Gifts from the Sea (4 page)

I looked out to where the sea joined the sky, and saw a boat in the distance. I watched it come closer, studying the movement of the oars, how the boat plowed through the water, and knew it was Mr. Richardson, a fisherman from the mainland. The way a fisherman handles his boat is as distinctive as his voice, and I always knew who was fishing off our light long before I could make out their faces.

“Hi there, lass,” Mr. Richardson called out as he came close enough to be heard. “'Tis a bonny day, is it not?”

Tears stung my eyes, for
bonny
was a Scottish word Mama had often used to describe a beautiful day on Devils Rock. I could only nod.

I liked Mr. Richardson; he seemed more like a
grandfather to me, especially as I'd never known my real grandfathers. But he had a large red nose, doubtless made larger and redder by years of being frostbitten while at sea, and as he looked up at me, I remembered Mama's word for such a nose as Mr. Richardson had—“reefart-nosed,” which meant having a nose like a radish—and a giggle started somewhere down in my middle. I tried to suppress it, for I couldn't be so rude as to be laughing at dear Mr. Richardson, but it fought its way upward and exploded out of my mouth. Poor Mr. Richardson began laughing, too, not knowing I was laughing at his expense.

“Oh, it's good to see you laughing,” Mr. Richardson said. “We were grieved to hear of your dear mother's passing.” At mention of Mama, his nose didn't seem funny anymore.

“My wife has been wanting me to bring you over for a visit,” Mr. Richardson said. “It's such a bonny day, and I haven't had much luck with the fishing. Might you ask your father if he'd allow you to go today? I'll bring you back before nightfall.”

My heart and legs leaped at his offer. I'm
ashamed to admit my first thoughts weren't about the light, how I was in charge and couldn't leave the light unattended. What I was thinking about was going to the mainland for the first time in my life, seeing streets and shops, riding in a carriage pulled by a high-stepping horse, seeing trees and gardens, and walking in a place where you didn't have to worry every step about falling off a cliff. It would be a day I would never forget. Then I remembered Celia.

“I can't,” I said, the words like broken glass in my mouth. “I wish I could, but I can't.” I didn't dare tell him Papa was away, for Mr. Richardson, dear soul that he was, would have felt obligated to stay until Papa returned. How would that convince Papa that I was capable of staying alone?

Mr. Richardson didn't ask for a reason, just nodded sadly and pulled away. I wanted to leap into the water after him, climb into his boat and sail away and never have to think of Celia again. I'd given up everything I loved, these last few months, to take care of her, and she was too young to even appreciate it.

Celia was the last thing I wanted to see right then, so I decided to check on the razorbill instead. I found the fish lying untouched in the bottom of the box.

“You have to eat,” I said. I held the fish up to his beak, but the bird only stared at me, unmoving, unblinking. He might not be strong enough to fish on his own, but if he didn't eat what I offered, he'd die of starvation anyway. I decided to return him to the sea.

I carried the razorbill down the steep steps and set him on the water. He floated there, riding the waves, then curved his neck and dove under the surface in one smooth, liquid motion. I stared after him, wondering what it would be like to be a wild creature, to be able to swim or fly away wherever you wanted,
whenever
you wanted, to not have a care in the world, and to not have to worry about the ones you were leaving behind.

I sighed and decided I'd read one of the books Mr. Callahan had brought. My favorite place to read was outside, with my back tucked up against the tower where the sun had warmed the stone. I tiptoed
inside to grab a book and peeked into the cradle. Panic blossomed like a rose in my chest. The cradle was empty.

“Celia?” I whirled, scanning the room. She couldn't have gone far. She wasn't even walking yet. I peeked under the table, then flew into the other rooms and checked under the beds. “Celia!” If she'd gone outside to find me, surely I would have seen her.

I leaped out the door. “Celia!” I ran around to the other side of the lighthouse, and a bitter taste, like iron, filled my mouth.

Celia was tottering toward the edge, swaying, arms outstretched to the sea. Beyond Celia, in the foam of the green waves, I saw two dark heads and knew what had drawn her to the cliffs. Seals.

I opened my mouth to scream her name but was afraid if I did, I might startle her and make her fall. I ran as I'd never run before.

Celia took another step. And then another.

I'd been so angry with her for ruining my life, resentful enough to even wish her gone. Be careful what you wish for, Mama had sometimes said.

Please, don't let her fall, I prayed. Let me reach her in time, and I'll never let her out of my sight again.

I was close enough now to hear her humming to herself, the sound she made whenever she saw seals, but already she was losing her balance, her chubby arms beginning to windmill, her mouth forming a little O of surprise.

I lunged and fell, sprawling hard on the rocks, and watched as Celia disappeared over the edge. But my outstretched hand caught the hem of her dress.

My arm felt like it had been pulled from its socket, but I held on and hauled Celia back up as though she were a fish on a line. Blood dripped from my chin and elbows, and Celia was shrieking, but I crushed her to my chest, shame and gratitude washing over me in equal measure. I would not let Celia out of my sight again.

ama had always said the best word to describe a good lighthouse keeper was
vigilant,
for they must be ever watchful and never let the light go out. But I became more vigilant than any lighthouse keeper, keeping Celia away from the cliff edge, watching out for things she could choke on or cut herself on. Whenever I felt the old resentment creeping in, I would play over in my mind the image of Celia disappearing over the cliff, and
the anger would skulk away like a scolded dog and I'd hold Celia close. I was tired all the time, but even so, I knew Celia was a blessing. Her squeals of laughter and birdlike chatter kept the loneliness at bay and kept Papa and me from sinking into despair.

Papa helped me rig up a little harness for her, and when I was working around the house, I kept her tied to me with a rope so she wouldn't be able to sneak out without me. But I could tell Celia was as restless as I was, so before either of us got too snarlish, I'd take her out for a walk on the cliffs, with the rope like a leash. Celia could explore, but with her attached to me, I could let down my guard a little and enjoy our outings more. We'd carry out bread and toss it high for the seabirds, and watch their white wings flashing in sunlight as they snatched the bread out of the air, Celia clapping her hands and squealing, and I'd feel the closest thing to joy I'd felt since Mama died. When the bread was gone, we'd go to the far point of the island, where Celia would bark at the seals.

On stormy days, entertaining her was more of a challenge, but we'd read books and make up songs
(Celia wanted all songs to be about seals, of course), and I'd draw pictures of seals for her, and we'd play hide-and-seek. I let her help me knead bread dough and stir up cookies, and I told her everything I could remember about Mama.

I was both mother and sister to her and couldn't help but think how Mama would have loved her.

Sometimes, when I watched Celia twirling in the yard, bright-eyed, the sunlight catching her hair, I tried to imagine her parents. Celia had dark hair and startling green eyes, as pale as sea foam. Did she look like them? When she grew up, would her voice be like her mother's? Would she run like her father? We would never know who they were, but when Celia was old enough, I'd tell her about their brave, and seemingly desperate, attempt to save their daughter by lashing her between two mattresses as the ship was sinking. Whatever else we
didn't
know about them, Celia would always know that her parents had loved her.

I couldn't give Celia back her parents, but I'd make sure she never wanted for anything, including schooling.

“Just because there's no school on Devils Rock is no reason to grow up ignorant,” Mama'd said. She'd
ordered books, and a blackboard, and we'd spent hours each day memorizing multiplication tables and world capitals and reading Shakespeare and Longfellow. Longfellow was a favorite of Papa's, especially his poem “The Lighthouse”:

and Mama would recite “Twilight,” one of her favorites. For the longest time I thought Mama had made that poem up about me for I often pressed my face against the window, peering out when storms lashed at our little light shining bravely into the night.

I was determined to do as good a job with Celia as Mama had done with me. I taught her the colors, and how to count to ten on her fingers, and she was learning the alphabet. Soon I'd get out Papa's maps and show
her not only where our island rested off of Maine, but Africa and South America and China and the North Pole, so she'd know there was a world beyond our small island, places with mountains and rivers and prairies and trees.

The stories I'd loved most to hear were of Mama growing up on a farm. Mama told of milking cows, and making maple syrup, and picking apples in the fall. “Oh, Quila, you should have seen the trees,” Mama said. “The apple trees are covered with snowy blossoms in the spring, and in the fall, the maple trees are the most beautiful shades of red and orange and gold.” I tried to picture them in my mind, but I'd never seen a tree.

“You will,” Mama said. “Someday I'll take you to meet your grandparents and uncles and aunts, and you'll get to climb trees.” I was more excited to see the trees than the relatives. Mama and I had never gotten to see trees together, but maybe Celia and I would. I imagined her and me gathering sap in the spring to make the maple syrup, picking apples in the fall to make cider, and hiking through snowy woods to cut a balsam fir for Christmas.