Balefire

by Dori Lumpkin

There were supposed to be two of us, but the Other was half-dead by the time I got here, and full-dead about six months in. I buried her body around the back of the light and told no one that she had passed. Loneliness becomes me, I think. The downside to her passing, aside from the drudgery of digging a hole and tossing a body amongst the worms, was that all of her now-abandoned work was left for me to do. Needless to say, I don’t get much sleep anymore. It comes with the job description. The Other had tried to warn me before her death that this place would eat me alive. I had passed it off as the wailings of someone who wasn’t ready to go, but now I can feel the truth in her words. I can’t say I much mind the feeling of being consumed by the light. 

It starts like this: I wake up, around two hours before sunset, and start my walk around the island. The seals greet me with their baying, impatiently waiting for me to follow the path of the Other. The day is grey. It is always grey, but more so than normal this day, the only change between it and the night being the absence of stars. Should they even grace me with their presence. 

I wander past the seals, checking to ensure that my boat is where I left it the night before. It is. I will never use it. I catch my own reflection in the water off the rocks and wonder who I’ve become. It’s been two years since I accepted this position, and I am no longer recognizable. I often worry about my mother and my daughter, and if they would know me should they see me now. If they would even want to know me. The thing in the water stares back at me. It is unfeeling, and my worries are chased away. 

After that I spend a moment at the grave of the Other and ask her my questions. They’re always the same, and she never answers. One might think her silence is expected, but I am never sure. Often, the thing in the water takes her face, and I expect it to open its mouth and scream. It never does. The quiet is worse. 

I make my slow way to the supply shed, which is also where I keep my chickens, and collect eggs and flour to make my breakfast. Around the back of the shed is my garden, where I mourn the plants that did not make it through the rainy season and harvest the ones that did. In exploring the dirt, I can feel my daughter’s hands beneath me and hear her peals of laughter as she looks for potatoes. I glance up at the part of this garden I had dedicated to her. A small apple tree, not quite big enough to hold fruit. Some flowers, mostly dying. A memorial, of sorts, to the parent I should have been able to be. On days like this, I sit in the feeling. I remember her. 

Remembering her goes like this: First, I remember her small nails, pale and blue when we buried her. I remember her eyes and her mouth, lips perfectly pursed and round. She truly was a beautiful creature. After she was first born, there was an extended period of time where I wasn’t able to convince myself that she was truly mine. She didn’t look like her father, either. Not that he was in the picture. Often I told myself that she was truly sent from somewhere else, just to belong to me. After I spend the time remembering her as I want to, I force myself to remember her as I don’t. Body bloated and resting atop the lake so near to our former home. I linger in the sound of her screams, vividly recalling the moment I told myself that she was fine, that I needn’t intervene, that I had more important things to do at the moment than tend to an ungrateful brat. 

I pull myself out of it and return to the tasks at hand. I’m not sure when I began doing this, but about halfway through I knew I had convinced myself that this kept me human. That remembering her in this way grounded me, and kept me from reaching the same fate as the Other. 

I return to my tower and make my breakfast fast, as by now I’m running out of daylight and have to get the kerosene in the lamp before sunset. Our lamp is an older model and doesn’t run on bulbs like some of the newer, fancier ones. That was my purpose, though, and I will continue to treat it with reverence. To keep the lamp shining and to light the way for those who need it. 

The fact that the lamp is almost out of kerosene means that I have to go back to the storage shed, so that I can retrieve a large barrel of the stuff and hoist it up to the top. Retrieving the kerosene is simple enough. I keep a wheelbarrow out off to the side of the shed and, heavy though they are, the angle at which it leans allows me to maneuver the large barrel on to it. After that, it is a matter of bringing it to the tower, setting it up on my pulley, running up the stairs, and then lifting. Always the lifting. That’s the hardest part to do by myself, though the Other wasn’t much help when she was alive. I’ve developed a decent amount of upper body strength because of this, and to be honest, I don’t mind the callouses that have appeared on my palms since I began. I trust them. I trust myself. And so I lift, twisting the rope around my forearms and using my entire body to counter it. It’s slow work, and the pulley groans underneath the weight of me and the barrel. Sometimes I swear I can hear the entire lighthouse groaning merely with the weight of my existence. I accept these sounds and move on, knowing them to just be part of my life, and who I have chosen to become. 

Eventually, I get the kerosene to the top. I roll it around to where I need to fill the tub and stop for a moment to admire the Fresnel lens. I won’t bother you with the history of lighthouses here, because truthfully, I didn’t know much about them myself when I accepted the position, but every so often the Other would regale me with some story about how they were made, or the individuality of each lamp. When she decided she liked me, of course. There was something poetic in it, though—that every single lamp had the exact same lens, all made in the exact same place, shipped all around the world to serve the same purpose. It was carved beautifully and made with careful, perfect hands. I could see how it meant something important to her. 

And so, methodically, I fill the lamp with kerosene, and I light it. This is my favorite part. The light doesn’t come from nowhere, and it’s wonderful to watch the small spark travel up the wick and burst into a large flame, reflecting off the massive lens and shooting a beam of bright light out for miles. It feels important, every time. It gives me purpose. This is when I take some time to stare into the lamp and admire the flame. The Other told me horror stories of the one who came before her, left unable to work due to blindness from the light. I heard her, and it isn’t as though I refuse to listen. I just feel something calling to me from within it. I know she would understand. Taking this moment to myself feels like the natural thing to do. 

‘I often worry about my mother and my daughter, and if they would know me should they see me now. If they would even want to know me.’

I remember the day I arrived at the lamp with relative clarity. The rusted ferry dropped me off, along with a few boxes of supplies for the Other and myself, and then it was gone. I can’t blame the captain, though. It isn’t as if this is the most welcoming place. I was warned by the townspeople on the mainland to watch out for the rocks coming in, as they had been known in the past to smash rowboats against them when the waves were particularly choppy. They almost looked like teeth, rising high out of the water, jetties and large formations that we had to move around to even reach the dock. This nameless island was trying to keep people away. 

The dock itself obviously hadn’t been used in years. The ferryman didn’t even fully pull up to it, just letting me jump off myself onto the creaky, rotting wood. It gave a little beneath me, threatening to break. I’m not a large person by any means, but for a moment, I felt like I was too much for it to handle. Looking back on it now, it’s a miracle that the dock is still standing. I expected it to float away with the tide months ago, trapping me here with nothing to secure my little boat to. 

The Other was ready to greet me as I stepped onto land again. Even then she was jaundiced. Her voice was low, and her lungs creaked as they pushed out the air. I do not remember the first thing she asked me. I was too focused on her hands, skeletal as they were. The kind of hands my daughter would have had nightmares about. And her accent, the way it twisted around her words, ropelike and thick. She was from somewhere else, like me. I allowed myself to get caught in the thought of what she had run from. If she was like me. Why she had come here at all. 

“Are you prepared for the physical aspects of the job, then?” The Other sounded frustrated, and this was when I realized I had been ignoring her. I scratched at my arms, self-conscious about the lack of my daughter’s weight within them, but grateful that she wasn’t here to see her only parent in this state. 

“I’m sure you’ll find me perfectly capable.” I was so young, those two years ago. My voice was high and bright. I had experienced loss, but I had not truly felt absence. 

“Good. My bones aren’t what they used to be, and I can barely get up the stairs before my knees give out for the day.” That much was evident in the way she stood, leaning in such a way that suggested she needed a cane but was far too prideful to actually use one. I didn’t say anything about it, though my first instinct was to roll my eyes. I knew what I had decided in coming here, and I would stick to that. 

“I’m sure I can make it up the stairs well enough for the both of us.” I attempted to smile. It was not returned. 

“You’re here two months later than I expected, so I should hope that they didn’t send me someone who was unprepared.” 

For the first while, the water haunted me. I kept trying to reassure myself that everywhere I turned, I wouldn’t see her face again, lurking just under the surface, mocking me. That I wouldn’t see her body again, just floating out on the ocean for me to retrieve. For the sake of keeping this honest, during those first days I was significantly less comfortable with the seals. Most often because it was difficult to tell the difference between a floating seal and a bloated body. 

Once, while we were fishing, the Other caught me staring off into the distance, considering all that I had left behind to be here. To do this job. She asked me if I was thinking of Before, and I nodded in affirmation. She asked me why, and I frowned, unsure of what exactly she was saying to me. I ended up giving her some noncommittal answer, something akin to the idea that maybe I was a little homesick, or maybe I was pondering the future. I don’t remember exactly what I said. What I do remember, almost too vividly, is her response. She turned, looking at me with her beady crow eyes, and I was certain she was about to plant a fishhook in my neck. 

“Child,” she said, rasping as always, “you chose to leave something behind. That was your decision, to come here. You got on that ferry and you sailed here from wherever you came from. There’s no one else you can blame for your discomfort, if it truly exists, other than yourself.” 

From that moment, I could never truly tell if she loved me or resented me. We fell into our routine, and it remained that way for the next six months. She never gave me a tour of our island, small as it was, so I found everything on my own. Often in the night, I would hear her wake, screaming at the top of her weak lungs. She insisted it was from the pain, but now that I know more, I can’t convince myself that was the case. She was always so exhausted after those nights. Eventually, I just began to pick up the slack she created with her incapability. 

The Other didn’t last much longer, and her death was a drawn-out, uncomfortable thing. I had already taken on the load of her work, so I almost didn’t notice that she had become bedridden. They pay me to tend the light, not to be hospice care. She kept trying to reassure me while she suffered. That they would send a second one soon. That I wouldn’t be alone here for long. That she was dying so that the light could keep going. I could see her bones and veins through her skin, which by now was tearing away like paper. 

On the final day, she managed to reach up with her birdlike arms and grab my face. The strength behind her grasp was startling. I stumbled towards her, met with breath that betrayed the truth of her rotting insides. 

“You will not let this happen to yourself,” she hissed. “You were chosen for your strength. Do not falter.” 

I ripped away from her, at the time disgusted. Thinking on it now, parts of me wish I had let her speak more. The other parts wholly disagree. 

Those were her final words, at least to me. She might have said more to whatever god she prayed to, or to the lamp itself, but I did not hear them. She died quietly during my next sleep, and I buried her in the morning. She barely weighed seventy pounds by then, so I was able to carry her body down the stairs and lay it out next to me while I dug. There was no ceremony; I was tired by the end, so I tossed her in the dirt and let her be. I have too much to do without burying people, and besides, she would rejoin the earth again just fine on her own. 

“Child,” she said, rasping as always, “you chose to leave something behind. That was your decision, to come here.”

After my moments of reminiscence, and having now lit the lamp, I return to the waterside. I know I need to start cleaning the exterior of the house, but reflection is important to me, especially now. The most significant part of my job was done, and it isn’t as if someone is watching my every move. I will still get my pay and my place to sleep regardless. 

The water is choppy this time, and I worry that my weather predictions were incorrect. There’s an amount of wind, but not enough to cause a deep concern—yet. Though I will need to add more kerosene to the lamp so that it lasts the night. I can also assume that I will not be sleeping through the day tomorrow, should it storm. This is all fine, and I accept that I need to do what has to be done to keep the lamp running. I know the Other promised me that someone else would show up soon, but I couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else. It is my duty, and to share that would make me feel as if I wasn’t doing enough. 

My reflection is different this second time. Sometimes it takes the face of the Other, mocking me, staring at me with her sunken eyes. But this time, the thing in the water is smiling. And I can feel something coming. Whether that’s a storm, another person, or merely an event, I do not know. But there’s a change on the wind. I regard this reflection, this not-me, with curiosity. Its face does not mimic my expression, but it looks sad. I watch it contort, trying desperately to form words, to do anything. I find myself wondering if I should stop and listen to what it has to say. The image wavers as the tide goes in and out, and I tilt my head. The thing looks as if it is trying to scream. For a moment I almost lose myself, and I catch a scream building within my own throat. Without my permission, my hands reach out, grasping for the person in the water, but just before they can break the surface, the reflection alters again, becoming much younger. Her face. That is enough to bring me back to myself. Today is not the day. I don’t have time. 

The sky is getting darker. I was right about the storm. I tear my eyes away from the thing in the water, and it reaches out a hand, mournfully. It is not reaching for me, though. I know what it wants. I turn, looking up at the house and the lamp that rests like a crown above it. I remind myself to bring another barrel when I return to the top.

Before that, though, I go to visit the Other again. Not to ask my questions, as that had already been done for the day, but mainly to sit and consider where I would be had I not been chosen. I have a small place worn into the grass next to her plot that I occupy. It comforts me to know that this routine exists, like she expects me to be here. 

I never got around to filling her grave. She’s gone now, though. Like I said before, the worms helped, and the seals did, too. When those bastards get hungry enough, they’ll eat anything. She’s barely got even her bones left, most of which you cannot see, because even though her pit was never filled, the wind and rain throughout the years have provided her with enough dirt to keep warm. 

Death suits her. I think she looks happier like this than she ever did in life. And I tell her that, too. My voice is more of a croak these days. The only things I talk to other than her are the plants, and sometimes the light if I’m feeling brave. I used to sing to myself, but the Other hated it. My voice was never that great anyway. The silence is important to me now, though. More room for thoughts. 

I ask the Other why I was chosen. For my strength, she had said, but I don’t know what that means. I ask the Other if I was brought here, as opposed to choosing to come. I ask if she knew my daughter. If she knew about the short crop of black curls and her delightfully missing front teeth. They would have grown back by now, but she’s in better hands. Hands that will ensure she never has to worry again. I tell her about the storm, about what I plan on doing to prepare for it, unexpected as it is. I ramble for a long time about my worries, and I know that if she were alive she would tell me that my stress serves nothing but itself. For a while, I curse her as well. For dying, for living, for any movement she made in the short time that I knew her. And most importantly, with a measure of finality, I thank her. It feels like a goodbye, this thanks, and maybe it is one. Maybe when I wake tomorrow, I will not need to ask the Other my questions anymore. 

By the time I get up, the rain is coming down hard. I think it odd that I didn’t notice it begin, but oh well. It will be what it will be. I don’t remember when I became desensitized to the outdoors, but it must have happened after the Other passed. She always warned me about getting soaked to the bone. I never cared then, and I don’t think I ever will now. 

My wheelbarrow is where I left it, so it’s easy enough for me to lift an additional barrel of kerosene into it and then move that barrel inside. For the second time in as many hours, I hoist the kerosene up to the top. It hurts more this time, and I think perhaps my bones couldn’t take it if I needed to do a third. 

It is not the water I should have worried about soaking me through, but the exhaustion. It hits as the kerosene filters into the container. Perhaps it was the energy released during my rant to the Other, perhaps it was merely the sounds of the rain, lulling me to sleep, but either way, I can hardly keep my eyes open. It is bright, so bright, up at the top. I slept during the daylight anyway, so it wasn’t much of a change. After pouring the additional fluid, I sit down next to the lamp itself and let its warmth comfort me. If only for a moment. 

‘For a moment, I’m captivated by how impossible it should be, for the light to go up in the midst of a storm as brutal as this one. And yet here we are. And yet here I am.’

The next thing I remember is the sound of a loud crack, and the scent of burning wood. I hear the seals screaming from the ground below, and I stumble to my feet. Another crack, and a flash so bright that I almost mistake it for daylight. I turn, looking at the rest of the tower around me. In my haze, I catch myself wondering if the light had escaped. That’s what it looks like. And to a certain degree, yes, it has. The warmth that had lulled me to sleep who knows how long before had turned into a searing heat, and the entire top of the tower is aflame. It is beautiful. The sky above me roars, and I know that what I’m experiencing is meant for me and me alone. But it cannot last. 

I feel my body move without me. My feet pound against the spiral stairs leading up to where I had just been. I stumble, and nearly fall. Everything is slippery, and I can’t tell if the slip is from rain, kerosene, or my own clumsiness. The metal of the railing is too hot to touch, and I feel as if the halo of fire is chasing me down the stairs. I quite like the chase, though. Every couple of steps I’m tempted to stop and let myself be absorbed. 

But no. I keep running. Even in the moment, I can’t tell you why. Maybe I remember the Other’s last words, or maybe the memory of my daughter keeps me going. Either way, I reach the bottom easily and find myself making my way to my boat. Once I get there, I stop and turn back. I look at what I’m leaving behind for the first time since I decided to leave. I don’t even realize that I’ve made the decision, but I have. The tower is beautiful. She’s doing her job, and she’s doing it the best she ever could. This is all I ever could have wanted for it. Lighting the way for anyone who needs it. Shining as bright as it possibly can for such a short, short time before going out. 

The little dinghy is straining against the rope that holds it, and I have to steady myself on the dock in order to reach it. I lower myself to almost a crawl, unable to keep steady on the moss and rotted wood. It has the paddles strapped to the inside, as well as a life vest, which I am sure will be useless to me in its current state. No one has used this boat in years. Properly, it should have been stored on the land, ready to be slid into the water at a moment’s notice. I think the Other secretly hoped that the rope would break, and the boat would float away. I know at one point I thought the same, but in this moment, I am grateful it never did. I am grateful for this moment of escape. I push the boat off and jump in after it, praying that the current keeps strong and I can paddle away soon. 

My boat slams against the waves, not quite able to keep upright. I look back at the lighthouse once more, watching the flames consume its entire being. For a moment, I’m captivated by how impossible it should be, for the light to go up in the midst of a storm as brutal as this one. And yet here we are. And yet here I am. It’s beautiful, the flame. I wonder if I should turn my boat around and allow myself to be devoured with it. I wonder if this is what the Other meant by this place eating me alive. I don’t think I would mind it much. 

As I paddle myself away, I mourn my chickens. I mourn my daughter’s small apple tree and my potato plants. I mourn those goddamn seals, may they never find my body. Maybe I’m confusing it with the spray from the waves, but some might mistake me for crying in this moment. I glance out at the water, expecting to look at myself, but it isn’t myself that I see. It is the Other. The world is chaos, but her expression is one of peace, and it calms me. I can feel my arms stop their rowing, though I know they shouldn’t. She reaches out to me, and I drop one of my paddles in the water. I watch it disrupt the reflection and then sink down, down, down to where I cannot see it anymore. I know there is a bottom, but I don’t endeavor to think about it. The Other opens her mouth, and her face distorts in to that of the thing before. My daughter, before. Her jaw unhinges, and I can hear her scream. It reverberates around me, embracing me with a comfort I have never felt. Back on the island, the light falls and explodes, sending a shower of flame up into the sky. Everything is illuminated, and everything is beautiful.