Page 43 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
To shut her up in a sepulcher in this kingdom by the sea...
Annabel Lee
ANNABEL’S LIGHTHOUSE
SPRING, 1874
“COME.” EDGAR’S RASPYVOICEstartled Rebecca, and she looked up from the book she was trying to read. It was dusk, with night settling in quickly. The wind had become stronger and more insistent, and she could hear the waves crashing against the shore from inside the house. Abel and his mother were in the kitchen, their voices a low murmur. “Come,” Edgar repeated, motioning with his gnarled hand.
Rebecca laid the book of poetry aside and stood from the sofa to follow Edgar. The lightkeeper led her upstairs and through his room to the door that opened to the spiral staircase. Sheexpected him to halt at the door to the attic rooms, but instead he continued the climb upward.
She had not been to the lighthouse—not to the lantern or the gallery outside of it. Now, as night descended, the wind grew in intensity and whistled through the tower, causing the metal steps to clang beneath their feet.
“This lantern wasn’t here when Annabel was alive. Neither was this house.” Edgar’s words floated back toward Rebecca. His large feet lumbered up the steps, and when they reached the top, she was surprised at how narrow the circular walk around the lantern was.
Edgar busied himself with some maintenance to the lantern while he filled the air with his words. “Back in the day, this area was mostly Indians and trappers. I was friends with a man named John Bell at the time. He had a house he’d hewn from logs himself, along with a shop and a storehouse. Married a Chippewa woman and they had a little boy. John treated his wife well, and she kept a good home. But the Chippewa wanted the White man to pay his dues. They threatened to burn down John’s buildings, but he convinced them to leave his place be, giving them pork, flour, and corn as a kind of payment. We went on to trap and live in relative peace, but now and again a group of White men would try to canoe up the Iron River just over yonder in Silvertown. But you can’t get a canoe upriver more’n fifty rods because of the rocks and the falls. And it was visitors like them that made us aware this area wouldn’t stay wild much longer. The Chippewa knew it too.”
Rebecca listened as Edgar droned on. She’d never heard the old man speak so much, and she wasn’t certain why he was telling her this now.
Edgar pushed back the canvas that hung over a portion of the glass, which was there to protect the lens from the sun’s rays. “Only ten years later, the White settlers moved in and began mining for copper—that was when I first saw Annabel.”
Rebecca looked at him in surprise. Edgar had not admitted to knowing Annabel personally. She waited. He rounded the lamp and opened the door to the gallery. Motioning for her to follow, Edgar stepped out into the night air. The wind was cool and brisk, nipping through Rebecca’s cotton dress. The waves below rolled onto the shore with whitecaps forming. She saw a flicker of lightning off toward the horizon. The Porcupines to the east were dark blue mounds of wilderness.
Edgar gripped the rail and stared at the lake. Rebecca shirked the cold, unsure why Edgar had brought her here, and why was he speaking of Annabel? The expression on Edgar’s face had changed, going from a sharp-eyed, grouchy lightkeeper into a softer, more sentimental version of himself.
“Annabel was the daughter of one of the miners. She was young, motherless, and she cooked for the men.”
“Were you ever a miner?” Rebecca raised her voice to be heard over the growing insistence of the incoming storm.
Edgar shook his head, his white hair ruffling in the wind. “No. Never a miner. I trapped and fished. I knew these waters. I knew the woods.”
“And you knew Annabel,” Rebecca added.
Edgar gave a nod. “I did.” He moved to go back to the lantern, and Rebecca followed once more, glad to come in from the cold wind. Edgar closed the door of glass and latched it tight. “Annabel was a beautiful soul, Rebecca. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
She waited, still confused as to what had brought this on, why Edgar was telling her the story.
He stopped his busyness and met her gaze. “There comes a time here at the lighthouse when Annabel pays each soul a visit. Some see her as a beautiful phantom, while others see her dark side. The vengeful side. The side of Annabel who never wanted to die.”
A chill made Rebecca shiver.
Edgar didn’t seem to notice, yet his wrinkled face softened as he looked at Rebecca. She was surprised when she noticed tears glistening in his eyes.
“I loved Annabel.”
His vulnerable admission ripped through Rebecca.
Edgar reached out as if he were going to touch her cheek with a callused, fatherly hand. Instead, he pulled it away, a lone tear trailing down his weathered cheek. “Now you know my secret.”
Rebecca allowed a silent moment to pass. The water below them rolled ashore, crashed against rocks, and lulled them into a peace that was mysterious and foreboding all at the same time.
“Why are you telling me this?” she finally asked.
Edgar leaned forward, his elbows finding a familiar position on the rail that encircled the gallery. “Because we all have memories, Rebecca. Yours will come back to you, and when they do—” he hefted a deep breath, letting it out slowly as if weighing his words—“don’t forget how you loved.”
Concern edged its way into Rebecca’s spirit, unsettling her more than she already was. “I don’t understand.”
Edgar nodded, staring out over the lake again. “Horror can erase love. It can make love drown beneath its weight.” He was quiet for a moment, then added, “Sometimes love has to be rescued, and sometimes it’s simply too late.”
