Chapter 336
The lighthouse black against a red sky, the Beam starting its night's sweep. On the jetty below, the crews hauling the two ships together side by side, lashing hull to hull with every hawser they own, Jeppson directing with stiff hands.
leaning on the Upp Igen's rail, watching the lashings go on, his face grey under his slick hair, the tin in his hand, not opening it.
Hallbard at the lens, Vigolas and Krydog with him, the Beam swinging past the window. The plan laid out on the Keeper's Log with a stub of chalk: a drawing of the Mouth, two ships, a crescent of lanterns, and a lighthouse with a cross through its lamp.
staring at the cross through the lamp on the drawing.
turning the great crank, the Beam swinging over the Deep: islands drifting in it, a fishing boat, a raft. Every one of them lit, held, unable to get lost while the Beam's on them.
the Beam swinging past the Mouth to the crescent of lanterns beyond: the Order's fleet, the black-and-silver ships with their still grey figures.
letting go of the crank. Turning to them. A giant who has stood for four hundred years, looking tired enough to fall.
unfolding his arms.
turning to Krydog, sharp.
a long look at his rival. Then a hand on his shoulder. Hard.
Kompis and Mingus at Vaka's bedside. The dream above the sleeping girl whitening at its edges, slowly, frost on glass. And in the doorway, where nobody came in: a thin grey woman, black hair floating round her as if underwater, wide red-rimmed eyes, bare feet hovering a hair above the floorboards, frost forming under them.
turning, going pale, a hand going to his chest. The woman who sat on it once and steered his dreams.
kneeling at the other side of the bed, looking at the dream above the girl with professional eyes.
a hand on Mingus.
standing, torn. The ships. The girl.
on Vaka's feet, lifting his head, looking at Kompis. Then putting his chin back down on the girl's ankles. Staying. Choosing.
The black rock at the Mouth under a sky with no moon. At the top of the 212 steps, the lamp-room blazing, the Beam swinging round, slowly, round, toward the wall of mist that is the Mouth, a giant at the crank with his whole weight on it, a bandaged man beside him.
Below at the jetty, two ships lashed into one, every hawser taut, both crews at the rails, sails set, waiting.
In the white cottage at the rock's foot, a lit window: a girl asleep, a grey woman kneeling, a golden dog on the bed.
And beyond the Mouth's mist, a crescent of a hundred lanterns, waiting for whatever comes out.
on the Marka's stern, looking back at the lit cottage window. At the dog he's leaving for the first time in his life.
swinging onto the Mouth's wall of mist, and the mist parting in its light: a gap, a door of silver, the Current falling away beyond it into the Shallows.
at the wheel of two ships, reading the Beam's silver threads with bare eyes, the only man who can.
The lashed ships surging into the gap, the Marka's bow and the Upp Igen's together, the Up-Again's bandaged-fist figurehead leading, the Kettle's bell ringing once on the Marka's bow.
Two ships as one, halfway through a door of silver mist in the Beam, the Deep behind, the Shallows ahead, one heartbeat stretching.
The tin, through the cloth. And a tiny emerald glow, leaking.
Hallbard at the crank, his slitted eyes on the Mouth, seeing only what the Beam touches: two ships, halfway through.
beside him, at the window, his hand on the glass, watching his crew go through a door without him.
The Up-Again crew at the rail, looking back at the lighthouse.
at the bow, one eye shut, looking up at the figurehead: the bandaged fist he carved from his captain's hand, leading the way through the Mouth.
pulling the tin out at last. Opening it. The lid, by the glow of the Beam. The open line: MOUTH, 1 NOTCH. DUE: SOON.
rearranging themselves under his eyes, by no hand:
MOUTH, 1 NOTCH. DUE: NOW.
white, looking up from the tin. At the mist of the Mouth, which has stopped parting. At the silver door, which has started, one heartbeat early, to close.
A tiny emerald notch-icon.