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  northeast wind was blowing the day we buried Mama on a hill overlooking the sea. I remember that particularly because I knew a storm was coming, had known it for days. Mama always said the sea was in my blood. Once, when I'd cut my finger, I'd tasted the blood and it was salty, so I guess she was right.

  With Mama gone, that just left Papa and me, Aquila Jane MacKinnon, here at Devils Rock Lighthouse. I'd been born here twelve years before, April 18, 1846, and had never been anywhere else. If Mama hadn't taught me differently, I might have thought Devils Rock was the sum total of the world.

  Devils Rock isn't an easy place to live. There's nothing here but birds and seals and the never-ending wind. Even though it's only five miles off the coast of Maine, fierce storms can cut us off from the mainland for weeks at a time. Sometimes we don't see another living soul for months on end, but at least when Mama was alive, she was always smiling and singing and it seemed we didn't need anyone else, we had each other.

  We share the island with ghosts, too. Mr. Sinclair, the last lighthouse keeper, drowned rowing between here and the mainland, and Mr. Blair's wife went mad from the loneliness and flung herself off the cliffs. I've seen her shadowy figure moving over the rocks and heard her voice wailing above the wind. Before, I didn't understand how loneliness could drive someone crazy, but I was beginning to. Mama had only been gone a few hours and already I could feel the loneliness settling in for a long stay.

  “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Papa whispered after Mama drew her last breath, but I was so mad at God I could spit. Seems he'd done a lot more taking away than he'd given. I was angry at Papa, too, though I couldn't tell him because he was already broken. I blamed him for Mama's death.

  When Mama took sick, I'd begged him to take her to a doctor.

  “Quila, you know I cannot leave the light unattended. Besides, your mother's strong. She'll be all right.” When it became clear she wasn't going to get better, he would have rowed to the moon to get help, but it was too late.

  The storm hit by evening and battered us for three days, howling and shrieking like a thousand banshees. I think Papa was glad for the storm, for he was so busy keeping the light burning that he had less time to think about Mama, but for me the storm was pure torment. I was trapped inside with all the memories of Mama pressing in so close I thought I'd suffocate: memories of Mama knitting by the fire, Mama coming in from a winter walk all rosy-cheeked and her blue eyes laughing, Mama singing me to sleep. Whenever I opened a book, the words came to me with Mama's voice attached, her stories of mermaids and pirates and kingdoms under the sea, and so reading brought no comfort. Neither did food. I baked bread, but when I pulled it from the oven, the warm, yeasty smell that had always been one of my favorites so reminded me of Mama that I threw it outside. At least the gulls would enjoy it.

  Except for the wind, it was the quiet that near drove me mad. Always before, Mama had told stories, and if she wasn't telling stories, she was singing, and if she wasn't singing, Papa got out his fiddle and played “Blackbird,” “Devil in the Kitchen,” and “The Wind That Shakes the Barley” while Mama and I danced till we were breathless. Papa could make his fiddle moan like the wind as it snarled and prowled round the lighthouse tower, and I could never tell if he was answering the wind or if it was answering him. Even the seals came up on the rocks to listen, their dark bodies silvery in the moonlight.

  Papa had never been one to say much—Mama said he let his fiddle speak for him—but when she died, Papa put his fiddle away and it was as if he'd lost his voice. Throughout the days of that storm, I never heard him utter a word. Me, I wanted to howl along with the storm.

  When the storm finally blew itself out, I fled the silence of the lighthouse and ran to the cliffs.

  Seabirds screamed and circled below me, thousands of them, jostling for nesting sites on the ledges. Soon there'd be thousands of eggs, and Papa and I would have eggs for breakfast, dinner, and supper. Mama and I'd always loved spring, when the sun was bright again, the birds came back to nest, and the wild geese flew north. Their haunting cries tugged at me and made me want to fly with them.

  If Mama were here, she and I would have been combing the beach area for shells or brightly colored sea glass (“gifts from the sea,” Mama called them) or searching along the cliff edges for all the tiny wild-flowers, but I didn't have the heart to hunt for them myself. It just seemed another reminder that she was gone forever.

  Out of habit, I scanned the horizon. I was good at spotting things, had “eagle eyes,” Mama had said. That's what my name means, eagle. Papa had taught me how to read the water, how to tell where there were rocks just under the surface, for there were many such rocks surrounding Devils Rock, all of them dangerous, all of them waiting to bring ships to their doom. Papa had also taught me how to look for whale spouts, far out to sea, or rafts of seabirds, which indicated a school of fish. By the time I was two, I was announcing ships before Papa and Mama could see them. But on this day, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It was as if the storm had scrubbed the sea clean.

  It wasn't until I dropped my eyes that I saw something, something dark in the white froth of the waves. At first, I thought it was a seal, but when I saw a door float by, I knew a ship must have gone down in the storm.

  Items were forever washing up against our island, items Papa managed to fish from the sea: chairs, coils of rope, barrels of salt cod and oil, shoes, and once a woman's parasol. I'd twirled that parasol on my shoulder, imagining myself strolling down a street in New York, or London, or Paris, until I'd felt an icy hand touch my shoulder and knew another ghost had come to live with us on Devils Rock. Mama may have wondered why I never asked to play with the parasol again. But we used the chairs, and cod, and coal that Papa pulled from the sea. It would have been wasteful not to.

  I knew there were places, coastal communities, where people made their living from shipwrecks. They were called “wreckers” and used lanterns at night to lure ships onto dangerous rocks so the ships would sink and scatter their cargoes where the wreckers could “harvest” them. But I couldn't imagine such a life, luring people to their deaths just for their belongings. Finding items from shipwrecks only made me sad, and I always thought of those poor people and what their last moments were like. What did it feel like to drown, to scream and know no one could save you, to disappear beneath the waves, unable to breathe? … I shuddered and hoped I'd never find out.

  I picked my way down the steep stone steps that some lighthouse keeper had chipped out of the cliff face. The object was a few feet offshore. I picked up a piece of driftwood and t
ried to fish it out, but it bobbed just out of reach. From what I could tell, it looked like some bedding with rope wrapped around it.

  I lifted my skirts and waded into the water. I knew I was taking a chance; currents swirled around Devils Rock, that's one of the reasons it was such a dangerous place for ships, and it was certainly no place to swim. Papa would have my head if he knew I had as much as one toe in that water, but my curiosity was stronger than the swirling tide.

  The current pushed hard against my legs. It was stronger than I'd expected; if I went down, I probably wouldn't be able to get to my feet again. I'd be swept under and Papa wouldn't know what had happened to me. I knew I should go back, but now I was close enough to see that the object was two tiny mattresses lashed together with rope. Why would someone tie two mattresses together? I took two more steps and was able to hook one end of my driftwood under the rope.

  Once I was back on solid footing, my knees shook so, I almost fell. I stared at the odd bundle. I tugged at the rope, but I couldn't loosen it, so I picked up a sharp-edged rock and sawed away at the rope until it let go. My heart thudded fast as I pulled away the top mattress … and then I was pounding up the steps, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Papa! Papa! Papa!”

  Papa met me at the cliff top, wild-eyed and shaken by my screaming. He grabbed my shoulders.

  “Quila, what is it? What's wrong?” And before I could answer, a high, thin wail rose from below.

  “A baby, Papa!” I whispered. “I found a baby.”

  e named her Cecelia, which means a gift from the sea, but we called her Celia, and before long, we couldn't remember what life had been like without her.

  Papa rowed to the mainland and brought back a goat so we'd have milk for her. I cut up an old sheet to use for diapers and had to keep water hot on the stove for washing them out. How I wished Mama were here to show me what to do and how to take care of her, but I did the best I could. I fed her, bathed her, rocked and sang her through bouts of colic, and told her stories of mermaids and selkies, those seal-like creatures that spirit children off to the sea, though it seemed this time that the selkies must have brought Celia to us.

  For months after Mama's death, it was Celia alone who could bring a smile to Papa's face. He carved her a cradle from one of the ship timbers that washed ashore, but I'd often find him cradling her in his arms instead, crooning lullabies to her, and she'd gurgle something back at him that only he seemed to understand.

  On nights when Celia refused to sleep, I carried her outside to show her the stars.

  “There's Cygnus, the swan, and Pegasus, the flying horse, and that one over there, that's Aquila, the eagle.” I remembered Papa holding me up to the stars, pointing out the one that had the same name as I did. I'd thought he'd put it up there just for me.

  Papa appeared in the doorway.

  “You should be asleep,” he said. I wasn't sure whether he meant Celia or me.

  “I was showing Celia the stars. Remember how you used to bring me out here?”

  Papa acted as if he hadn't heard me. He lifted Celia from my arms.

  “It's late,” he said. “You go on to bed.”

  “She needs changing.”

  “I'll do it,” he said. When I didn't move, he added, “I know how to change a diaper, Quila.” Papa had never been snappish before Mama died.

  “I know,” I said. “It's just that …” I didn't continue. How could I make him understand that the Papa I'd known all my life had disappeared and I missed him, almost as much as I missed Mama? I'd always loved being his helper—“Papa's shadow,” Mama had called me—and he'd seemed to love my company as much as I loved his, but all that was in the past now.

  Papa slept so little that he often fed Celia at night so I could sleep, but mostly I took care of her so Papa could take care of the light.

  There is a lot of work to “keeping a light.” The lens has to be cleaned and polished, the brass casing of the lens and all the brass fittings polished, too, the reflectors cleaned of soot, the oil lamps cleaned and filled, the wicks trimmed, the floor and the stairs dusted with a hand brush, the windows of the lantern room washed, and all of that done every day. Papa climbed the stairs to the tower at least three times a day: at sundown to light the lamps, at midnight to check the oil supply and trim the wicks, and again at sunrise to blow the lamps out. In bad weather, he might go days without sleep. Every evening, the log had to be written up, recording weather conditions and any equipment problems or repairs, and every year, Mama and I helped Papa paint the lighthouse, a clean, shining white that took my breath away. Papa always said you had to tend the light like a baby because people's lives depended on it, and now I found out how much work tending a baby could be. Whereas Papa's life revolved around the lighthouse, mine revolved around Celia.

  The days blurred together as if they were one, and I couldn't remember what it was like not to be tired. There was no rest even when Celia was sleeping, for then I had to be milking the goat or washing out her dirty diapers to hang by the stove so they'd be dry for when I needed them again. No sooner had I washed the dishes, swept the floors, and fallen into bed than Celia would cry and it would all begin again, heating the milk, feeding her, changing diapers, and rocking her back to sleep. And I could never go to bed without making sure that the lens cover was clean and ironed for the next day.

  Because linen does not scratch the lens the way wool might, all lightkeepers were resquired to wear linen smocks, and every morning (unless there had been a storm and the light was still needed) the lens was protected with a linen cover. Both the smock and the lens cover had to be washed and ironed without a wrinkle. Mama had never let me iron the linen, for fear I might scorch it. There was no choice but for me to do it now, but my mouth went dry and my hands shook every time I held the iron over the cloth.

  Gone was my life of hiking along the cliffs, looking for ships and watching sunsets. I wondered if I'd ever have time for them again.

  Mama had made keeping house look so easy. Caring for Celia was a full-time job, and there was the laundry, and sweeping, and mopping, and mending, and cooking on top of that. I ended up fixing meals that were easy and quick. If Papa grew tired of eggs, oatmeal, and fried fish, he never complained, but I was sick of them. Every bite was a reminder of how much I missed Mama's cooking: the fish soup called “cullen skink,” crisp oatcakes baked on top of the stove, mealie pudding, and melt-in-your-mouth shortbread. My oat-cakes looked and tasted more like shingles, and you could have cut glass with my shortbread.

  We'd had Celia only a few months when Papa poked his head in the door to tell me to set an extra place at the table. Mr. Callahan's boat was in view.

  Mr. Callahan was the lighthouse inspector. I'd always looked forward to the stories he brought us, like that of Abby Burgess, the daughter of the lighthouse keeper on Matinicus Island. With her father on the mainland getting supplies and medicine for his sick wife, a storm had washed away the keeper's house on the island. Abby had moved her mother and sisters into the light tower and kept the light burning for four weeks until the storm had passed and her father could return. Mr. Callahan had also told us of Mary Patten, who'd sailed her ill husband's ship around Cape Horn, and of the storm that destroyed the Minot's Ledge Light. The two keepers had been killed when the tower toppled into the sea, but they'd kept the light burning to the last.

  We'd get so caught up in his stories that when the clock chimed midnight, we'd stare at it in astonishment, certain that Mr. Callahan had only been talking a few minutes.

  “Gracious, look at the time!” Mama would exclaim, and march me off to bed, where I'd lie awake thinking my heart's desire would be to travel from lighthouse to lighthouse, gathering stories at every stop.

  Most lightkeepers were nervous about having the inspector visit, but we were always glad to see him. Mr. Callahan said Papa kept the best light along the whole coast of Maine and that he only stopped by Devils Rock to taste some of Mama's cooking. He especially loved her dried-
apple pies.

  I looked around the kitchen and felt ashamed. Diapers, washed but not yet dry, hung from door-knobs and over the backs of chairs. The floor was unswept, the breakfast dishes still dirty in the sink. Mama had always kept such a clean and tidy home and now Mr. Callahan would see what a poor housekeeper I was.

  I only had time to set a bowl of dried apples to soak before I heard Papa and Mr. Callahan at the door. Mr. Callahan shook the sea spray off his oilskins and stepped inside, his face lighting up when he saw me. He handed me a package.

  “This was at the post office, and I knew your mama would be eager to get it. I'm guessing it's more books.”

  Each year, Mama had ordered two or three new books that the lighthouse tender delivered when it brought our yearly supplies of coal and lamp oil, and those books were more precious to us than silver. We savored them, to make them last, but they never lasted long enough. But Mama's most treasured book was one Papa had ordered to surprise her, a copy of Mr. John James Audubon's Birds of America, all the way from London, England! It had been dreadfully expensive, a whole month's salary, but Papa said it was worth every penny to see the look on Mama's face. She and I'd spent hours poring over its pages, looking at the beautiful paintings.

  I clutched the package to my chest. Mama and I wouldn't get to share these books.

  “Mama died,” I said. The words grated like gravel in my mouth. It was the first I'd said it out loud to anyone.

  Mr. Callahan looked stricken. Celia began to cry, and her howls startled him.

  “I didn't know you had a little one,” he said. “I can see you've got your hands full. Looks like I ought to head down the coast today and stop at the Matinicus Light for supper.”

  I could picture Abby Burgess serving Mr. Callahan a delicious meal and telling him about her latest heroic deed. She'd probably saved a whole shipload of people by now, or rebuilt the living quarters at her lighthouse, all by herself. Besides, Mama would have been mortified at turning a guest away.