The Lightkeeper's Daughter (17 page)

chapter eighteen

THE UNDERTAKER ARRIVES JUST BEFORE SUNSET. He comes from the east, low on the water, croaking his raven’s cry. Squid looks up at the sound, and watches as he settles on the red cap of the tower, a little black figure high above the lawns and the buildings.

He’s been coming to Lizzie Island for as long as she can remember; before she was born he was coming each fall. He’s old and ragged; he has only one leg. But there he’ll stand, day and night, waiting for the fog and the songbirds.

Alastair hated the Undertaker. “That black thing,” he called it. “I’m going to kill that black thing,” he vowed one year, and he spent hours standing below the tower, flinging stones in every direction. He could hardly
see
the raven, let alone hit it.

Murray took him away, probably frightened of a window getting broken, or the tower paint being chipped. He brought Alastair back and sat him in the kitchen. “It’s all part of nature,” he said. “Another link in the chain. That raven has a purpose here, just like you and me and every creature on the island.”

“But he doesn’t have to
like
it,” said Alastair.

It was tragic, what happened. In the fog, or on dark and rainy nights, the songbirds passing in hordes to the south were drawn to the twirling beacon. They smashed against the glass and the concrete, and their bodies piled up on the platform or tumbled to the rocks. They covered the ground some mornings, their necks snapped, their wings broken, their bright little breasts heaving. And then the Undertaker came down from the tower and feasted on the corpses.

Even now Squid feels a sickness in her stomach to see him arrive, black as a shadow, swooping up to his perch. She’s sitting on the winch pad, brushing Tatiana’s hair, but she stops to watch the raven.

“Ah, here he is,” says Murray, beside her. “You see that, Hannah?”

“Yes, Murray. I’m not blind.”

Squid is sitting on her suitcase with Tatiana balanced on its edge in front of her. Murray on her left, Hannah on her right, they’re sitting in a row, leaning on the rocks. Below them, the
Cloo Stung
is tethered to the mooring buoy, looking square and squat from above. It’s far smaller than the
Darby,
but faster. For nearly an hour its inflatable boat has been going back and forth to the little lagoon, where the sound of a chain saw buzzes through the forest. The sound carries well in the twilight calm.

“Do you remember what Alastair got you to do?” asks Hannah.

“Yes,” says Squid. “It didn’t work any better than his other ideas.”

He gathered cedar boughs, bundles and bundles of them. He whined and snorted until she helped him, and they packed the boughs to the top of the tower. They padded the railings and the hard edge of the platform, lashing down the branches with bits of string and rope. But the songbirds died in numbers even greater than before.

“Maybe we should ask Dad to turn off the beacon,” said Alastair.

“Good idea, Dumbo,” she said. “You can stand here all night with your stupid little oil light.”

She grimaces now, remembering that. There were so many times when she hurt him.

The cabin door opens on the
Cloo Stung
. A uniformed man comes out with a saucepan that he empties over the side. He clanks a spoon around inside it, and the Undertaker echoes the sound. The man looks up, clanks again, but the raven doesn’t answer anymore. The man shrugs, then turns toward the landing. “We’ll be leaving very soon,” he shouts.

Squid waves, the brush held high in her hand.

She watches the man step back into the cabin, then takes the brush to Tatiana’s hair. Each stroke sizzles through the dark strands, tugging the child’s head to the left or the right.

“He’s early this year,” says Murray, still looking up at the tower.

“You think so?” asks Hannah.

Murray nods. “Last year you were already gone when he came.”

“No I wasn’t. I remember counting birds, hoping to find at least one I could rescue.”

“Really? Och, you could be right,” says Murray. “But you leave a little sooner every year.”

Squid puts down the brush and smooths Tat’s hair with her fingers. She covers the child’s ears and tells Murray, softly, “Don’t let her watch the Undertaker. And please keep her away from the beach until they’ve finished with the whale.”

“Fair enough,” says Murray.

“Remember to cut her toast into fingers, and don’t let her wander too close to the cliffs. Don’t drive her too fast in the wagon, okay, Dad? And keep her away from the bridge when it’s stormy. And away from the sea when it’s rough.”

Murray produces an imaginary pencil in his fingers. His tongue comes out, as though licking the tip, and he writes out a list in the air, over his hand. He speaks each line as he writes:

“Don’t let

Tatiana

have any

fun.”

“Oh, Dad,” says Squid, laughing. She gives Tatiana a playful shake. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, and I’ll watch her,” he says. “Be assured of that. But I didn’t go all that far wrong with you, did I? Och, I wasn’t perfect, God knows, but you’ve grown into a fine, good woman nonetheless.”

Squid blushes, suddenly teary. That’s the highest compliment that Murray has ever paid her. She tickles Tatiana’s ribs, and the child giggles. One more brush at her hair, one more hug, then Squid passes her daughter into Murray’s care.

His huge hands hold her firmly. “The wee Tatty will be happy here, while you’re gone,” he says. “And she’ll be just as happy to leave again.”

“I doubt it,” says Squid.

Hannah clucks her tongue. “Of course she will.”

“But when I was her age,” says Squid, “I wanted to stay here forever. I thought it was paradise.”

“And it is,” says Murray. “It’s Eden, right enough: full of beauty and knowledge, a fine place to start from.” He wraps Tatiana in his thick, strong arms and gazes at the sea that stretches on nearly forever. “But I suppose there’s always a time for leaving.”

Squid leans against him, feeling his breath and his heartbeat. Her own time for leaving is just a few minutes off, and now she wishes it was farther. “What will you do tomorrow?” she asks.

“Och, where to start?” says Murray. “We’ve got the whole small house to clean up. We’ve got to find that Barney doll; lord knows where it’s gone. There are paths to clear, and the steps will want painting—”

“Play sandbox!” shouts Tatiana.

“Oh, yes,” says Murray. “That’s the first thing.”

“Play first, work after?” teases Squid.

“Why not?” says Murray. “Just this once, though, mind.”

The chain saw stops, and a motor starts up. Then the workboat passes, full of men and thick bundles. It sidles up to the
Cloo Stung,
and when the outboard shuts down, there are only the sounds of the sea and the island. Then the big engines of the
Cloo Stung
roar and gurgle. The men clamber from the boat, and it’s hoisted aboard, the cargo still inside, the outboard dripping water from its leg.

The sky is dark and tinged with orange, the water nearly purple. The
Cloo Stung’
s lights come on, a glaring red on the side toward the island.

“I guess I’ve got to go,” says Squid. She grabs Tatiana. “Now, listen,” she says. “You do what you’re told, you hear? And you stay away—”

“Och, you’ve told her all that,” says Murray.

“Okay,” says Squid. “I’ll see you soon, Tatiana.” She kisses her daughter, then stands up.

Hannah rises on her right, Murray on her left. He holds out his arm as though he means only to shake hands. “I’m very proud of you, Squid,” he says.

She throws herself at him and he hugs her back, his arms like sticks at first, until they bend and tighten round her shoulders. Her tears run onto his collar. “I’m glad I came back,” she says. “I’m sorry I disappeared.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “Squid, it’s all right.”

The
Cloo Stung
’s horn blasts with a tuneless screech. In a swirl of smoke, a rush of dark water, the boat backs away from the mooring.

Squid turns from Murray to Hannah, everything she can see just a blur and a shimmer. Her mother hugs her fiercely, more tightly than she’s ever been held before. “Don’t say anything, Squid,” she says. “We’ll see you soon, Tatiana and I.”

Squid steps back, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand. Her throat feels sore, her eyes on fire. She picks up her suitcase and starts down to the sea.

The
Cloo Stung
is small enough to come right to the shore. The skipper maneuvers from the deck, swinging his boat in the channel, going astern toward the steps. He nudges a lever; water boils at the stern, rushing over the concrete.

Squid looks down, looks back at Tatiana huddled up to Murray’s leg. She drops her suitcase. A wave of her arms will send the boat away, will leave her on the island with her daughter and her parents. She can still stay until the end of the month. She spreads her arms wide and Tat runs toward her, thumping into her knees.

“Oh, my baby,” she says.

She’s ready to shout, to send the
Cloo Stung
on its way. But she’ll have to sleep in the small house. She’ll have to fill it again with a child’s laugh, with a child’s games and stories at bedtime. She’ll have to bunk with Alastair’s ghost, seeing his face wherever she looks, hearing his voice whenever she turns.

Her arms, already half-raised, fall instead for one last touch of her daughter’s hair, for one more hug. Then she takes up the suitcase again and marches down the steps.

Three men help her over the transom and onto the deck. They hold her up by her elbows as though she’s a frail old lady. The skipper smiles, then pushes the throttle. And the boat slides forward, leaving the island behind.

Her eyes are still blurry with tears. Her father is a big, pink blob on the landing, her mother a smear of brown and red, her daughter a tiny, tiny thing. In a moment they’re gone, hidden by the turn in the cliff.

The
Cloo Stung
travels so fast that it banks when it turns. It rises on the waves with a steamy spray at the stern. In moments it has passed the last reef, swinging to the south, bashing into the seas with foam churning between the twin hulls.

One by one, the crew slip into the cabin. But Squid stays in the stern, watching the island shrink.

It’s darker than the sea and darker than the sky, a hunched shape like an animal sleeping. There’s a square of yellow light from a window of the big house, but soon that is gone, hidden by the trees. Then only the beacon is there, flashing across the water, flashing again. Squid can feel her heart beating with it, keeping time to the Lizzie light.

The
Cloo Stung
carries her away, pitching across the black slopes of the swells. The beacon sinks below the water, and the wind lashes at the lightkeeper’s daughter.

Acknowledgments

Lizzie Island isn’t real, but there is a place just like it. It’s called Lucy Island, and it lies just west of Prince Rupert. I have walked along its beaches and through its forest, following the boardwalk from the beach to the tower, past the midden and the meadow. I have anchored in its sandy lagoon, and watched the auklets arrive at sunset.

There was once a lighthouse there, and a lightkeeper with a family of young children. I never knew their names, though I met them once or twice. They left the island many years ago, when the lighthouse was automated and the little white-and-red houses were burned to the ground. This story is not about them.

I sometimes regret turning Lucy Island into a fictional setting for tragedy. It was, and is, one of my favorite places.

The factual information for this story came from two friends, both longtime keepers of the lights. Larry Golden, who has tended to the lonely rock of Triple Island for more than twenty-five years, provided many details about the workings of a lightstation and the realities of a lightkeeper’s life. Chris Mills, who has worked on lights on both the east coast and the west, and who now is deeply involved in preserving east-coast stations, read the manuscript in an early form, made corrections, and suggested improvements. He gave me a tour of the light at Dryad Point, on the Inside Passage of British Columbia’s coast. To these two friends, I owe many thanks.

He, too, is like the mussel, she thinks. He’s rooted to his island; his
byssus is just as strong. To tear him loose would kill him
(p. 82). Murray thinks of Lizzie Island as a paradise and can’t imagine living anywhere else. How do Hannah’s, Squid’s, and Alastair’s views of the island differ from Murray’s—and from each other? Do they all
need
the island in the same way? Imagine growing up on an island with no one but your family. In what ways do you think you’d turn out differently?

Assuming you didn’t grow up on a tiny island, how has where you live shaped your identity? Think about geography, climate, local society, economic conditions, etc. Draw parallels between your life and the plot of
The Lightkeeper’s Daughter.

There are many secrets in this story. What major revelations occur late in the book? What do Hannah and Alastair, in particular, think or feel that they don’t tell anyone else? How does keeping secrets affect a relationship?

Alastair says, “Don’t do something if there’s a single person—anywhere—that you don’t want to know what you’re doing” (p. 66). Do you agree with this principle? Are there exceptions? (And don’t say planning a surprise party!)

As [Murray] took each book from the box, he set it onto one of the
four stacks he was making: one for each McCrae. Hannah looked
at the titles and saw how he was building Alastair and Squid, and
even herself, into the people he thought they should be
(p. 127). In a variety of ways, Murray exerts a strong influence on the family. Why does he play such a powerful role, especially compared to Hannah? How does Murray’s vision of what each family member should be differ from each member’s vision for himself or herself? What is Murray’s vision of himself? Do you think it changes after Alastair’s death and after Squid leaves the island?

The characters have different ways of dealing with conflicts and problems. Squid bounces from topic to topic, Hannah becomes resentful, Alastair isolates himself in his writing and his work. Flesh out each character’s responses to problems, including Murray’s, and find examples in the book. Whom are you most like?

Describe Squid’s relationship with Alastair. Are Squid’s feelings for Alastair different from Alastair’s feelings for Squid? What do they like about each other, and how do they disappoint each other? Does the book imply that their love for each other develops a sexual aspect?

Look again at Alastair’s diary entries. What themes, or major questions, arise? What does Alastair want? What do you think he needs?

What does the whale symbolize in this story? Recall its various appearances throughout the book, Alastair’s work on whale song, and what he writes about drowning. Why does the whale need to die at the end of the story, rather than just leave the waters around the island?

Extreme events—Alastair’s death, Squid’s pregnancy— change the family. What do you think would have happened to the characters in the absence of any definitive events? Think about a time in your life when it was hard to change the status quo, even though you knew it needed to be altered. What finally led to change?

What idea or lesson from this book can help you think about how you want to live your life? Consider your views on family, raising children, marriage, personal goals, etc.

Q:
When did you develop an interest in writing? Did your teachers recognize your talent and encourage you?

A:
My grade three teacher told my parents that I would grow up to be a writer. In later years, in junior high school and high school, creative writing class was my favorite part of school. I remember being praised but not encouraged. I was a very shy child, so it was intensely embarrassing if my stories were chosen to be read aloud, and excruciating if I had to read them myself.

In grade eleven or twelve, I volunteered to be a school correspondent for the neighborhood newspaper. But my first published story was so changed from the version I submitted that I never wrote another one. When I graduated from high school, though, I hoped to be a writer.

Q:
In your acknowledgments you talk about Lucy Island as the inspiration for the setting of The Lightkeeper’s Daughter. What was your inspiration for the characters and story?

A:
The first time I sailed to Lucy Island, there was a lightkeeper and his family living there. The last time, their house was just a stub of foundations poking up from burned and bulldozed ruins. It was like a different island, sad and somber, and it’s this one that the McCraes inhabit—with a different name so that the real and very happy lightkeepers won’t be mistaken for my fictional ones. The McCraes were inspired in part by the sense of loneliness and loss that lay thickly over Lucy then, and in part by the needs of the story. I gave each of them one strong desire, and their relationships arose naturally from the clashing of their different wants.

Q:
You write “Alastair was good at everything because he only did the things that he was good at” (p. 101). How should we decide what to do, if it’s not simply the things we’re good at? Is there something you’re not good at that you enjoy?

A:
It’s a bit of a Catch-22, isn’t it? You can never enjoy doing something you don’t do well, but if you do it badly long enough, you get good enough to enjoy it. There are many things I like to do now that were only painful at first. By never trying twice, Alastair limited himself to a very narrow range of interests.

Q:
Tell us about your process. Some writers say that their best writing comes out of revising and editing, while others prefer the spontaneity of their first version. How do you work?

A:
I love writing but don’t care much for rewriting. Once I’ve told a story, I tend to lose interest in it and want only to go on to the next one.

I used to start a novel knowing nothing of what would happen. I just began at the first page, wrote through to the last, and called the whole thing finished as soon as I reached the end. After many rejections, I realized I was doing something wrong. It’s my theory now (and I wonder sometimes if I didn’t just pick it up from someone else) that you can outline and write, or write and rewrite. But, really, it amounts to the same thing. A story that is started without an outline will become the outline, going through changes and revisions until it seems right.

Now I like to plan the story carefully and fully, going through it chapter by chapter until I know—for each of them—the beginning and the end, and most of what will happen in between. I like to know the characters, what they are like and how they talk. The writing always strays from the outline in places. But, like a new highway built beside an old one, they eventually rejoin.

Q:
Do you have any personal experiences with whales? What is your connection to them, and why was it important to you to include the whale in the book?

A:
This story really began with the whales. The very first thought that inspired it was to tell the songs that whales might sing to each other. Its title then, and nearly till the end, was
The Singing of Whales
. Several years passed from the day I started the first version to the day I finished the last, all during a time when I spent entire summers wandering the coast in a little sailboat. I often saw whales, and sometimes sought them out. I bought a hydrophone to listen to their voices in the water, and it was always incredibly moving to be near them. One time, we were overtaken by a pod of killer whales. We were going so slowly that they could have shot by, but instead they slowed as they passed. They surfaced right beside the boat and all around it, a big group of adults and children, and it seemed for a while that we were traveling with them. It was magical, really. The killer whales of the coast represent the ultimate in freedom to me, and it breaks my heart that they’re dying.

Q:
Usually we think about parents sacrificing for their children. Yet, in a way, Alastair sacrifices his future for Murray’s when he agrees to stay on the island. Do you think that happens often in families? How do you decide what to sacrifice for someone or something you love?

A:
I think children seldom make even small sacrifices for their parents. But when they’re older, and adults themselves, they often make huge ones, I think. It’s ironic that Alastair, by giving his father what he wants, almost guarantees that Murray can’t hang on to it. I can imagine that Alastair might have gone to school, studied whales, and returned to Lucy Island one day. I can imagine, too, that Squid would have stayed, and that Murray would have died a happy man on his own little island. But Alastair found that he had given up too much, and by doing it had doomed them all. If sacrifice has a limit, I have no idea what it is. But I can’t imagine giving up life for a country, or even for a tiny little island.

Q:
In many ways, this story is a tragedy. The characters learn and change, but only through great pain and the death of Alastair. Did you consider other fates for Alastair?

A:
For a time, Alastair did have a different fate—or at least the possibility of one. An earlier version of the story made it clear, at the end, that Alastair paddled away from the island in hope of reaching Vancouver. Whether he arrived or not wasn’t said. But it was unthinkable that Alastair would go on with his life without letting Squid, at least, know that he was still alive. So the ending was changed to be less ambiguous, and I think this one is better. But, yes, these characters became very real for me, and I thought about them for a long time afterward, often wondering if Alastair might have survived.

Q:
At one point Hannah reminds Murray that “No man is an island” (p. 112). Do you agree? Do you identify with Murray’s desire?

A:
Hannah, of course, is quoting the poet John Donne: “No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. . . .” I agree very much with that. The more firmly a person is connected to the mass of humanity, the better that person seems. At the same time, I understand Murray’s wish for a simple life in an idyllic place, free from the worries of the world. That he can’t have it, no matter how he tries, is a sad reality. Like most people, I think, I’m often less of an island than I’d wish, and sometimes more than I’d like.

Q:
Why did you want to tell this story (particularly for a young adult audience)?

A:
For a long time, I considered telling this story in a more straightforward way, beginning with Alastair’s birth and ending with his death. It would have been the same story, but very different. Trying to tell it as a series of memories was a puzzle that interested me through the planning and the writing. I wanted a sad story about people struggling for something they couldn’t quite reach, and settling for something close. That, to me, pretty well sums up what life is about.

BORROWED LIGHT
Anna Fienberg • 0-440-22876-X
Sixteen-year-old Callisto May feels a deep
connection to astronomy. She can name all the
moons on Jupiter and even tell you the
dimensions of the Big Red Spot. But she feels
completely alone on planet Earth. And now that
she’s pregnant, her loneliness is acute.