soul who kept the light.

Willie smiles as he watches the light of that ship finding safe passage through the night. He is satisfied, proud, privileged in the knowledge that he helped frightened men in their time of need.

He has long understood that there is really no such thing as divined destiny, no, some men aren’t deemed more worthy than others and then blessed with a life filled with happiness and abundant love, but things just happen – molecules collide, our world takes shape, and the sun continues to just burn away. But there is a coal basket that needs replenishment and anxious men who need your dependable flame! So rejoice in your purpose as thankless as it may be for you are needed and therefore loved.

Now past midnight and it is Christmas Day. Even the sea seems to sense that it is time for some lasting peace and a calm silence descends. Willie takes a rag from his back pocket and washes a window, he looks out, remembering that long ago night, the first visitation. He remembers the sadness somehow assuaged by an intuited promise, the promise that every Christmas Eve the light will return to comfort him once again, and when at long last it does not, then prepare to celebrate your own departure! In the meantime continue to feed the basket that shines the light from this bony outcrop of jagged rock for all of the lost and lonely, for the downtrodden and those devoid of faith, for those cast out and forgotten. One night the greatest light of all will descend and it will sweep him away within its gentle wake. It will be then that this old servant rides that golden wave with the very last angel, the ghost of Christmas Forever.