What Lies Beneath the Fog

》10《

"How do we reach the lighthouse?" I asked when I caught up with them, recovering my breath and voice.

From the path we were following, there was no visible way of walking over to the Byron's Lighthouse. The cliff where it stood was separated from the one we were on by a deep chasm, complete with a slim, glittering tongue of sea water at its bottom.

"We walk over the bridge," Dean responded. "It's not very safe, but from this part of the island, it's the only way."

"Look!" Emma said, pointing down towards the chasm.

We reached the highest point of the cliff, and suddenly I saw it. Under our feet, a flight of narrow, worn-out steps was carved in the side of the rock. They were no more than ten, descending, ending by the bridge Emma was pointing at. To be honest, the word 'bridge' was a generous exaggeration for the precarious walkway that lay in front of us.

It was simply a narrow, natural looking path, a ledge that ran close to the top of the rocks lying between the two cliffs. It once had an iron handrail, most likely made long ago by one of the lighthouse keepers, now completely rusted away and replaced by a thick rope attached to the rock face. The bridge lay lower than the path we were standing on, that's why I couldn't see it until now. Maybe in the past, it was secure enough to guarantee a safe passage to the people living in the lighthouse, but now it looked absolutely dangerous.

Apparently, not for the local kids-- I was still considering the safety issues of the 'bridge' when I noticed that Emma was already halfway through to the other side. She stopped and let go of the rope to turn round and wave at me.

"Come on, Liam, it's fun!" she called.

My feet were prickling, and my legs started to shake from just looking at her. I hoped I wouldn't discover that I suffered from vertigo right now.

"Emma, just stop showing off and walk," Dean scolded her like a big brother.

He just reached the bridge himself. I caught the sight of Emma sticking her tongue out at him before I took a deep breath and descended the stairs.

Once there, it didn't feel as terrifying as it had looked from the top. I walked over slowly, holding on to the rope, never looking down, trying to ignore Emma and Dean teasing each other on the other side. It wasn't too bad, but I was happy to reach the opposite cliff and climb up another set of crumbling rock steps.

The view I saw in front of me was spectacular. The Byron's Lighthouse was finally close enough for me to see it in detail. It was sitting on a flat natural plateau covered in most places by blooming heather, on the backdrop of the heaving sea far below, and the summer sky pulsating with sun filling the rest of the picture. Its walls were so perfectly white and unblemished that they captured and reflected the colour of the purple flowers and the blue hues of the sea water. This was most likely one of the highest spots of the island.

The lighthouse's tower looked rather short and chunky, enclosed as it was by the large building of the keeper's house. It didn't need to be any taller though, it's location, the flat cliff towering some ninety metres above the sea, as I learned from Emma's book last night, gave it enough height to make it well visible far and wide. The Victorian architect had done a great job designing it. The impressive lighthouse looked like a safe place to live despite its position, so close to the precipice, perched above the wild coastline and the sharp, rough rocks of the island's shore.

I fished the camera from my backpack to take some more detailed pictures of the building.

It wasn't all plain white. Its doors and windows had a wide, ochre trim. The cylindrical tower was crowned with a black balcony and a huge, black lantern above. The lantern's lights and lenses were protected by a window composed of many small, diamond shaped glass panes, pieced together like some kind of a puzzle.

Standing behind the keeper's house, taller than its roof, I could see the foghorn. It didn't look anything like the lighthouse. I remembered reading that the horn was added much later, after a ship had sunk on the hazardous shoals and reefs surrounding the island because it failed to hear the warning of the fog bell.

I could hear it now, though, the loud chimes of the ancient bell ricocheting off the rock walls, multiplied and repeated a thousand times by the echo. If I were here on my own in the typically foggy weather of this place, the sound of the fog bell of this abandoned lighthouse would scare me witless. But today, it only made me smile, I was starting to know Emma and her restless, playful, and fearless spirit.

Indeed, my two friends were standing on a little porch by the entrance to the Victorian house, Emma playing with the rope of the huge bell. I took a picture of them and then some more of the lighthouse and the cliff.

There was something... eerie about this deserted place, it had a spooky feel despite the summer day and its sunshine.

When I looked at the two, they were teasing each other again. The sight made me shake my head, amused; they were impossible, and I was getting used to it by now. Emma and Dean were like two siblings who would do anything for each other, apart from admitting their affection. For them, annoying each other was part of the fun.

Walking towards them, I shivered unexpectedly, my skin crawling into gooseflesh in spite of the warmth of the afternoon. I looked around, observing the cliff suspiciously, feeling that I was being watched, that there was someone else present apart from us. The faint scent of roses that I could smell for some time now suddenly intensified. It wasn't coming from Emma's hair this time; she was too far for that.

It was Anne Byron's ghost.

I could sense her presence, it was the same, creepy feeling I had last night when I saw her under my window. This time, I couldn't see her; the day was far too bright to reveal even a glimpse of her misty, ethereal body. But she was here somewhere, close, watching us, waiting patiently.

The White Lady of The Foggy Island wanted something from me. She needed help.

A thought flared in my mind as if someone had just whispered it in my ear. Maybe Anne hadn't just run away with a lover, leaving her husband to die here, alone and desperate. Maybe the inhabitants of this island were wrong, back then and even now. Was it possible that the story they had told me wasn't quite correct? I looked around again, in search of hints, or some confirmation of my theory, but there was nothing to be seen at the moment.

Shaking my head in an attempt to clear my swirling thoughts, I walked towards the keeper's house, and my friends.