Darkness fell over the city. A few lanterns bobbed up and down the city streets—policemen on patrol. Nedak sat, dangling his feet off the edge of the cliff. Waves crashed and roared against the jagged rocks. A chilling breeze played with his grey beard. Many ships had met their doom here before the lighthouse was built. Behind him the tower stood solemnly, fulfilling its single purpose: warning ships of the danger below. From where he sat he could see the entire bay—a few ships lay moored in the docks, some anchored just outside. These were all merchant ships, save for one, a colonial frigate. It was the one with three masts and a single row of cannons, fitted to either side of the ship. It lay anchored to the east. It occasionally sailed out to hunt pirate ships and secure trade routes, but seldom found prey. The other ships were big fat hulks, maybe two or four cannons each. They came here to carry off furniture, tobacco products, and spices to the rest of the world. Long, elegant passenger ships were moored in the harbour, bringing tourists to the beautiful city and exotic island.

Nedak threw a pebble out to the ocean and bit into a loaf of bread. He got up and started towards the lighthouse. It felt like some fortress, a bastion. The mountains spanning from the west came to an abrupt halt a few hundred metres from the tower. Even the landscape seemed to respect and revere the imposing structure.

Inside was a simple room. It had a kitchen counter, a bed, a writing desk, and two sets of stairs. One set led up to the light source and mirror, the other led down to a room that was used mainly for storage of supplies. Every month the half-Asian, half-African man would deliver supplies from the city to keep the lightkeeper and the beacon sustained. Nedak had trimmed the wicks, filled the oil and wound the clockwork mechanisms on a routine basis. It was an almost religious affair for him. He took another mouthful from the loaf, rubbed the back of his neck, then stepped down into the basement room. There were some crates filled with food, others with oil, others with wicks. Some crates contained extra clockwork mechanisms and spares. The crate he was looking for contained a certain dark red liquid. He held the rest of the loaf in his mouth, took a bottle, held it between his knees and pulled out its cork.

Pop.

The sweet aroma of spice and wine-filled the basement room. He placed the cork into his pocket, removed the bread from his mouth and took a swig from the bottle. A journey of tastes entered his mouth.

“Ah!” he said clicking his tongue. “This is good.”

He climbed up the stairs again, drinking and eating as he went. He took the logbook from the writing desk, stuffed it under his arm and continued up the stairs to the gallery. The seventy-five steps spiralled upward into the towering hulk.

The night passed fairly uneventfully. A ship slowly crawled from the west, around the cliffside, and entered the bay just after midnight. He put out the flame, released the tension on the clockwork spring, filled the oil, trimmed the wick, and walked back down to the lightkeeper’s room.

He placed the logbook on the writing desk, set the empty bottle on the counter, and dived onto his bed. He shifted until he found comfort and started drifting into a dream when he heard a scuffle from the basement. 

“Probably a rat or something, I’m not going to go down now,” he thought. He settled back into his cosy blankets.

Voices.

“Definitely not rats then.” He sat up. Who could it possibly be? Sure, Hozjunuh would make himself at home, carrying in the supplies. But he wasn’t due for another few days and with whom was he speaking?

He got up and stumbled down the stairs. When he saw them he abruptly stopped. There they were, pirates. With them was a girl, bound and gagged.

“You think they’ll pay up for this one?” said a broad man with dark curly hair.

“Well, if they don’t we just toss her off the cliff,” replied the scrawny one in a shrill voice. The girl seemed frightened, she was in her early twenties.

“Doesn’t look like she has a rich family,” said the big one.

“Captain says she’s one of the Lords’ daughters,” replied the scrawny one. “Anyway, didn’t you see the carriage? And that was their personal cabby as well, stuck him good I did.” The girl sobbed.

“Had a massive hard hook too,” the big man said, rubbing his cheek. They inspected the crates, boasted about their loot, then started up the stairs. Nedak retreated.

“Come on, let’s go get the keeper,” said the shrill voice.

Nedak ran out of the lighthouse and to the cliff face as fast as his old Vorgen legs allowed him. He swung around the rockface and perched on a ledge. He sat there for what felt like hours. He rubbed the back of his neck, then paused. He immediately undid his upright hair, the spikelike ends falling over his shoulders. He had to warn Hozjunuh and he needed to get help as soon as possible. He edged around to look at what was happening at the lighthouse. The big man and scrawny man stood by the door, a few others had arrived as well and were playing cards just a few metres from him. He couldn’t move from his perch, they would see him instantly. 

He sat there, the cold western winds beating against him, the spray from the waves crashing below, wetting his clothes. The clouds formed over the mountains and dissipated over the city. He couldn’t stay here, he wouldn’t survive for more than a day or two. Autumn had arrived and with it, the cold. He peeked around the edge again. The pirates had formed patrols. Two by two they went on their routes. It took them a few minutes to get around the grounds but their line of sight was only blocked by the tower for a few seconds. The rest of them were either playing cards, drinking, or sitting by the roadside, ready to ambush anyone who passed.

When night began to fall Nedak had another problem—the beacon had to be lit. If it wasn’t, a ship could smash into the cliffside. Dusk settled and the cold blew in, even chillier. He waited until the pirates fell asleep around their fire, then darted for the tower when the lantern carried by the patrol disappeared from behind the tower. He felt like a ship—a ship in the eye of the lighthouse—only, he was guided by its shadow. He kept in the shadow and ran through the door, glancing back over his shoulder. No one had seen him.

“First things first, the girl needs help,” he thought. Then he needed to get the beacon going.

He ran down the steps, startling the girl. He shushed her muffled yells by gesturing with his hands, then ungagged her. He started undoing her bounds when she said, ”No, no, don’t.”

“I’m here to help you, miss,” he said reassuringly. “I’m the lightkeeper.”

“Still, don’t,” she said impatiently. “There are twelve of them out there, we won’t get far. There is barely any cover for at least a hundred metres in any direction, I won’t get far. How did you manage to pass them?”

He struggled with the bonds for a while but the knots were too tight. He looked at the wine bottles, then back at the bonds.

“If I break a bottle we can use the shar—”

“That would also alert them all, no, if you would like to help me, sir, just some food and drink if you could manage it. I thank you for your courage and help, but unfortunately, the safest place for me is here, bound like some helpless girl in a dungeon.”

He looked at her, confused. Her spirit reminded him of that of a Vorgen woman. He left the bonds, popped a cork and fed her some salted pork. 

Noise came from above. 

“The gag!” she whispered. He replaced her gag and then jumped under the staircase. The big curly-haired man stumbled down the stairs, spoke some incomprehensible words, looked at the girl, then took a bottle of wine, looked at her again, and stumbled up the stairs. The shrill voice man laughed and spoke to him when he came to the top of the stairs. Nedak hid beneath the stairs, he was now trapped in here. The beacon needed to be lit. He moved to look up the stairs but the girl slowly shook her head. No, he couldn’t chance it now. He sat back, back against the wall.

***

The night passed slowly. The two pirates had a long hearty conversation in the room upstairs. The girl fell asleep and Nedak sat, thinking of a way out. Absent-mindedly, he fingered at the steps to his side. Surely someone had seen that the beacon hadn’t been lit, surely they would come to investigate. Hozjunuh would arrive in a few days, maybe he would sense that something was amiss. Smooth bronze. How was he going to hide if they came down here again? What would they do to a Vorgen? Vorgens weren’t treated the same way as other people. Some people thought they were equivalent to the slaves over the seas. Little did they know their heritage. Click! 

He fell into a hole. Some sort of trapdoor had opened. As soon as it had opened, it closed, and he was in total darkness. Dazed from the fall, he passed out and drifted into a dream.

***

Nedak was a child and sat by a great white horse. An old man walked up to him and held out his hand. Inside his palm were six beans, the beans grew into great trees. A snowstorm came, the old man disappeared and the trees stood, protecting him and the horse from the blizzard.

***

He woke up. It was pitch black inside wherever he was. He started feeling around. The wall enclosed a circle, and at the centre there lay a figure about two meters long. There were smooth plates across it and a protrusion at the centre that felt like a fork. He clawed about for a few minutes, then hit the wall in frustration. Stones and dust fell from the roof—some clinking off the smooth plates, and then there was a ringing sound: a single note. It rang out for a minute or two, then he clawed at the source. He felt here, brushed there, and then he touched the fork. 

He saw things that he had only heard of as a child. Creatures. A throbbing landscape. No sky, no earth, no water. He knelt down and realised he still had the fork in his hands—now he could see that it resembled a tuning fork. He enclosed it in his hands.

NEDAK, a voice boomed and tremored through his body. He didn’t hear it, he felt it. RELEASE ME NEDAK. He trembled in fear. BRING ME THE STAFF OF NOCK, RELEASE ME.

The stories were true, the tribes of the east were right. How wrong his people had been. He thought back to the staff of Nock. It was a staff that could somehow bring people back from death. It was far up in the north. Nowhere any colonist had ever ventured on the island. The Vorgen there are even more savage than the tribes of the east.

“How?” he asked. “How am I supposed to bring you the staff? Where are you?”

I AM IN DEATH, AND DEATH IS WHERE YOU NEED TO GO TO BRING ME THE STAFF, BRING IT TO ME, OBEY AND RELEASE ME, NOW GO!

Nedak tapped the fork and was back in the dark room. He heard a commotion from above—gunfire and ruckus. He had new worries now, no longer the lighthouse or the girl. He had just been in contact with the Maw. He was overtaken with devotion, engulfed by it. Such an experience was confirmation of all the things he had thought were lies. The trapdoor opened and there stood three men. He flinched at the bright light, blocked and swatted at it, throwing away the fork in the process.

***

Later, trekking northwards, he remembered that last night in the lighthouse. At first, he had thought that it was pirates that had found him but when his eyes had adjusted, he saw they were men of Adelwreth. He partially recalled their names. One was Gilli, one was Bleuamar, another was a doctor. The girl was the Thule’s daughter. It was a shame that such people were on the island, a shame of what was to happen, a shame that that lighthouse had brought all these people here safely, only for them to meet the Maw. He gazed over the basin, stretching out as far as the eye could see. A city made of marvellous stone jutted out in front of him. The staff of Nock lay somewhere within. That voice… he was happy he had been wrong. Now, at least, he had learnt the truth. The first snowflake fell onto his clean-shaven head. Nedak smiled.