By the Glow of the Lantern

There's a light there in the distance. The small yellow glow pierced through the haze over the water's surface. The waves, gentle now, slowly lifts the boat and lowers it again and again. The salty smell, I never quite get used to, pulls through me with every breathe. The ocean destines me to reach the island. It lifts my boat with its midnight blue hands and carries it to the sandy shore and sets it, gently, on the beach. The sands cool and wet on my feet. Ahead, a boulder, as big as a small mountain, rises from the beach, its surface without cracks or holes. I stand back and study the rock, looking for a way up or around. I walk around the east side of the rock and find a wooden staircase. The stairs rise, haphazardly, clinging to the side of the rock. Looks like they haven't been used in ages. Slowly and carefully, I start to climb the stairs, skipping over the more rotted looking wood. The climb was steep, the climb was tough on a guy with bad knees, but now the climb is over. The wind is fierce up here. The cold, like a frozen steel blade in my chest. In the middle of the rock, sits a small wooden cabin; rustic and leaning to the side, its oblong triangle shape, a silhouette in the darkness. I approach the cabin. The wood is green with moss. A bright lit lantern hangs from a hook beside the door. Before I can knock, the door swings outward. Thwack! Catching in the wind, the door slams against the side of the cabin. Out steps an old lady. She looks as ancient as the cabin does. She wears a faded pink night gown that drags the ground as she hobbles, slowly, through the threshold.

"Ah," the old lady says. "It's very nice to see you"

"You know me?" I ask her.

"Yes...well not particularly," she says. "It's Robert, Right"

"Yes. Wait...how do you know my name is Robert?"

"I've been expecting you, dear," she begins. "Come inside out of this horrid wind."

We walk inside the cabin. It feels nice to be out of the nipping wind. The cabin is much warmer. A faint orange glow emits from the fireplace.

"Come and sit by the fire," the old lady says, pulling the lone chair from the small dining table, and sitting it by the green wingback chair already by the fireplace.

Clearing her throat, she says, "Robert, we have important matters to discuss." She clasps her hands together and sits them on her lap. She has short curly white hair. Her face is wrinkled, and her lips are painted red. She has a quality about her that reminds me of a grandmother.

The old lady continues, "My name is Mariam Lucille Yorkshire and I forgive you."

I do not remember doing anything that may need to be forgiven. Come to think of it, I do not remember anything, beyond being on the water in the boat. My concentration thrusts me deep in thought, trying to look for clues of life before the Island. I do not know how long I was lost in my mind, but when I come to, Mariam is snapping her fingers.

"I lost you for a second," she says.

"Yes, sorry," I begin. "I'm just really confused."

"Of course, you are," says Mariam. "You don't remember anything."

"No, I do not," I say, still very much confused. "Who are you Mariam?"

"I am an old lady," she answered. "Just a dead old lady."

"You're dead?" I ask. I must be going crazy. I must be dreaming.

"Yes, Robert," she says. "And your actions killed me."

There's no way I've ever killed anybody, I think to myself.

"There must be some mistake," I say.

"No, dear," she says. "There is no mistake."

"If I killed you, why are you so kind to me? Why aren't you angry?"