The Light Keeper's Wife

The sun was setting on the Great Point Light, whose searching beams were a welcomed sight for countless weary homebound sailors, the soaring white edifice also serving to bid farewell to many a bright-eyed dreamer certain that riches and adventure waited them just over the unknown horizon. Hundreds of thousands of grateful mariners had sailed off Great Point thinking only of the light itself but never the keepers who forsook the camaraderie and comforts of town life in order to keep the light burning. And although modernity was finally creeping-up on the lonely, beautiful, and rugged outpost, for most of the year, the keepers were isolated remaining perched on a narrow point on the northernmost end of the isle of Nantucket. Weather permitting, sustenance was received by way of sailing vessel twice a month and depending on the severity of north Atlantic storms, sometimes not for months.

On this day and in the absence of her husband, Constance, the wife of a seventh generation lightkeeper, entered the towering white-bricked sanctuary and began the ascension up the spiral, ornamental wrought iron steps. As she neared the platform just below the light deck, the probing incendiary light blasting its presence outward across open sea penetrated her body. Rubbing the frost away from the port window looking over the vast barren scene, she thought of spring and wondered when the birds of summer would make their way home while admiring the last glimmers of silver sub-zero light making its way below a fiery horizon.

As the waves crashed below and the baneful woes of the shrieking wind blew through the creases of the leaded beveled glass windows, she imagined Neptune roaring his fury at the unknown missteps of impotent men. She then remembered the granite demons she’d seen in a travel magazine .Upon discovering gargoyles served a good purpose as rain spouts as well as being charms that warded-off evil, she once asked a visiting crewman whose ship was bound for Portugal to bring her back replicas of the creatures if he so happened upon one. However, this, along with many of her longings were nixed by her husband who in this instance said, “they would add an unholy presence to the purity of the home and be an be an affront to our pious visitors”.

Lost in her own world, Constance hadn’t noticed that darkness had fallen and that the temperatures were plummeting precariously. She hurriedly descended the stairs returning to the light keeper’s quarters where the woodstove’s red-yellow flamed glow was a welcomed sight. She placed the antique brass and porcelain kettle on the stove and settled into the bosom of the hospitable downed coach, covering herself with the heavy, exquisitely adorned blanket she had knitted.

Here, alone in her cloistered refuge, a prisoner of winter, battened-down in a sheltered sanctuary, she listened to the arctic winds howl and the frigid waves crashing nearby. She marveled reverently at nature’s fickle temperament and its awesome, unprejudiced power and wondered if her husband’s return would be delayed. Although she did worry about his safety, his monthly absence had become something she privately looked forward to so she could engage her imagination

She lost herself in the fading books of summer that adorned the mantle above the wood stove and searched for passages of romance, passion and adventure in mysterious far-off places: the tropical pirates haven  of Key West, the genteel manors of the deep south, Giant’s Causeway, Ireland , Ars-en-Ré, France, Sherry Island, Minnesota, and the late summer pools of Connecticut.

Her musings were interrupted by the kettle whistling, so she reluctantly pulled herself away from the comforting enclave to savor the stout Russian Caravan tea that she garnished with cream, vanilla and honey. The tea, a gift from the sea, when she discovered a chest washed ashore emblazoned with a fleur-de-lis on its lid.