Page 11 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
She ran through the woods, tree branches scraping wildly at her face. Rain pelted her with the stinging prickles of cold drops forming into miniature frozen spears. The men had come at her from both the east and west. They had encircled her like a pack of wolves.
They shoved Rebecca to the ground. The leering smile of the otherwise faceless assailant loomed over her, fading in and out of her memory. She felt his hands on her torso. Felt them in places no man had touched her before, and he was unkind in his force. Another man’s growling voice was no omen of rescue, and though he had shoved her assailant from his straddled position atop her, he had only taken his place. But it was his hands that had lifted her head and then brought it to the earth. She had choked on the rain. She had suffocated on the air stolen from her with the action and the subsequent pain.
A moment of scuffle between her attackers. Rebecca had broken free. She had run through woods at a breakneck pace and—
“Rebecca?”
She screamed, flailing her arms and legs.
The lightkeeper’s assistant—Abel, was it?—knelt beside her. She could hear him trying to calm her. His hand was on her arm. She screamed again, slapping at him. She couldn’t allow him to hurt her. She needed to get away. But the lighthouse was safe. It was a haven in the thunderstorm. It was—
“Rebecca!”
The sharp tone of Abel’s command snapped something aware inside of her. Rebecca froze, her chest heaving in terrified breaths, her eyes wide as she stared at Abel with fear.
His frigid look seemed to match the growing storm outside the lighthouse.
“You’re safe, Rebecca.” Abel reached for her, but she shrank back from his hand.
A shadow flickered across his face. Irritation? Anger? She couldn’t tell, but it wasn’t sadness—it wasn’t pity either.
She wanted to reach out to him, but his dark silence intimidated her. She wanted to flee from him, but the gentleness of his touch confused her.
“A storm is coming,” he informed her. “Please stay in the oil room. You’ll be safe here.”
Rebecca pulled herself into a sitting position, scooting away from him on her bottom until her back hit the wall.
Abel’s expression was troubled. “Rebecca...” he began.
He knew her. He at least knew something of her. Rebecca could see it in his eyes. But he withheld it from her. He let her believe they had only just met.
“Will you stay here?” he asked for reassurance.
She nodded. Lying. The moment he left her alone would be the moment she would run from the lighthouse. Back into the storm. Back into the proximity of her attackers from last night. Back into the unknown... Rebecca sucked in an unwelcome sob.
Where did she run when she didn’t know from whom she ran or why?
Abel eyed her, then strode to the corner of the room where he gripped a large metal, boxlike contraption. It had what appeared to be a trumpet configured to one side, like the earpiece of an elderly soul hard of hearing. He appeared to sense her curiosity, so Abel provided a brief explanation.
“The fog is getting dense, and the lake is turning wild. I need to sound the warning horn.”
Rebecca frowned, unsure of what he meant.
Abel tipped his head with instruction. “Stay here.”
Rebecca nodded, but while she answered him, a strange, overwhelming desire took over her, as though the lake were calling to her despite its anger. Perhaps its spirit was furious at the wrongs committed against her, and now it rose in her defense. Perhaps the lake was not a violent murderer, but a vigilante exactor of justice, devouring ships and sailors who dared to brutalize the innocent.
It made sense in Rebecca’s mind, yet it wouldn’t if she were to voice it. So she remained mum as Abel departed the oil room and headed toward the gale.
Fierce winds plastered Rebecca’s dress against her legs, whipping her hair and slapping it across her face. She had reacted to her strongest instinct. Flee. She saw Abel forging ahead, his rain slicker shedding water, unaware that Rebecca was mere paces behind him. The rain was cold, the wind blowing off the lake akin to a monster’s icy breath. She could hear nothing but the roaring and crashing of the waves, which had been unleashed from their morning calm into white-crested walls, rising to heights that would swallow men standing on one another’s shoulders.
The storm stunned Rebecca as she pled with her senses toalign with reason. Run—to the woods. Run—to the lighthouse. Run. Her need swirled inside her with a similar violence to the storm building off the lake.
She stood, the rain pelting her, as Abel pushed into the storm. He neared the edge of the embankment. Perched above the rocky shoreline, he began to pump a small handle up and down on the metal box until, through the volume of the waves, Rebecca could hear the warning wail of the foghorn.
The lighthouse behind them cast its beam onto the lake, attempting to bust through the thick fog and the curtain of rain.
Rebecca regretted the lack of clarity in her thoughts. She regretted that nothing triggered recollections but only reinforced the utter fear that rose from her gut into her throat. Nausea claiming her, strangling her, and the already dark of night devouring her whole.
