Vanda was out somewhere — probably working for the lighthouse keeper — and Wilom had no desire to see anyone. The Heads still hadn’t sent the date for their next meeting. He didn’t fancy spending another day wandering around coffee shops and trying not to listen in to people’s personal lives. And he definitely did not want to see Mr Treene. Continue reading
Vanda didn’t appear the next day, but the day after. She found Wilom in their usual tea shop. In a moment, they were above ground, then there was a brief impression of the city, and then the countryside. They weren’t walking for very long before they arrived at the lighthouse. Vanda pulled Wilom around the side of the tower, and suddenly they were standing in the lighthouse keeper’s living room, where he was just putting on the kettle. Continue reading
After several increasingly hazy walks home, Wilom had to concede that the unease in the back of his mind was probably, finally, worth the trip to the ferryman. Continue reading
A short story of the ferryman and the lighthouse keeper.
The ferryman pushed away from the bank and began to row. He was used by now to the lack of noise and the feel of the water against his oar, but he was still not used to having his own boat. No senior ferryman to speak to on the way back, nobody to ask if he had questions. Continue reading
Wilom started to grow tired of waiting for the ferryman to say something. Being in the boat was starting to chafe. Not the job – Duty – itself; there was never any difference in that. But he and the ferryman seemed to have hit a sort of rut. Their silences were nothing like the companionable silences they used to have, the silent understanding that there was nothing they really needed to say. Now, they seemed stale. The big unanswered question of whether Wilom would leave or stay hung between them and Wilom couldn’t talk without feeling like he was deliberately avoiding the topic. The ferryman’s manner didn’t change, but Wilom was sure he felt it too. Continue reading
It was now the third time that Wilom had caught the ferryman watching him. In all his memory, Wilom had never gotten the impression that the ferryman was examining him so closely, and especially not so pointedly. Continue reading
Of the couple, the man came first. He was sitting against the cliffs, back pressed into a corner. His knees were drawn up against him, his arms holding them securely in place. Continue reading
The lighthouse keeper met them at the bank.
“I have one for you,” he said, handing the soldier over to Wilom. Nearly literally; he was holding the soldier with one arm wrapped around his back and under his arm to support him. Continue reading
Wilom would have known the kid’s type anywhere. He sat on the beach, arms crossed and resting on his folded legs, leaning back against the cliff face. Continue reading
The young woman standing on the beach had a dark mark on her throat. A cut, not a hanging. Wilom might have guessed mugging, but her clothes were unusual — made for practicality and nothing else. She wore a thick jacket over a plain shirt, and similarly thick trousers. Her shape was nearly entirely disguised under them. The un-light washed out all the colours, but it didn’t look like there were many to begin with. Those weren’t civilian clothes. Continue reading