Gifts from the Sea Read online

  I couldn't give Celia back her parents, but I'd make sure she never wanted for anything, including schooling.

  “Just because there's no school on Devils Rock is no reason to grow up ignorant,” Mama'd said. She'd ordered books, and a blackboard, and we'd spent hours each day memorizing multiplication tables and world capitals and reading Shakespeare and Longfellow. Longfellow was a favorite of Papa's, especially his poem “The Lighthouse”:

  And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,

  Through the deep purple of the twilight air,

  Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light

  With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!

  And the great ships sail outward and return,

  Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,

  And ever joyful, as they see it burn,

  They wave their silent welcomes and farewells,

  and Mama would recite “Twilight,” one of her favorites. For the longest time I thought Mama had made that poem up about me for I often pressed my face against the window, peering out when storms lashed at our little light shining bravely into the night.

  I was determined to do as good a job with Celia as Mama had done with me. I taught her the colors, and how to count to ten on her fingers, and she was learning the alphabet. Soon I'd get out Papa's maps and show her not only where our island rested off of Maine, but Africa and South America and China and the North Pole, so she'd know there was a world beyond our small island, places with mountains and rivers and prairies and trees.

  The stories I'd loved most to hear were of Mama growing up on a farm. Mama told of milking cows, and making maple syrup, and picking apples in the fall. “Oh, Quila, you should have seen the trees,” Mama said. “The apple trees are covered with snowy blossoms in the spring, and in the fall, the maple trees are the most beautiful shades of red and orange and gold.” I tried to picture them in my mind, but I'd never seen a tree.

  “You will,” Mama said. “Someday I'll take you to meet your grandparents and uncles and aunts, and you'll get to climb trees.” I was more excited to see the trees than the relatives. Mama and I had never gotten to see trees together, but maybe Celia and I would. I imagined her and me gathering sap in the spring to make the maple syrup, picking apples in the fall to make cider, and hiking through snowy woods to cut a balsam fir for Christmas.

  I knew Celia wouldn't remember her first Christmas with us; she'd been too young, and with Papa and me still mourning Mama, we hadn't done much celebrating. But when our second Christmas with Celia rolled around, Papa and I were determined to make it something she'd never forget. Papa decorated the lighthouse with strings of dried apples and seashells, and carved Celia a seal from driftwood. I dug out Mama's recipes to fix the Scottish treats she'd always made for us: broonie, which was an oatmeal gingerbread, black bun fruitcake, and the pulled taffy that Mama called “Edinburgh rock.” It was a difficult recipe, and I had to throw out the first two batches, but the third held together enough to pull. Celia ended up with taffy in her hair and eyelashes and even in her ears, and it took me two days to scrape pieces of candy from the floor and walls, but her laughter made it all worthwhile.

  Spring came, with V's of geese winging north and clouds of seabirds coming back to Devils Rock. Celia and I spent hours watching the elegant gannets fold their wings and dive straight down into the sea for fish, and the comical little puffins bob like buoys on the water. Looking at their brightly colored beaks, I laughed when I thought how Mama would have called them reefart-nosed, too.

  We knew Celia had been born in the spring, but we didn't know the date, so Papa and I picked a day. I didn't want her to have to share a birthday with me, and we wanted to stay away from the date that Mama had died, so we chose May 15, for no particular reason other than that it seemed a good day for celebrating the end of winter.

  I decided the occasion called for a cake, but cakes require eggs. Spring was just beginning, but I thought a few seabirds might have begun to nest. I rigged Celia up with her harness and rope and off we went to hunt for eggs.

  I made her lie down beside me to peer over the cliff edge, and we did indeed spot a few eggs below us on the rock ledges. But how to get them? I couldn't take Celia with me when I climbed down for them, and I couldn't leave her at the top alone, because for certain she'd try and follow me; she'd already proven she was fearless. It was thinking about her adventuresome spirit that I hit upon a plan, one I was sure Papa would not approve of.

  I checked the knots in the rope and made sure there were no frays along its entire length. Then I lowered Celia over the cliff edge until she could reach the eggs. I tried not to think about what Papa would say if he saw what we were doing, but Celia thought it great fun to dangle along the cliff face, picking eggs off their ledges, and begged for more when I pulled her up.

  That summer, when Celia was two, we were house-bound for four days by a monstrous storm that moaned and shrieked and pounded our little island. Papa hardly slept that whole time and kept the lamps burning, a beacon for any ships caught in the storm. I carried food and strong coffee up to him in the lantern room. Each time a wave crashed over the top of the tower, I felt the lighthouse shudder, and I was sure we would be washed away, just like the Minot's Ledge keepers. I wanted to spell Papa so he could catch a short nap, but the violence of the storm frightened Celia and she began to cry. I read her two books and had just put her to bed when Papa appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in his oilskins.

  “A ship has run onto the shoals and is sinking,” he said, his voice low. “I'm going out to see if I can rescue any on board.”

  He grabbed up a lantern, and I followed him outside. The wind tore at me, trying to spin me off my feet. Lightning flashed and, for an instant, I saw ship masts outlined against the sky. Above the roar of the storm, we could hear ship timbers groaning and cracking like kindling. Worse than that were the screams of the people on board.

  I grabbed Papa's arm. “I'm going with you.” But Papa shook off my hand.

  “No, you have to stay here.”

  That made me angry. “I'm not a child anymore, Papa,” I said. “I'm strong. I can help.”

  “I know,” Papa said. “It's Celia.…” He didn't finish his sentence, but he didn't have to. I understood. If anything should happen to Papa, there had to be someone to take care of Celia.

  “Tend the light,” Papa said. “The steamer will be by in a few weeks with more coal and supplies. If need be, you can go with them.”

  His words chilled me, more than the lashing rain and wind. The only reason for me to leave with the steamer would be if Papa didn't return.

  Sick at heart, I watched Papa row away. His boat had never looked so tiny, the waves never so huge. They tossed his boat around as if it were a toy, and I knew I might never see Papa again.

  evils Rock had never seemed so aptly named, for I felt surrounded by shrieking demons intent on tearing the world apart. The rock itself trembled as the waves slammed against it.

  Staring out into the darkness, my mind racing, I thought the unthinkable.

  What if something did happen to Papa? What if he didn't come back? I'd be an orphan, too, just like Celia. I'd have to wait for the steamer or a passing fisherman stopping by to take us off the island. But then where would we go? Who would we live with? I didn't know any of Papa's or Mama's family or how to find them. Could I raise Celia by myself?

  Please let Papa be all right, I prayed.

  With each flash of lightning, I could see the masts tilt more, until the flash when they were gone. There were no more screams, either.

  I waited for what seemed like an hour, but Papa didn't return.

  Soaked and shivering, I stumbled back into the lighthouse, crept into Celia's bed, and wrapped myself around her. I must have frightened her, for she woke, crying. So I rocked her in my lap, crooning, “It's all right. Everything will be all right,” even after she'd fallen asleep again. I must have dozed myself, for the next thing I
remember was hearing Papa shout, “Quila! Quick! Open the door!” and I leaped to do as he said, almost upsetting Celia onto the floor.

  Papa came in like a gust of the storm, half carrying, half dragging a woman, her soaked skirts making a river on the floor.

  “Help me, Quila,” Papa gasped.

  I grabbed her feet and helped lift her onto the bed.

  “Strip off her wet things,” Papa said. “I'm going to heat some rocks in the fire. We'll pack them around her to try to warm her.”

  The woman's skin was blue, and she was ice-cold to the touch. Once I'd wrapped her in blankets, I rubbed her limbs to get her blood flowing. I talked to her the whole time, telling her she was safe now and begging her to wake up.

  Papa lined the hot rocks alongside her body and poured little sips of hot tea between her lips, but most of it dribbled out the side. Both of us rubbed her legs and arms until I thought my arms would fall off.

  She opened her eyes only once. They were green eyes, the color of the sea, but they were looking beyond me, to something I couldn't see. Her lips parted and I leaned forward to hear what she was trying to say.

  “Mary?” she whispered. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed. A shudder ran through her body and she was gone.

  ebris from that shipwreck washed up against our island for days: broken beams, rope and sailcloth, lanterns, tin cups and a spoon, a family Bible with the name Barclay written inside, a doll that I washed and mended for Celia. Papa also found the bodies of two of the sailors, caught amongst the rocks.

  There wasn't enough soil in the place where Papa had buried Mama and the woman to bury two more bodies, so Papa took them out in the boat, weighted the bodies down with rocks, and gave them back to the sea.

  Papa hadn't talked much since Mama's death, and he grew even more silent after the wreck. He did his work without speaking, eating little and sleeping even less. I didn't sleep well, either. Each night I bolted awake from nightmares that had me tangled in ship's rigging, getting pulled into the darkness, icy water filling my lungs. I dreaded going to sleep, was afraid of the dreams that haunted me, but I tried to keep all that from Celia, and sang and played with her as if nothing had happened.

  I led her carefully down the steep steps to where we could look for seashells and urchins in the tidal pools and where she could watch for seals. Celia refused to go to bed until she'd said good night to them.

  “Boat toming,” Celia sang.

  Startled, I lifted my head. I hadn't seen anything when we'd first come outside. It was unlike me to miss anything on the horizon, but a few moments later I saw she was right, there was a boat approaching. It was a rowboat, like Papa's, and I watched the rhythm of the oars dipping into the water.

  “It's Mr. Richardson,” I said. “But there's someone with him.”

  We watched as Mr. Richardson drew closer, until we could see his passenger was a woman.

  The boat scraped against the rocks. Mr. Richardson jumped into the shallow water and steadied the boat while the woman stepped out. She held her skirts up and waded to shore.

  “Hello,” she said.

  I was tongue-tied, not used to strangers. But Celia piped right up.

  “See my dolly?” she said, holding up the doll from the shipwreck.

  The woman smiled.

  “What a precious child,” she said. She talked with such a thick accent I could scarcely understand her. She looked at me, and I saw blue eyes, so blue they could have been snipped from the sky. Mama's eyes had been more like the blue of the sea.

  “Are you the keeper here?” she asked.

  She knew how to win my heart, pretending to mistake me for the keeper. I smiled back.

  “No, my papa is,” I said. “He's up in the lantern room right now.”

  “Well, I guess it's him I should be talking to, then, to see if I could have lodging here for a day or two, until my business is done.”

  What possible business could she have here? I wondered, but I knew it wasn't polite to ask.

  Papa came down the stairs from the tower just then, wiping soot from his hands. He'd been polishing the reflectors. He was startled to see an unfamiliar face.

  “May I help you?”

  “Mr. MacKinnon, my name is Margaret Malone. I'm here to say goodbye to my sister.”

  I could see by the look on Papa's face he was as puzzled as I was.

  There were tears in Margaret Malone's eyes as she spoke.

  “My sister went down in a shipwreck somewhere off this island and I've come to say my goodbyes.”

  t took a few moments for Papa to find his voice.

  “It's poor hosts we are, keeping you standing out here. You must be hungry. As for staying here, you can take Aquila's room. She'll sleep with Celia.”

  When Miss Malone tried to protest, Papa waved his hand.

  “You'll be doing us a favor, Miss Malone, bringing us news from the outside. We get so few visitors here. I only worry my girls may tire you out with all their questions.”

  Miss Malone smiled at me.

  “I shall enjoy their company,” she said.

  “Quila, show Miss Malone where she can put her bag, and you might as well give her a tour of the place,” Papa said.

  I was near to bursting with wanting to ask Miss Malone about her sister, but I did as Papa said.

  There wasn't much to give a tour of, the kitchen, three bedrooms above that, and the lantern room at the top, but I did my best. Miss Malone had all sorts of questions about how we lived, and what we did, and how we cared for the light, and she marveled at the way the cupboards and sink and beds were built into the circular walls, saying she'd never thought of lighthouse rooms being round. I'd never thought of rooms as being anything but round, and Miss Malone laughed when I told her this.

  We'd lost track of time, and Papa had to remind me about supper. I hustled about fixing cornbread with codfish gravy.

  “This gravy is as fine as my mum used to make, the few times we had cod to eat,” Miss Malone said. “You're a fine cook, Aquila.”

  “Thank you, Miss Malone.”

  “Oh, please call me Margaret.”

  Papa was always hungry for news.

  “Which candidate do you favor in the coming election?” he asked. “I like what I hear about that young lawyer from Illinois, Abe Lincoln, but I fear the country will go to war if he's elected.”

  Margaret looked surprised.

  “There's not many men who'll ask a woman's opinion on politics,” she said. “Are you for women having the vote?”

  Papa looked thoughtful.

  “Why, yes, I am,” he said, and I felt proud. Mama said Papa was a “forward thinker.”

  With Margaret there, dinner seemed like a party. Celia clapped her hands and sang a song about seals that I'd taught her. Margaret stared at her in astonishment.

  “My mother taught me that song when I was a girl,” she said.

  “Celia loves seals,” I said. “She talks to them. There's usually one waiting for her every morning down off the point.” I didn't mention the day she'd almost fallen from the cliffs, for that is something I had not told Papa, either.

  “My sister loved seals, too,” Margaret said softly. “We lived two days' walk from the sea, so we didn't get there often, but when we did, my sister would sing that song for the seals and they'd gather round her. I think she would have gone with them, if she could. My da said it was because she was black Irish.”

  “What's black Irish?” I asked.

  “My mother, father, and me had blue eyes and fair skin that burns easily in the sun, but my sister had black hair and green eyes. The old folk say that once upon a time, fishermen married seals, and children with that blood in them are dark-haired, and wild, and drawn to the sea.” Margaret giggled. “Whenever Da told that story, Mum would slap him and say, ‘I'm not a seal! It must be from your side of the family!'”

  “So, you're from Ireland?” I asked.

  “Quila,” Papa scolded. “Let the wom
an eat.” But Margaret just smiled.

  “She's just curious is all, as I'm sure all of you are, about my sister and what brought me here,” Margaret said. “You've been so kind. 'Tis only fair that I tell you my story.”

  I hadn't had someone tell me stories since Mama died, and it brought tears to my eyes remembering all the evenings she sat on my bed, spinning tales of Knights of the Round Table and Arabian Nights, of snow-covered mountains and steamy jungles and oceans of grass. Mama's stories were so vivid, I could see it all in my mind: tigers and monkeys and green parrots in the jungle, wild horses racing over prairies.

  “Yes, I'm from Ireland,” Margaret said. “County Galway. Times were hard enough, but it's all we'd ever known, hard times, and we got by until the Great Hunger, the potato blight. The potatoes turned black in the fields. There was no food, no money to pay rents, and the English turned us out of our homes. My parents didn't have much but they sold everything they had. It would have fed us all, for a little while. But when that food was gone, there would have been no hope for any of us, so my parents saw it as a chance to save one of us. There was enough money to buy a ticket, enough to send one of us to America. My mother said I should go, as my sister was too young, so I sailed away from the only home I'd ever known, away from my family, knowing I might never see them again.

  “I found work in the woolen mills in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Word came a few months later that my parents had died of the hunger and my sister was living with an aunt who didn't want another mouth to feed. I worked in the mills, on the looms, for ten years, saving every cent so that I could send for my sister. When I sent her the money, she wrote to me telling me she had married, so I borrowed money and sent it so both of them could come. She put off the trip again, as she was expecting, but after the baby was born, the three of them set sail for New York. They never arrived. They were caught in a terrible storm and lost at sea somewhere off the coast of Maine.”