Photo by Todd Trapani on Unsplash
(note: written in one sitting. Ran out of time, so didn’t do a re-read pass. This is just one flat out stream of consciousness without editing of any sort – not developmental, not proofreading.)
The storm rolled in dark and menacing, black clouds walls reached from seafoam to starlight, hiding the late afternoon sun behind them. Crashing waves tried to outrace the storm, only to be pushed from behind by the strong winds, falling against the sharp rocks beneath my shelter, an old abandoned lighthouse of a sort. I could see the rain smear the cloud edges from mid-way above the horizon to the wave crests.
I pushed my black hair behind my ears just to have it be pulled back out by the stray breezes slipping through the cracks in the thick glass of the tower. Normally, I light the torch with one olive branch and one beechwood split log when the sun set. On long winter nights, I might make my way up the stairs after the mid-night for a second log. Today, with the summer storm changing day into night early, I stirred last night’s ashes with the branch with nearly half the after-noon to go. Most days, this close to summer’s first eve, the coals were little more than white nothing by sunset, the days are so long. The early start today had the branch flaming quickly from the surviving coals. I laid the deadfall wood down in the rusted metal bowl. Next I rolled the log, one determined shove at a time, from the pile I had stored up. I’m sweating by the time I get it to the edge of the fire bowl.
Tipping the log on end, I crouch down and lift up with all my strength until I am able to tilt the beechwood into the bowl. It slid in next to the olive branch and the shaved curls I had cut into the log lit easily. The mirrors and glass and prisms took it from there, doubling and redoubling the light.
I squinted against the brightness as I headed for the spiral stairwell to take me down into my home. Counting carefully since my eyesight dark vision was completely, though temporarily, destroyed, at tread thirty-two, I grabbed the handrail rope on the left and step onto bottom, thicker rope and slid hand-over-hand, sidestep-by-sidestep. Around the time the bypass of the rotting wood steps was complete, my vision had cleared of the extra spots. At the third landing (or first, depending on which direction you were going up-and-down), I turned around on the stone portion of the staircase. The tuff blocks for the first four steps below the landing had been repurposed somewhere, where exactly I didn’t know because it was before my time. A few handholds had been carved into the porous rocks and I used them to lower myself to the final flight of stairs.
Outside, the second of the storm bands arrived, whistling through cracks and tiles. I heard the front door banging. I had rushed back from where I had been pruning olive branches in the grove and dumped what could carry inside the door before heading upstairs. The pruned branches were for my personal firewood; the lighthouse required the olive branch to be deadfall.
Though I wanted to rush to the door, I walked carefully across the tile lining the terraced pool.
This was the most spectacular and weirdest part of the bottom third of the decathagonal tower where the building widened to five times the width, like a mini-fortress with a tower rising from its center. Blue and white tile work with the troy keystone pattern lined the floors and walls. The first four top-most terraces seemed like normal steps changed into drop-offs of three feet for another four steps and then one sixteen-foot drop into a pool of fresh water. The walls of the entire room had the spectacular tilewok, the bottom of the pool, when light hit it, made it look like the floor was level and the mosaic of seacreatures and fish gathering around one fintailed humanoid being holding a creature appeared to be walkable, not sixteen feet below the surface.
This was my fresh-water source. In the height of drought season, the water would recede to the pool level. Right now, only the top two steps remained above the water with the recent summer storms and the lower one had the water lap it. I might not be able to get to my quarters after tonight’s inflow. The optical illusion of the water and the mosaic hid slippery shadows. I don’t know what else was resident in the lighthouse, but I respected it.
I didn’t know a lot of things about the lighthouse, having taken it for shelter on this lonely island a while ago. The years blurred. The olive grove fed and supported me in many ways; the birds drawn by the olives and the fish which didn’t make it back into the sea after a storm provided meat. Seaweed washed ashore provided bread and greens.
I shuffled past my roommate, careful not to slip into its abode on the slick tile.
After securing the front door, I moved the wood into the seasoning room. Three logs from a fallen beech tree stared at me angrily. I needed to split the fully-dried wood and then get the twelve quarter-logs all the way up the stairwell, an exhausting full-day task. A basket of olive branches also waited to be lifted to the highest level.
My previous pully system had failed, the rope worn out. Sometime last winter. I think.
If I remember rightly, this is the third time the ropes had failed. The first time I had used rope found within the lighthouse. The second time, a storm had brought a mass of rope from some destroyed ship to rest in the cove on the leeward side of the island. The wood of that shipwreck allowed me to fully repair the floor of the second level for my sleep area. I had been fixing it piecemeal for it seemed like years. It had been nice to finish it in a single season. The third, a group of people from the mainland had landed here, blown off course by an early winter storm. I didn’t speak their language, not well. Their words were so accented it may as well have been a different tongue. We traded rope for fresh-water; olive oil, which I keep in abundance, for empty bottles. I fed them per the rules of hospitality and lighthouses, while they repaired their sails and we parted on good terms. I believed. They never came back and it has been long enough for the rope to wear out.
I paused as I see movement out the window. Another weirdness of the house was the seasoning room’s window, as wide as my arm’s stretched out and going from floor to ceiling. I have looked for it from the outside but have not been able to find it. Strangely, it didn’t look out at the front patio area where I ate most of my meals when sun and air permitted, but along the switchback leading from the small pier at the front of the island facing the ocean. A group of people were coming my way.
The leader lacked two teeth and wore a droopy hat with a feather. His hair was matted except for a cluster of braids with gold beads and his beard thick. Thick brown linen pants tucked into hightop boots that folded over at the very top. His blouse was covered with a leather vest, several blades tucked randomly about on his person. He stood a good head over all of his companions. Rings decorated his every finger and he was yelling in someone’s ear before pushing him away, six of the other ruffians of the group broke away with the second-in-command as they came to the top of the rocky cliffs.
The second group circled to the side of my minifortress, near the area where I was still rebuilding the wall. As soft as tuff stone is, I don’t have the correct tools to cut it into blocks. The wood I have gathered from driftwood and shipwrecks blocked off the area, but the barrier wouldn’t be visible from where they were.
The rest of the party stayed with the leader. One other male and three females. Two of the females were dressed in blue linen flattening against them by the wind and rain, their braided hair whipping about like snakes. One had braids with gold metal and lapis-lapis beads. Embroidery decorated her gown’s neckline, the sleeves from wrist to elbow, and the outer skirt’s frontal panel. She stayed close to the two men. The other two women huddled together sharing an oiled blanket. The second one wearing blue linen had only a modest strip of embroidery at the wrist and a scallop-stich edge around the neck; the third female wore an even simpler and plainer garment, her hair tied tight to the head in a kerchief, her braids pinned securely.
I wondered if I could trade her some pins. Nothing as delicate as pins ever made it ashore, and the one group of visitors I had had had been all plainly dressed men with hair shorn close to the scalp. I pulled the rat-eaten curtain I had stitched from a sail over the window and made my way to the front door, sealing off the seasoning room door behind me by dropping a forgotten rug which had washed ashore to keep the storm’s moisture from invading the room.
Arriving at the front door at the same time the pounding began, I yelled, “One moment.” I lifted the bar of wood and set it aside then unchocked the bottom before opening the door to the squall and the five visitors.
The woman in the leader group demanded, “Shelter. For the love of the gods and humanity.” Her whipping beaded braids her the companions, the two large menacing men standing either side of her. In her hands, the woman held a box which gleamed in the stormy night. A small engraved golden ball lay within, decorated with waves, blue stones, and silver inlay which was turning black with age, yet shined near while where she obviously rubbed it. I felt magic press at the door’s threshold demanding entry, wanting to sweeten the order she was giving.
I lived in a lighthouse. There were rules. “Be welcome under the laws of hospitality of the sea and under guests rights and duties.” That said, I stepped aside allowing them entry. The three older people tumbled in, shaking the water off their persons, then wringing the water from their clothes, and stomping mud from their boots on the stone floor. The two under the oilcloth stopped at the threshold and shook the water under the narrow eaves of the front door and wrung what water they could at that location before closing the door behind them. The woman in the brown outfit reached for the bar to have the second ruffian slap her arm hard, stopping her.
The tallest of them had gray in his beard I hadn’t see through the window, and the woman’s hair had a change in hair color from a rich reddish-brown to a dim faded gray at the top of her braids.
“Blessings upon you.” The oldest of the females said with a smooth voice which carried to fill every corner of the room. She closed the box and tucked the charm away in a gold-work embroidered bag attached to a multicolor woven belt.
It had been so long since I heard another human’s voice, tears raised in my eyes. “I do not have towels for drying, but you are welcome to share my soup to help warm you.” All cooking was done on the ground floor with the stone walls. I started walking to the cooking area in the broken area I was still fixing. “I can stoke the fire to help get you dry faster.”
“Is it flesh, fowl, or fish?” The woman walked passed me, once the light and smell showed the way. “Today is a flesh day, so I must have flesh.” She sat down in the single chair in the room. The two men dropped on the bench I had made the last time I had visitors, stretching on legs and arms on a bench I had made for four grown men to share, so that the two other women stood in a corner near where my construction equipment lay.
Broken wood, stone I was reshaping with rocks, drop cloths, and one intact bucket of precious tar strewn in that area.
“The soup is roots and fish.” I reached for the ladle and one of the wood bowls I had. Kitchen gear was the one thing I didn’t lack. One of the eight rooms on this floor had been stacked with battered old bowls and plates; half of them had been unusable, but that still left more than enough even for this crowd.
“Well, I can’t have that.” The woman declared. “Go, kill a goat or something.”
I offered filled bowl to the closest male and he sneered at it. “I’ll wait for something better.”
The other man took it greedily as I moved down the line, but respected the heat and didn’t gulp it down. Taking the tendered spoon, he balanced the hot bowl between his hand and blew on it. I ladled soup into two more bowls and gave them to the standing women, then filled my bowl and squatted down on the wood box to eat.
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
I looked up. I know my face went through a lot of expressions because I couldn’t remember how to say things through it anymore. I blew on the soup and took another bite.
“I am your guest. Why are you just sitting there?” The woman huffed. “You should be making sure I eat.”
“Ma’am, per lighthouse hospitality, I must offer the food on my table, the shelter over my head, and the heat and light of my fires.” I took another bite. “I have done all that. Even if I had any animals I could kill or salted meat in the pantries, which I don’t, I am not required to impoverish myself while offering succor. If you can’t eat it, I am sorry. I got three jars of olives left from the last harvest, but fish soup is pretty much it for the two-week. As it is, I am hoping I get some storm gifts to refill the pot otherwise I will be very hungry until the carrots and onions are ready to be pulled up.”
“What?” The woman rose, tightening her belt. “Go. Get your husband and I will discuss your insolence with him.”
“I’m not married.” The soup had cooled enough to sip from the bowl. “There is no one here but me. And Ichthys.”
The men exchanged sharp-eyed glances and satisfied smiles at my words. “Who is Ichthys?” asked the older one.
“A fish. It comes and goes.”
Both of the men chuckled. The younger man, who had a wicked scar cutting from half an ear and skimming his jaw, recent considering how red it throbbed. “Yeah, I’ve talked to plenty of fish while on long watch.”
The woman shot him a look, and the big man beside him kicked his leg, “Shut up, Darus.”
Taking the bowl from her companion, the woman in the simplest outfit place both their bowls in the box where my other dirty dishes were waiting for me to take a walk down to the pier to do washing.
“If you want more, you are welcome.” I waved my hand toward the pot.
“Get me some, Page,” the man who had refused the soup earlier ordered the servant.
Darus spoke up. “And while you are at it, I need seconds.”
Page glanced back at her companion, who shook her head, then at me and I nodded my acceptance. Food would be tight, but so far the lighthouse hadn’t failed to keep me feed on the regular. I had missed a night or two, but never three in a row. The seaweed in bloom at the moment was my least favorite, but I could eat it.
“Fine.” The woman sat back down, loosened her belt, and then held out her hand, before saying, “Page.”
She moved to serve everyone in the room; placing the first bowl into the woman’s hand. Taking the second bowl, she gave it to the older man, then took the soup bowl Darus used and refilled it.
I got up. The pot was nearly empty. Placing two bowls on the floor, I tipped the pot until the last of the soup poured out into the first. I used the ladle to scrape out the bones which had settled and stuck to the bottom and chase out the last of the root vegetables. Crouching down, I picked out the bones from the bowl of soup dredges and transferred the roots into the bowl before taking the thick leftovers over to the men.
“So what’s for breakfast?” Darus joked quietly as I stooped down to place the bowl on the ground.
“Olives.” I stood and shrugged. “Whatever washes ashore in the storm.” I walked over to the dirty dishes area and transferred the bowls into the pot. “Excuse me, I am going to leave this outside to get rained on.” Lifting the pot, I made my way to the front door.
Words and whispers broke out behind me, the echoes finding their way to me as I walked.
“Where are those men?” the old man hissed.
“Don’t look at me,” Daus replied.
“Ari?”
“Give me a moment,” the older woman’s voice seemed to have only one volume, which is carry orders.
After the moment asked for, while I opened the front door to the blistering wind and rain, something seemed to hum within my belly. The threshold around me crackled in annoyance louder than the storm. The edges of the light house beam brightened my porch area and I could see no evidence of the second group of seven men. I put the pot under one of the drainage pipes, and it filled nearly instantly. I moved the pot beside one of the tables for tomorrow’s full cleanup.
Once back inside, I hear the whispers again, “I can see them right on the other side of this wall. There should be a door somewhere. Oceanus guide us.”
“You think the gods would move faster.”
I heard Daus get smacked hard for his comment.
“Don’t blaspheme around the priestesses, idiot.”
“This way.”
I arrive to find the lot of them moving toward the east entrance. Each of the lighthouses walls had an entrance set in the middle of its side. I had all of them barred and chocked, having just reset the front door when I came back in. And while I don’t remember the last time I used the eastern door, two grown men should make short work of it even if it had swollen shut with age. “Are you ready to sleep? I can get the guest rolls.” I stepped in the room, and the three instigators froze beside the construction area with the two others standing near the bench. “I do have another room set up for guests, but this is the only room with a fire other than the torch room and you won’t be able to sleep up there.”
The woman recovered first. “Yes, here is fine. Page, Cleo, help our hostess. Haemon and Darus can straighten up in here for your return.” She paused, perhaps for the first time remembering her manners. “If that is alright by you.”
“Of course.” I walked over to where they were and took the woman’s elbow in hand. Her arm jumped in my palm, but she suppressed her urge to jerk away. I transferred my hand to her back and pressed against her waist, guiding her back toward the center of the room. “Please be careful. I’m still repairing the lighthouse. I would recommend staying in this room for everything. I know it is only human to explore. I promise a full tour tomorrow once the sun is shining, but for your own safety as guests, please stay here. I’ll get your some nightwater containers after we get the bedrolls.” Per hospitality rules, I have stated my warning. Less politely, I palm the pouch holding her special box. The lighthouse didn’t like her using the box; the lighthouse got whatever it wanted from me. “Please, sit.” I gently tug her belt down until she sits back into my eating chair.
Walking quickly, I leave the room, the two other women hurrying to follow me. We curve around the entrance room until we reach the tile room. The two stopped, stunned. The light from the topmost room poured down the stairwell and lit up the pool room. Brilliant white and blue tile work shined with wetness. The water lapped the top step.
“You are going to need to stay here.” I stepped up to the top tier of the terraces and slipped my feet very carefully along the path. Midway through, I tossed the pouch into the pool. I figured a water god wouldn’t mind a dip, even if it was a fresh water instead of sea.
“Move quickly,” the woman ordered back in the kitchen. Shuffling feet followed.
Once safe on the other side, I looked back to see if the others could hear the echoes, but they were whispering among themselves. “Miss, we can’t let this happen, the gods—” “I can’t leave Aristrate, she owns my apprenticeship.” “But pirates Miss.”
I moved quickly to the guest area near the west door.
“They were the only ones she could hire.” “This is wrong, guest rights state—” “Shh. I promise we will get through this.”
“Why the FUCK won’t this door move?” “I saw a crowbar in the construction shit.” “Then why are you still here?” “Move it moron.”
Rats had gotten into the rolls. I picked up the two that looked the best and headed back, while listening to the men prying at the eastern door. I slung one over each arm to set on my back.
Something cracked loudly.
“Come one in. Move it your motherfuckers. Why the fuck are you just standing there? Come on!” “Wait, patience. Remember you couldn’t jump across the threshold before? The building might be more than it appears, let me have Oceanus remove the barrier.”
Was slipping across the tiled floor to where the women waited when Aristrate shirked. As with everything, the noise carried to where I was.
I guess she find that her pouch was missing.
Then…the poolroom danced with lightning centered on the underwater box, outlining a black silhouette in the pool. Webbed hands, ridged shoulders, long spikes like the poisonous fishes in the nearby reefs about obscuring the head’s outline.
Oh, my fishy roommate wasn’t going to be happy.
“Run.” I said to the women, and they followed me, ducking under the rug and into the seasoning room. We slammed the door behind us.
Screams followed. I heard them clearly. The other two only got the muffled version through the rug and door. Then Ichthys went outside into the storm. That part I didn’t hear.
I offered my surviving guests the bedrolls, which I curled in the corner with the olive branch deadfall waiting to be taken upstairs. Page helped get Cleometria ready for sleep, then unpinned her hair and laid down herself.
The morning was silent; the storm finding another shore to assault. Around me, the lighthouse creaked with its normal morning grumps. “Will it be okay for me to take our guests out to scavenge breakfast before checking the third floor?” In response, I felt the urge to check out the area need the ancient concrete pier. “Thank you.”
My two guests moved slowly, in clear pain. They had likely gotten used to sleeping in sailor hammocks, and the stone floor, even with a bedroll, had hurt. After assurance that whatever made the screams was long gone, (it wasn’t, but it would be sleeping off its feast for days) we made our way back to the pier. Tied with a ton of rope were remains of two rowboats and one intact one. Around us on the pier and along the shoreline was the remains of a sailing ship. Slipping into the ocean, I started tossing up barrels, boxes, and whatever still floated. I would dive later.
Breakfast came from a watertight box packed with apples in straw. Another box ended up being Airstrate money box, containing both the second half of the payment for the mercenary sailors and Cleometria’s apprentice contract. With the mistress dead, the spelled box responded to the apprentice. She cried when I showed her how the false bottom worked and it contained two sacred texts she needed to study to challenge the teachers to end her apprenticeship and be recognized as a journeyman.
During the next three days, they helped me clean up the kitchen and outside the eastern door. I retrieved the box from the pool while my roommate slept. The storm gifts were generous with a ship breaking apart so close to the island; we sorted through the largess, and I let the women keep whatever they wanted.
In return, when they left in the functional rowboat to head to the mainland visible from the lighthouse island, I ended up with Page’s hair pins and all the ship’s rope.
(words 4,256; first published 1/22/2026 )
