Chapter II
It was the Lighthouse, standing undamaged, all in one piece. The beacon was not the electric one used to light the lens, rather it was like the old ones used in the 18th Century; the basket of wood that sat atop the beam that lit the sailor’s path to safety was now lighting theirs.
Beneath their feet was what appeared to be a country lane, but instead of gravel or road, there was a mixture of green grass and wildflowers such as cornflower and chicory, blue-violet that invited them to take each step with confidence which lit the path underfoot as they walked in awe toward the tower.
The oak trees were fully grown, brimming in full leaf on either side of the passageway. And yet, there was a noticeable darkness that encased the light, like a container as if it were intentionally placed there as a shield to protect what appeared clearly enchanted.
What was this beauty and grace that enveloped them? It had its own intelligence, but how was one to communicate such phenomena as this?
Sam Barnes gripped tighter to the hand of his wife, as neither could speak from the shock of seeing such wonder but to touch, to reassure they were alive brought comfort to the senses.
The clouds were blocking the sun. This was quite evident, so where did the light that surround them originate if not from the sky?
As they approached the Lighthouse, they heard the birds singing. They also heard what sounded like the voices of a thousand women, singing in a language they knew not.
The young girl woke with her mouth opened wide, but the scream that lay embedded in her small body lodged in her throat restricting her voice. The only emotion, the only feeling was terror. No thought of any worth could take shape under such bondage. All she could manage was to emit tears without sound and hug her doll with all her might. Where was she? She wondered. Where is Mama? The pain of not knowing the whereabouts of her mother held her in a brutal paralysis. Would her faith be able to carry the weight of her broken heart? Certainly, her body could not.
Mrs. Barnes was drawn to the music which seemed to be coming from inside The Lighthouse. She half expected to see a choir of women as she passed through the door and into the old sitting room, to her surprise, much transformed. But there were no visible signs of anyone standing, singing. And there was nothing particularly different about the furnishings or the arrangement of such before the Storm, but what was unmistakable was the vibrancy there. It stretched from corner to corner. It was wonderous. The music penetrated her, all at once. It was as if the music and the voices of the women was a beloved. All at once.
The voices of the women. A sublime dream come true to be in the presence of the dead women of the wars. Was it they who sang so sweetly? Were they guiding her back to the Lighthouse? Was she acceptable in their sight? She had so wanted the carnage to end, so distraught before she and Sam went to the oil house seeking refuge, prepared as anyone is to die. Who is killing all the women and why, she begged an answer long before the Storm. At first, there was a systematic preparation, establishing a foundation, organizing the groundwork for instability.
Sowing seeds of chaos and fear. A bullet fired with precision and intention into the brains of one baby after another; a mother grieves with the mother sitting next to her - no other mothers - the mothers who belong to the bed of the exterminators, the ones who breed their children, they did not cry. A policy of austerity was imposed, but only for certain women, the poor, and those of color, a division created by those who wanted the women dead. The barbarians wanted the erasure of these women and their culture, their songs, their language, and food.
The massacre of mother and child.
The Calamity.
They destroyed everything that was simple and beautiful in our lives.
They preyed on us until we were without heat or proper food, living in scarcity, and often unwell without the medicine needed, which was only reserved for the exterminators and their families.
And then came The Bombardment.
They had never seen such loveliness before. The air sparkled with pockets of light, like stars that hung close but did not disturb their movement. Even the fireplace was lit and the room warm. Where did the wood come from? They had not been able to afford the luxury of heat for such a long time, they had forgotten not only its beauty but the well-being it provided the soul. Looking out from the sitting room into the kitchen there was a feast that had been laid upon the table; bowls of berries and pitchers of cream, loaves of bread, butter, jams, and tea, an abundance Mr. and Mrs. Barnes had not seen since their younger days before The Great Storm.
The Lighthouse was a magical place, generous in every way, but the power of this love, this charity left them both speechless.
Mrs. Barnes opened the door softly to the room where the little girl might still be sleeping. To her great joy, the child was awake but huddled against the wall still wrapped in the blanket holding her doll with the tenacity of a lioness.