Neptune's Fingers Read online

Bob was more verbose than Henry Lambeth when Jack raced up the lighthouse steps, dry and warmer.

  “Where the hell have you been? Thought you’d feed a few Noah’s Arks did you?” he said using rhyming slang. He meant sharks as Jack well knew.

  “Forgot the time. Bill has a new billy cart.”

  “Yeah, well it’s Bill’s cart not yours. Should be home on time. Storm brewing.” Jack looked out to sea with one eyebrow raised. There were a few wisps of cloud floating innocently in the fading blue sky and that was all.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Yeah. Really. Look at the barometer. The sky tells you nothing. O’ cause, you wouldn’t know that. You have to be here to read the blamed thing.”

  That was the truth. Storms materialized out of nowhere in summer. Trawlers from Guthrie’s Bay were out fishing. They went by the tides, not the clock. A good day was when you left in the morning and came home late in the afternoon. Some days, though, the tides meant they left at midday or later and came back to harbor after dark. There were deep channels through the heads. But there were sandbanks in the middle of the harbor, covered in deeper water at high tide and the channels around them flowed swiftly with the surge of the incoming tide.

  It was a grand sight to watch the laden vessels plowing the waves, headed for home. The lighthouse needed to be sending its signal, warning of the rocks and reefs buried beneath the waves. Most of the time those experienced sailors arrived home safely. Bad weather prevented boats going out at all. Sometimes, though, a storm would arrive unannounced, catching the fishermen off guard. There were enough rotting boats under the water from storms like that.

  ‘Well. I’m here now. Wouldn’t it be better if I got on with it instead of standing here being yelled at?” Jack was getting testy. He’d got the message. How many more words did they think he needed to believe them?

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head, young ’arry. There’s no call for cheek.” There was no malice to Bob but he did like to sound superior.

  Jack chose to hold his tongue. Instead, he set to his tasks. Dark came at about eight o’clock in summer. In the short time of light left he was kept busy, free of Bob, who left him to go have his dinner. No matter what he could think of to say about Bob, he had to admit he was good at his job. The glass of the windows shone letting the flashing signal out across the sea. Try as Jack could, he made a mess of cleaning glass. It smeared in spite of his efforts and he had to rub like mad to make them gleam. Bob made it look effortless. They were lucky to have him. There weren’t many takers for the job in most lighthouses. The hours were demanding and it was a lonely, desolate existence, especially in winter. They needed someone who knew what he was doing. Lighthouse keeping was serious business. The loneliness and isolation involved did not appeal to many, even though there were few jobs offering. It took a special sort of chap.

  Clouds gathered, hugging the horizon like clusters of cotton wool. Lots of rain fell over the ocean. Most of it missed the coast, thank heaven. Clouds in the distance over the water was a frequent sight. At first, Jack hardly noticed. Light faded as the day ended and steely gray replaced the translucent dusk. It would soon be time for his father to start his shift for the night. Jack suddenly realized it was going to be a dark night. The puffs of cloud took on color and clumped in leaden masses, driven towards the island by strengthening winds.

  “The wind’s picking up. Looks a bit dirty,” said Jack, to himself. “I hope all the boats are in soon.”

  Fishermen knew better than to stay out in rough weather. Their trawlers were strong workhorses, but they were a bit up against it in heavy seas. They wallowed like ducks as they had broad beams. “They’re really tubs with a deck and a derrick,” he mused. As he looked, he could see The Aurora – Harry Landy’s boat – cutting a course through the waves. It rode up a wave and down the other side, partly disappearing.

  “Got twice as far to go, that way,” thought Jack. You could always pick out Harry’s boat. It was prow-shaped fore and aft. There was an aesthetic air to it. It was beautifully balanced.

  He held no fears for Harry. He was a wiry, handsome man, strong as an ox in spite of his lack of height. In any case, this was not really rough weather. It was, in Harry’s terms, ‘just a bit choppy. She’ll be right mate.’ And it generally was. Jack loved going out with Harry. He took him out sometimes on weekends when his father let him off. Jack wondered what Harry had caught today. He could see the nets and the boxes on the deck. The tall derrick, used to haul in laden nets, poked up towards the clouds as though fending them off.

  The Aurora was a dark gray patch in a gray ocean; a matchbox, toyed with by the sea. Jack felt great pride watching it. The whole area near Neptune’s Fingers was filled with incredible, hard-working people. Harry had a crew of two, both nimble-footed sailors.

  Bill’s father fished in his dinghy each day to feed his family. Wal Waters’ oyster lease was up the Tea-tree Creek. He went there in his dinghy and stayed a few days at a time, living in a shack he nailed together, then came home with bags of oysters to trade. These were the big ones the markets refused to buy. He sold them by the bagful to the locals. They were unsalable as the city buyers wanted more oysters, not fewer large ones. The ragtag folk of Sandy Bay got to eat the big ones.

  It’s a queer old world, thought Jack, and he was right. The place was full of busy, dependable people. They worked all the hours that God gave and none of them had a penny to bless themselves with.

  Jack shook his head. It wasn’t fair. Harry hardly had a day off. His father had none. Most of them were the same, even those on the dole, folk who could find no work. They worked to feed themselves instead. Except for a few lazy ones, he remembered. Eddie Kennedy drank most of his dole money. There was always one, wasn’t there? He gave a mental shrug.

  The Aurora was past Narrowgut now. It had a fair tail wind as the nor’easter had capitulated to the change coming up the coast, so it made good time. Soon it would pass through the heads, riding the waves like a bucking bronco, and steer its way round the sandbars spread-eagling the harbor. Harry knew his way. It was like following a road map for him. Jack bet he could do it with his eyes closed. As he watched, Jack knew he would not like to live anywhere else in the whole world. What people these were!

  He kept watching until The Aurora disappeared around Beacon Head, into the harbor. It would be passing Bill’s place now. Jack wondered if Bill was watching it too. It was like a bond, knowing he was doing the same thing as his friend on the mainland. Bill came out with him on his fishing trips with Harry. They both came home reeking of fish with a sugar bag laden with some of the catch. Harry would get home in the dark tonight. There was still work to be done when he reached the wharf.

  The last glimmer of twilight gave up and vanished. There were no stars. Gray clouds hastened to Neptune’s Fingers like a crowd to a football match. The beautiful day felt like a distant memory. The ever-present roar of waves crashing onto the jagged rocks below the lighthouse grew louder. The weather had turned, as Bob predicted. Jack was glad he was not crossing the spit now. It had been bad enough.

  His father should be here soon. Jack sat down in front of the expansive glass windows and peered out to sea. The beacon flashed its coded light across the night. This was his place, he realized with pride. He looked right and left, scanning the dark. No tell-tale twinkle gave away the location of a vessel. All was quiet, except for the constant breaking of the waves.

  Jack wondered what could be keeping his father. He was getting hungry. He sat idly, pondering. Suddenly a glow appeared beyond the rocks. What the devil was that? If there was a boat there, he would have seen it. He snatched up the binoculars and searched for the source of the mysterious light. He scanned where he thought he saw it. There was nothing there. He lowered the glasses and used his naked eyes to locate it but still could see nothing.

  “Must be going mad,” he thought. “Touch of the sun.” Midway to putting down the binoculars, the light appeared again. It wa
s like a mass of glowworms. The light had a blurred outline, as though a painter had used too much water with the color and it had run. Jack frowned. Squinting, he endeavored to focus on the light while it wavered, spectrally. The uncanny moaning of the wind suddenly became more intense and gave him the shivers. As the wind eased, the light dimmed.

  “I think I need something to eat. I’m hallucinating.” He was a practical boy. Ghosts were for little kids and daft old ladies.

  As if to aid his failing faculties, the wind picked up in a sudden high pitched howl. The light increased and flared . This time it did not go out but held its intensity. He stared at it until his eyes stung. It was a small patch but it held his gaze like a magnet.

  “Funny,” he thought. “I’m not imagining it, am I?”

  He blinked a few times and opened his eyes wide again. The light was still there. He could see patches of dark within it. He stared until his eyes watered and he was forced to blink again. It was like looking into a light bulb. He could still see it with his eyes closed. It was imprinted on his retinas. It bothered him and he opened them again. Now the light was moving.

  Perhaps it was only a torch. Yes, that was it. Some goose was out there on the rocks. There would be an accident for sure. Hurry up, Dad, I’ve got to do something about it. Surely it’s not Jim Madigan. He’d have to have more sense. Besides, he doesn’t work after dark.

  Jim was an enterprising man, down on his luck, like most people these days. He turned his luck around by coming to Narrowgut and mining shellgrit from the tiny sandy beaches. He sold it to just about everybody. Every family, it seemed, had their own poultry and shellgrit was needed for them to peck at. It added calcium to their diet and made the eggshells stronger. No one minded him helping himself. If he was prepared to put in the work, good on him. He sold most of the grit to city folk who thought the stuff grew on trees. He had a lean-to, a small hut and a launch on the protected side of the island, close to the spit. Surely he was indoors now it was dark and the weather turned windy.

  Jack got up and headed for the winding stairs that spiraled down the belly of the lighthouse. He was halfway down when he heard the door open and his father came in, blown like a leaf in a gale.

  “Getting wilder out there, my word,” he said. “What’s your hurry? Think I wasn’t coming?”

  Jack ignored the question.

  “There’s something out there on the rocks. Is Jim about, do you know?”

  “Wouldn’t think so. He’s got more brains than that. What did you see?” His father understood the boredom of waiting and watching. It was interesting when something happened to liven things up a bit.

  “A light. Fuzzy light, you know? It was moving as if someone was walking on the rocks,” said Jack.

  “I’d be surprised. They’re underwater by a few feet by now. If someone’s swimming, they’re even thicker than you,” he added. The mass of rock exposed at low tide was reduced to a few tiny islands, poking above the water, white foam from the waves encircling them as though they were fermenting.

  “I’m going to look,” said Jack.

  “You’d better take a light. I’m not going to get my feet wet rescuing you if you fall in.” It was an idle threat. His father would be there in a flash if he was in difficulties, he had no doubt.

  “Everything’s done up there,” Jack said, pointing up the stairs. The kerosene was refilled and the light lit. He grabbed the kerosene lantern from its hook near the door. He lit it, protecting the bare flame until the glass shield was back in place. His jacket hung on another hook near the door. It was cooler outside now and it was very possible he was going to get wet. He flung the jacket on and was gone.

  His father, taking his spyglass with him, went out onto the iron balcony surrounding the head of the lighthouse. It was there so he could clean the windows. He peered out across the rocks but no light flashed back at him. He saw nothing, either with his naked eye or with the spyglass.

  “Believes in pixies,” he muttered under his breath before retreating into the lighthouse and shutting the door.

  CHAPTER 4

  The expanse of rocky island stretching into the sea was well lit, as the beams from the great light above him flooded the ground. It flashed in its own peculiar signal so there were moments of dark as well. It did not worry Jack. He knew the terrain well. He hurried to the edge of the platform and peered out into the night. All was dark and quiet, except for the increasing wind. He frowned. Did he dream it? He was sure he had not.

  Carefully he picked his way down the rocks until he reached the water’s edge. The water foamed, agitated in the wind. A few spots of rain began to fall. Jack cast his eyes about. Where had he seen the light? Over near the old wreck? Could be. He moved to his right. The wreck was well and truly submerged.

  The old sailing ship came to grief about eighty years ago. It was carrying supplies from England to outlying places like Neptune’s Fingers after calling into Sydney. It was quicker than by dirt track and bullock dray. The dirt roads from the closest city made carrying large loads difficult and unpleasant.

  The Kestrel, she was called. She flew like a bird too, it was said. Rumors about sunken treasure flared up every now and then and some adventurer would believe them. They came and dived down to the wreck, sure they would strike it rich. None ever did.

  Marvelous how many pipedreams you hear about in the Depression, thought Jack. No one ever found anything. It was probably carrying flour or material or something. Crazy!

  Believing he may have seen one such diver, stranded in the dark and the wind with the tide covering the rocks, Jack continued his search. He wondered if this was the same fellow he saw on the spit. If it was, he was an accident waiting to happen. It was still possible he had dreamt it. He was beginning to think this was the case, when he saw the light again. The same eerie moaning accompanied it. Even though Jack knew it was the wind, every hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  “Gawd!” he shivered. “Imagination’s got the better of me.” The light remained stationary. It was like a mini lighthouse perched above the rocks. As he stared, a figure materialized in the middle of it, light radiating from it like one of the Saints in his prayer book. Jack froze to the spot. Now he was certain he was not imagining it. Riveted to the ground, a part of which he had become, as he could not move, Jack made out the figure of a boy about his own age or a little older. He wore strange clothes, the poorly fitting pants he’d seen in pictures in his history book at school. Where on earth did he find those? Jack wondered. The boy still wore no shirt, if indeed this was the same chap.

  Surely his father could see this. He swiveled to face the massive eye of the lighthouse, winking out at him. His father was not to be seen. The glare of the lamp was too strong and everything else faded before its majesty. Well, there’s no help for it. He, Jack, would help this marooned person and take him to the warm and dry of the lighthouse.

  How on earth did he get here from the spit? He was on the False Bay side when I last saw him. Surely he didn’t cross over. Yet, here he is, standing on a tiny rocky platform, cheeky as you please.

  He held his lantern up high and waved it from side to side.

  “I’m coming,” he called, to hear it repeated as his words were flung back over his head by the boisterous wind. Rain, heavier now, fell from the black sky, drenching him for the second time that day. “Oh, well. I was going to get wet anyway,” he said and climbed down on to the rocks.

  There was a sandy area here, an oasis amongst the rocks. It was what was left of the small beach, swallowed by the tide. Jack hardly credited it with being a beach at all. The word was too grand for a patch of shell-encrusted sand. The pool, now filled by the tide, stretched out briefly before its way was barred by the tumble of rocks. If he could convince the boy to come that way, he could swim without the teeth of the rocks biting into him. Everything about the boy looked foreign from his clothes to the length of his hair. Yet Jack felt a strange familiarity that puzzled him a grea
t deal.

  Does he speak English, I wonder? thought Jack. He’s searching for something. He’s as thin as a waif. His reedy body, pale in the ghostly light, bent over and reached down till he found what he was looking for.

  “You can swim from there,” yelled Jack, competing with the wind. “Get in the water and swim. I’ll help you.”

  There was no answer. The boy held one arm over his head and waved it at Jack. He was holding something but Jack could not see what it was. The silly fool was grinning and mighty pleased with himself, but he made no attempt to come towards Jack. What now? The lamp was in Jack’s way. He waved it about as though that would help him think better. Eventually, he got rid of it. It would shine if he held it or not. He reached up to the bank and stood it on the rocky ground, its glow pathetic in the black night. With each flash of the lighthouse lamps, its feeble rays were obliterated, absorbed by a larger one.

  “Waste of time, that,” he said. Then he turned back to the job in hand. To his dismay, the figure had vanished. Jack stood up to his waist in swirling water, searching for the mysterious boy. That was the second time he disappeared in front of him. He was not there.

  Jack began to doubt himself. Perhaps he had taken leave of his senses. Here he was, wet, his only other clothes still sodden from his ill-advised swim across the spit. His father would lose patience with him. What was he going to wear tomorrow?

  He felt very foolish. He had a tendency to rush in before assessing a situation. ‘Tear-away Jack’ his father called him. He was like an untamed colt. The night played tricks. The lighthouse beacon played tricks. He knew this. He had seen a figment of his imagination for he wished to see someone there. Instead of night in, night out, waiting for nothing to happen, he wanted action. So his fertile mind conjured it up. Bob would laugh himself sick when he heard.

  He clambered out of the water, dripping and cold. The lamp flickered as gusts of wind wound their way into the glass shield, setting the flame dancing a tango. He picked it up by its metal handle and trudged back to the lighthouse. He needed to return the lantern and the drenched coat. It would have to be put out in the wind to dry; tomorrow, if the rain stopped. It was quite heavy now. The door was shut. It squeaked as he opened it. He hung the lamp on its hook and the coat on the peg, then closed the door