The Withering Psyche Of A Madman

II. The Keeper

At last he arrived--a fine lad as a companion to slack off within this weather-worn lighthouse that stood for decades; keeping watch of the bays and the treacherous reefs and shoals of the Atlantic on the edge of the jagged rocks by the solitary sea cliffs.
He waved at me as he came, carrying his baggages; and I returned with a smile and tipped off my hat.

Ensign Sherman Doyle, he was. Temporary leave brought him out of the navy into this tower of dark boredom and sleepless nights.
I felt sorry for the kid though. If he would ask me, I would like to be out into the civilization than being pitted on this solitary confinement disguised as a formal duty.
Doyle is a merry lad; used to talk a lot about himself and his adventures out there in the big wide blue. It seems that he was a direct juxtaposition of myself, for I have no stories to tell him or to share a bit of my experiences; the only fact that we have in common is the same brand of delicate mainland weed that we smoke in our pipes.

Of course, Doyle knew the true nature of our duty. It was terrifying and unbelievable at the same time; but it might all worth the risk.
For almost three years I have been alone in this tower; and I have seen many things beyond comprehension. It is a duty that no man can easily handle, and I knew that Doyle knew it too, for he isn't here if he didn't. That night, I made him swear, we swore at each other to carry out our task no matter what happens, even if it cost us our very lives.
I gradually observe him; everyday, everywhere and everything he does. I must keep an eye on him, for I don't want him to back off from this job. He had kept the joyous manner of his; but I knew and I smelled the air around him--it reeks of impending doubt and fear.

In exactly two days from now, the hurricane will hit on land; it will be our cue to carry out our confidential task.
I came from the top tier, after checking the condition of the lenses and the oil lamp, and went to the first floor, and alas! There stood Doyle staring on a tightly shut trap door. His face was grave and sullen and muttered words that wishes he is not here. In a few minutes, I knew that the lad would lose his nerve.
I tried to calm him with a bottle of bourbon which I kept for almost two years. He took cheers with me and he drifted away in an uneasy sleep.

I went out of the lighthouse and into the small dock where I kept my longboat, gazing far into the gloomy horizon, standing on the edge of the rocky cliff with the vile wind blowing like heaven's bellowing horns warning us of the upcoming wrathful storm; the seas raging with the waves bludgeoning each other, jetting out foams that smells of fish.
I stood and shuddered with the embrace of the cold wind. Suddenly, my religion, my belief that I had almost forgotten spoke to my mind. I uttered a prayer of safety and deliverance; shelter and absolution. I haven't been a religious person for my fifty six years of existence but still I remember the hymns and the prayers of the local church that seemed to converse with the heavens.
This is maddening days. It always has to go on and on each year, and it must not stop.
For three years I have seen and done terrible things. Things that I had so much remorse-- regrets.

The night was cold and windy; moonless and starless. Thick dark clouds spanned the sky, like dark nebulae reaching somewhere far where no eyes could see.
Doyle and I retreated in the second tier of the tower, where we had our sleeping quarters. The creaking beds, sheets and pillows were decent enough to rest, just don't mind the mites and bedbugs.
He was quiet all night; lying down on his bunk, facing the crumbling wall.
It was unusual for the kid for keeping his mouth shut, so I striked up a story. It wasn't a decent story to keep us company; it was my story of how I ended up in this lonesome tower. I used to be a young lad like Doyle; I had my life ahead of me, not until I ended up as a replacement for a dead keeper's assistant. I lodged up in here for almost three years, becoming the lighthouse's keeper and maintenance crew.
It was the universe--the infinite breadth of mysteries and the myriads of unanswerable questions, the ongoing conflicts of fiction over the facts, the surreal dreams that keeps us wonder--they were all the factors that kept me in here, with a belief waning over time, as the mysteries of the world peeled over the curtains of my eyes, unfolding the truth into my mere human cognition.