Claire was awoken by a blast of thunder. Her mind, still half-asleep, whirled about. What just woke her up? Why is her bed so weird? Oh, she’s not at home, she’s at grandma’s. Why are my feet hot? I think that was lightning? What time is it? She blinked and drilled her knuckles into her eyes until she could see the clock on the nightstand next to the fold-out bed in Gran-gran’s living room. It was 7AM, but the cluttered, cozy room was still pitch black, the only visible details the windows, floating panes of flickering grey like damaged television screens. She’d regained her senses enough now to detect the tiny ball cowering under the sheets, at her feet. She reached under, fished out Shawshanks, and carried the cat with her to the window.
The world outside the window was an insane swirl of cold grays. A snatch of the lawn was the only recognizable thing out there – everything else was a confusing mix of rain and swirling cloud. Lightning arced from thunderhead to thunderhead, sometimes distant, sometimes terrifyingly close, and with more frequency than Claire could ever remember seeing. The constant, rumbling crackle of thunder formed an insane melody supported by the howling of the wind and the rattling of window panes – of the whole house, really. The ripples of water running down the panes distorted her view even further, but as she stood there, trying to keep the terrified cat from clawing his way from her arms, Claire noticed another light, a steady pulse almost invisible against the wild, random thunder. She leaned against the window and tried to see up higher.
“The signal light?”
She turned, dropping Shawshanks back on the bed and grabbing her black oilskin coat from the back of Gran-gran’s old smoking chair. The cat thudded off the bed and scrambled beneath it with a bit more celerity than she’d credit him. She pushed her way through the door, navigating the house by memory, the flickering blue light from the windows, and only a few banged shins. She wound her way up the iron steps, clutching the rail (Jesus, the whole island feels like it is shaking) as the small windows that spiraled up the tower passed by, points of thunderous light illuminating the white plaster for a few feet before fading back into blackness. A flash, bright enough to illuminate every corner of the building, served as a split-second harbinger to a blast of thunder so loud she could taste it. It threw her from her senses, her knees banging cruelly against the steps. It felt like every molecule of the lighthouse was still shaking when she pulled herself back to her feet and let out a nervous laugh.
“Well…thank God for lightning rods, then. Granny! Are you up there!”
She continued climbing. The hatch at the head of the stairs was open. As she approached it, she saw her grandmother, her wild white hair glowing in the signal light. Claire staggered over, the turning light blanking out her vision for a moment.
“Granny!” she shouted over the storm, “What are you doing up here?” The door to the catwalk surrounding the top of the lighthouse was open, and the wind whipped so hard Claire was having trouble keeping her coat closed, but the old woman stood impassive, wrapped in a blanket, looking out the open door though a pair of old birdwatching binoculars.
“Y’see that, girl?” she asked, her voice soft, but somehow defying the wind. Claire squinted in to the direction her grandmother was watching. There was nothing out there but wild storm. Yet…Claire thought she might just see a darker shape looming ahead, huge, but invisible save for the fact that its outline was far steadier than anything else around them.
“Is that…Gran-gran, is that an island?”
“Yes. Roanapur, if I’m not mistaken.” Gran-gran lowered her binoculars and glared into the howling heavens for a moment. “Get your things.”
“Things?” Claire followed her grandmother back down into the lighthouse, stumbling to keep up.
“I bought this property twenty-three years ago. The man who sold me it said he calculated it’d be a century before the island was in danger of drifting into another landmass. But we ain’t supposed to be anywhere near Roanapur right now. And I’m sure we’re getting closer.” Gran-gran stopped at the foot of the stairs just long enough to give it a quick scan. “So, get your things.”
“My things? Granny, we’re not going to go flying out there?” Claire didn’t receive an answer, as her grandmother was already rooms away. She looked around her, at the dark, loud, quivering house, the windows blazing with lightning, holes in a decaying birdhouse. She took a deep breath, wet electric air steeling her, and marched off to the living room.
Minutes later, at the short wooden scaffold behind the lighthouse, the two women tied down their bags and bundles into tiny, a free-floating dinghy. Grandmother had a suitcase full of money and bank papers, followed by clothes, food, and the few sentimental things Claire could convince her to pack. Lastly was Shawshanks, wrapped in a wool blanket with only his terrified face peeking out. Gran-gran pulled one of the knots, leaving the boat floating in the wind like a great, slow windsock. Claire held it steady and helped her grandmother in, putting one foot in herself before she found herself paralyzed, the barely visible red stripes of the lighthouse taking hold of something deep inside her. Her grandmother shouted at her, voice mixing with the deafening roar of the storm. Gran-gran heard something that sounded like “Wait! We forgot…” and suddenly she was gone, run back off into the darkened doorway. Her grandmother’s gnarled hands squeezed the boat’s sides, her dress and cloak billowing around her with a ferocity that rivaled that of the storm. A torrent of rain washed over her face, but she didn’t look away. The signal whirled and pulsed, she could almost see the bright greens of earlier that morning with each sweep, but just as soon the nightmarish darkness returned. A bolt of lightning arched miles away, the light suddenly silhouetting the enormous chunk of rock looming up behind her home. Finally, her granddaughter appeared in the doorway. She ran across the lawn, one hand holding up her billowing skirt, the other an old brass birdcage. Claire dropped it on a seat and swung herself up.
“God damn it, girl!” her grandmother shouted into the wind, “God damn it you stupid girl!”
“I love you too, Gran-gran” Claire replied, a flash of lightning glinting off her teeth. She pulled the last knot, and the boat flew off and up, tumbling about in the storm. Gran-gran yanked the cord of the outboard until the old, rusty jet turbine roared to life, steadying the boat and guiding it up to the edge of the storm. Far below, the whirling signal light cast out twin beams of illuminated storm. The two women watched as the lighthouse, just for a second, lit up Roanapur’s craggy edge. Then, a thousand tons of stone collided with several million tons, the blast scattering clouds and rain and sending a cloud of debris in all directions. The tiny dinghy jerked under the sudden shockwave, knocking Claire from her seat. She hit the boat’s bottom, her elbow hitting the birdcage, rolling it against the boat’s wall. The door sprung open, the goldfinch inside flying clear and disappearing in the time it took her to realize it. Claire pulled herself back into a sitting position, staring forlornly after the bird as far below her, the storm shrunk against the nation of Roanapur like a fading bruise.
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