Gifts from the Sea (5 page)

I knew Celia wouldn't remember her first Christmas with us; she'd been too young, and with Papa and me still mourning Mama, we hadn't done much celebrating. But when our second Christmas with Celia rolled around, Papa and I were determined to make it something she'd never forget. Papa decorated the lighthouse with strings of dried apples and seashells, and carved Celia a seal from driftwood. I dug out Mama's recipes to fix the Scottish treats she'd always made for us: broonie, which was an oatmeal gingerbread, black bun fruitcake, and the pulled taffy that Mama called “Edinburgh rock.” It was a difficult recipe, and I had to throw out the first two batches, but the third held together enough to pull. Celia ended up with taffy in her hair and eyelashes and even in her ears, and it took me two days to scrape pieces of candy from the floor and walls, but her laughter made it all worthwhile.

Spring came, with V's of geese winging north and clouds of seabirds coming back to Devils Rock. Celia and I spent hours watching the elegant gannets fold their wings and dive straight down into the sea for fish, and the comical little puffins bob like buoys on
the water. Looking at their brightly colored beaks, I laughed when I thought how Mama would have called them reefart-nosed, too.

We knew Celia had been born in the spring, but we didn't know the date, so Papa and I picked a day. I didn't want her to have to share a birthday with me, and we wanted to stay away from the date that Mama had died, so we chose May 15, for no particular reason other than that it seemed a good day for celebrating the end of winter.

I decided the occasion called for a cake, but cakes require eggs. Spring was just beginning, but I thought a few seabirds might have begun to nest. I rigged Celia up with her harness and rope and off we went to hunt for eggs.

I made her lie down beside me to peer over the cliff edge, and we did indeed spot a few eggs below us on the rock ledges. But how to get them? I couldn't take Celia with me when I climbed down for them, and I couldn't leave her at the top alone, because for certain she'd try and follow me; she'd already proven she was fearless. It was thinking about her adventuresome spirit that I hit upon a plan, one I was sure Papa would not approve of.

I checked the knots in the rope and made sure there were no frays along its entire length. Then I lowered Celia over the cliff edge until she could reach the eggs. I tried not to think about what Papa would say if he saw what we were doing, but Celia thought it great fun to dangle along the cliff face, picking eggs off their ledges, and begged for more when I pulled her up.

That summer, when Celia was two, we were house-bound for four days by a monstrous storm that moaned and shrieked and pounded our little island. Papa hardly slept that whole time and kept the lamps burning, a beacon for any ships caught in the storm. I carried food and strong coffee up to him in the lantern room. Each time a wave crashed over the top of the tower, I felt the lighthouse shudder, and I was sure we would be washed away, just like the Minot's Ledge keepers. I wanted to spell Papa so he could catch a short nap, but the violence of the storm frightened Celia and she began to cry. I read her two books and had just put her to bed when Papa appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in his oilskins.

“A ship has run onto the shoals and is sinking,” he said, his voice low. “I'm going out to see if I can rescue any on board.”

He grabbed up a lantern, and I followed him outside. The wind tore at me, trying to spin me off my feet. Lightning flashed and, for an instant, I saw ship masts outlined against the sky. Above the roar of the storm, we could hear ship timbers groaning and cracking like kindling. Worse than that were the screams of the people on board.

I grabbed Papa's arm. “I'm going with you.” But Papa shook off my hand.

“No, you have to stay here.”

That made me angry. “I'm not a child anymore, Papa,” I said. “I'm strong. I can help.”

“I know,” Papa said. “It's Celia.…” He didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. I understood. If anything should happen to Papa, there had to be someone to take care of Celia.

“Tend the light,” Papa said. “The steamer will be by in a few weeks with more coal and supplies. If need be, you can go with them.”

His words chilled me, more than the lashing rain and wind. The only reason for me to leave with the steamer would be if Papa didn't return.

Sick at heart, I watched Papa row away. His boat had never looked so tiny, the waves never so huge. They tossed his boat around as if it were a toy, and I knew I might never see Papa again.

evils Rock had never seemed so aptly named, for I felt surrounded by shrieking demons intent on tearing the world apart. The rock itself trembled as the waves slammed against it.

Staring out into the darkness, my mind racing, I thought the unthinkable.

What if something
did
happen to Papa? What if he didn't come back? I'd be an orphan, too, just like Celia. I'd have to wait for the steamer or a passing fisherman stopping by to take us off the island. But then where would we go? Who would we live with? I didn't know
any of Papa's or Mama's family or how to find them. Could I raise Celia by myself?

Please let Papa be all right, I prayed.

With each flash of lightning, I could see the masts tilt more, until the flash when they were gone. There were no more screams, either.

I waited for what seemed like an hour, but Papa didn't return.

Soaked and shivering, I stumbled back into the lighthouse, crept into Celia's bed, and wrapped myself around her. I must have frightened her, for she woke, crying. So I rocked her in my lap, crooning, “It's all right. Everything will be all right,” even after she'd fallen asleep again. I must have dozed myself, for the next thing I remember was hearing Papa shout, “Quila! Quick! Open the door!” and I leaped to do as he said, almost upsetting Celia onto the floor.

Papa came in like a gust of the storm, half carrying, half dragging a woman, her soaked skirts making a river on the floor.

“Help me, Quila,” Papa gasped.

I grabbed her feet and helped lift her onto the bed.

“Strip off her wet things,” Papa said. “I'm going to
heat some rocks in the fire. We'll pack them around her to try to warm her.”

The woman's skin was blue, and she was ice-cold to the touch. Once I'd wrapped her in blankets, I rubbed her limbs to get her blood flowing. I talked to her the whole time, telling her she was safe now and begging her to wake up.

Papa lined the hot rocks alongside her body and poured little sips of hot tea between her lips, but most of it dribbled out the side. Both of us rubbed her legs and arms until I thought my arms would fall off.

She opened her eyes only once. They were green eyes, the color of the sea, but they were looking beyond me, to something I couldn't see. Her lips parted and I leaned forward to hear what she was trying to say.

“Mary?” she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. A shudder ran through her body and she was gone.

ebris from that shipwreck washed up against our island for days: broken beams, rope and sailcloth, lanterns, tin cups and a spoon, a family Bible with the name Barclay written inside, a doll that I washed and mended for Celia. Papa also found the bodies of two of the sailors, caught amongst the rocks.