The Storm

  CONTENTS

  1. Pandora

  2. Seabold

  3. Comfort

  4. Companions

  5. The Storm

  6. Purpose

  7. The Rescue

  8. Children

  9. Family

  For Gracie, who loves the sea —C. R.

  For Ruth, who gave me my sails —P. McD.

  In a lonely lighthouse, far from city and town, far from the comfort of friends, lived a kindhearted cat named Pandora.

  She had been living at this lighthouse all alone for four long years, and it was beginning to wear. She found herself sighing long, deep, lonely sighs. She sat on the rocks overlooking the waves far too long. Sometimes her nose got a sunburn.

  And at night, when she tried to read by the lantern light, her mind wandered and she would think for hours on her childhood when she had friends and company.

  Why did Pandora accept this lonely lighthouse life?

  Because a lighthouse had once saved her.

  When Pandora was but a kitten, she and her father had gone sailing aboard a grand schooner, bound for a new country. Pandora’s mother had stayed behind, with the baby, to join them later.

  And while they were at sea, Pandora and her father were shaken from their beds one night by an awful twisting of the ship’s great bow.

  “Stay here, Pandora!” her father had commanded. “Stay here and wait until I come for you!”

  They were in a terrible storm. The wind was howling, and the waves crashed hard upon them. Worse, a deep fog had spread itself all over the water, and it is fog that will bring a ship to its end. Fog that will blind a sailor’s eyes until his ship has hit the jagged shore and torn itself to pieces.

  Pandora’s father knew this as he strained with the others to keep the ship’s sails aloft and his daughter trembled in her bed. He knew what somber danger they were in.

  But Pandora’s father was a brave cat and he would not give up hope. He would hold tight to the riggings with the others until help, in whatever form, might come to them.

  In time, the winds began to settle and the waves grew smaller. But the dense fog refused to lift.

  The ship’s captain was clearly worried. For he knew these waters they sailed in. He knew the long history of ships gone down.

  And he carried little hope that help might come to them, that someone might lead them away from the deadly shore. For only a lighthouse might show them the way, and there had been no working light on these waters for a hundred years.

  So it was with much bewilderment, and amazement, and overwhelming joy that he heard, first, the deep, clear sound of a foghorn, then saw before him a light. Yes, a light! And it was not the light of another ship or small boat. Only a very powerful lamp could make itself seen through a fog like this. Only the lamp of a lighthouse.

  “Pull leeward!” cried the captain. “Away from the light!”

  And everyone pulled hard on the riggings to make the ship turn, turn away from the dangerous shore.

  The ship, and everyone on it, was saved.

  Ever after, Pandora dreamed of lighthouses. Though she had not seen the beacon that had saved her, her father had, and he spoke of it often. He always wondered who had made the great light shine.

  As she grew, Pandora herself came to think much on this. She went to the library and gathered books on lighthouses. She drew them in her sketch pad. She dreamed of them at night.

  Then one morning she awoke and she knew what she must do. She must become a lighthouse keeper! She knew that this was her destiny.

  It did not take Pandora long to find a lighthouse in need of keeping. It is a hard and lonely job, and few want it. Lighthouses are often built in unwelcoming places, atop sharp and dangerous rocks. A winter storm can hold a keeper inside for weeks on end. And when she finally emerges, there is no one to talk to. They are all someplace else, living in little towns or big cities. They are not interested in desolation.

  But Pandora was not afraid of this life, for her heart was so good and clear that fear would not creep inside it. The ships in those unpredictable waters carried fathers and mothers and children, and they needed guiding. She knew she could do it.

  And Pandora had been doing it, faithfully, for four long years. She had seen many an awful storm come and go. She had stayed awake long winter nights, tending the great lamp, sounding the deep horn.

  Pandora did not know how many lives she had saved. But she knew that she had saved some.

  And now, weary with being alone for so long, Pandora was about to save one more.

  There are those who love the sea so deeply, they cannot bear to be away from it even for a day. A dog named Seabold was one of these. He was born to a sailor’s life.

  When Seabold was old enough to leave home and family, he built himself a boat—which he named Adventure—said good-bye to his parents and sisters, and off he went, in search of the life meant for him.

  He was a fine sailor. He had a keen understanding of the wind. He could read the stars. And he trusted his instincts.

  For five years Seabold sailed the world’s great oceans, and his instincts never failed him. He sailed safe and strong and free of worry.

  But one day, this all changed.

  Seabold had always known when a storm was coming. His nose told him so. And he had always found a sheltered cove or harbor in which to wait out the rough seas.

  But this day, he had a cold. He had a cold and a stuffy nose, and his sense of smell was very bad. Added to this, he was tired. Seabold took a long, long nap in his bunk, and he did not notice the seabirds nervously circling in the air above him, agitated and calling to one another about the bad weather ahead.

  The seabirds all wisely headed for land. But Seabold, adrift in his dreams, stayed out on open water.

  Then the great storm hit.

  Seabold was jolted from sleep by a sharp crack of lightning, a deep roar of thunder, and an enormous, crashing wave. As Adventure was flung here and there, up and down, Seabold clung to the little boat with all his strength, for there was nothing else he could do.

  The sea, which had always been his friend, had turned against him. And for the first time in his sailor’s life, Seabold was afraid.

  He whispered into the wind, “Safe harbor. Let there be safe harbor.”

  Just as Seabold whispered these words, a magnificent light broke through the darkness, and the long, distant call of a horn sounded across the water.

  “Safe harbor,” Seabold repeated.

  And this was the last thing brave Seabold said before he was lifted and rolled, over and over, into the deep black sea.

  One might have thought the dog was forever lost.

  But this is not the end of Seabold’s story.

  When Seabold next awoke, he wondered if perhaps the storm had been just a dream.

  For he found himself in a little wooden bed under a cheerful gingham quilt, and he was no longer in the sea, but looking out at the sea, through a small window by his side. A daisy stood in a jar on the windowsill.

  Seabold tapped his head to be sure he wasn’t dreaming. And just as he was about to try his legs on the shiny wooden floor, the door to his room opened and in stepped a cat.

  She was smiling and had an apron tied around her waist. In her hands was a tray of tea and biscuits.

  “Good morning,” she said, setting the tray on the table beside the bed. “I hoped you might be awake. I am Pandora.”

  Still unsure whether he was dreaming, Seabold extended his paw to shake hers. “And I am Seabold,” he said. “At least, I think I am.”

  Pandora smiled. “You have had a rather bad journey,” she said.

  “I thought it was my last,” answered Seabold.

  Pandora poured him a cup of tea, whi
ch smelled like flowers. Seabold drank it gratefully. “Thank you,” he said. “May I have more? I’m so thirsty.”

  Pandora nodded and poured another cup. “All that salt water,” she said.

  “I don’t know how I am alive,” said Seabold.

  “Nor do I,” said Pandora. “When I found you on the shore three days ago, I was certain you were dead.”

  “I’ve been here three days?” exclaimed Seabold.

  “Yes.” Pandora smiled. “Sleeping like a baby.”

  Seabold shook his head. “I remember only going under,” he said. “My boat—have you seen her?”

  “Not yet,” said Pandora. “But it may be farther down the shore. When you are able to walk, we shall go search.”

  “Able to walk?” said Seabold.

  “Your leg,” said Pandora.

  Seabold drew back the gingham quilt. With surprise, he saw that his left leg was bandaged and splinted knee to foot. “Heavens,” he said. “But, there is no pain. Shouldn’t I be suffering?”

  Pandora smiled with pleasure. “I am something of a doctor, I suppose,” she said. “I have studied plants and learned those that heal. I wrapped your leg in plantain leaves to relieve the swelling. And the splint will prevent further injury.”

  “Amazing!” said Seabold.

  Pandora blushed with pride.

  “And are you alone here?” asked Seabold, sipping his tea. Pandora had poured herself a cup.

  “Yes, all alone,” she said. “Although I do have friends who stop by this island once in a while. In a very long while, I should say. They are seasonal.”

  “Seasonal?” said Seabold.

  “They migrate,” said Pandora. “So I see them only in spring and fall, as they make their way north or south. There is Atoll, the gray whale . . .”

  “You know a whale personally?” asked Seabold.

  “Oh yes,” said Pandora. “Whales are very sociable once you break the ice. Ask them about their children and they’ll go on forever.”

  “There is also Henry, the tern,” she continued. “He’s usually so pressed for time, he doesn’t even land. He simply flutters above my head and asks after my health, my garden, and so forth. Then he’s off. He flies six thousand miles every year.”

  “Really?” said Seabold.

  “Yes,” said Pandora. “He’s quite fit.”

  “But you are alone nearly always?” asked Seabold.

  “Nearly always,” said Pandora.

  Seabold shook his head. “I never thought I would meet someone else like me,” he said.

  “Like you?” asked Pandora.

  “One who loves the solitary life,” said Seabold. “I am nearly always at sea, nearly always alone. Like you.”

  Pandora smiled and thought a moment. “I am not sure I love the solitary life,” she said finally. “I simply live it.”

  “And why?” asked Seabold.

  “To save lives,” said Pandora. “Like yours.”

  And she poured him another cup of tea.

  Everything at the lighthouse was different after Seabold’s arrival.

  Mornings when Pandora awoke, she remembered she had someone else to talk to. She leaped from bed and prepared a big breakfast of hot wheat cereal with cream, and apple scones, and bowls of huckleberries. She carried the tray to Seabold’s room, and there they chatted all morning. Pandora’s garden grew very weedy.

  Then, once Seabold was able to hobble about on his leg with the help of a walking stick, their talks moved outside. Sitting on large rocks by the water, Pandora and Seabold told each other stories of their lives and things they had read or seen and what they liked most in this world or least.

  Seabold told of his father, who feared the water and would not set foot in a boat.

  Pandora told of her younger sister, who sewed wedding gowns for queens.

  They both had read fairy tales as children and agreed that the bad animals were more interesting than the good ones.

  And what did they like best in the world?

  The northern lights, said Seabold.

  Penguins, said Pandora.

  Least, they both agreed, were shipwrecks.

  It was summer, and Pandora’s lighthouse responsibilities were small. For two months—July and August—there was little rain and hardly any fog. Ships traveled safely, and Pandora got a rest.

  Well, somewhat. She still had to tend to preparing for the hard winter ahead. She knew she must grow and harvest vegetables, grind corn and wheat for bread, collect and cut driftwood for the fire. A supply boat had already delivered the year’s kerosene for the lighthouse. All depended on Pandora being ready.

  While Pandora gardened in the day, Seabold worked—as best he could, given his leg—on rebuilding his boat. He had indeed found it—at least, most of it—farther down the shore, and though his heart broke to see it so battered, he believed he could save it.

  As Pandora gardened, she watched Seabold off in the distance tending to his boat, and she felt a small emptiness in her heart. The emptiness one feels watching a dear friend prepare to go away.

  Evenings, the two made a picnic on the hill of daises leading to the shore and watched the sun go down, painting the world pink and red.

  The next day, it all began again.

  Seabold was very curious about the workings of the lighthouse, but his leg would not permit him to climb the four steep flights of stairs, then the ladder up into the lantern room to reach the great glass lamp. With no storms and no need for the saving lamp, Seabold sometimes forgot there was any lighthouse at all.

  But one day in early September, just as the geese and the mallards and the warblers were beginning to fly overhead on their long journeys south, Seabold was awakened to exactly what that enormous lighthouse was meant to do.

  And to just who was prepared to do it.

  It was much too early in the season, Pandora thought, for a storm to blow in. It was the season for fog, yes, but for serious ocean storms . . . those were due much later in the fall.

  Then why, she wondered one afternoon in early September as she gathered tomatoes off the vines, was the sky growing so black? Why was the air so cold? Why were gulls circling higher and higher, their cries growing more and more frantic?

  Because a sky above a sea loves unpredictability. It loves to surprise.

  This day, it clearly intended to.

  Seabold and Pandora battened down his boat, secured the shutters over the cottage windows, and set to building a fire in the kitchen stove.

  “How cold it is!” said Seabold. “And yesterday was so warm.”

  “The sea is bringing us a different air,” said Pandora. “One, I believe, full of danger. I must go up to the lantern room and attend to the light.”

  Seabold looked at his still-splinted leg in frustration. “I have to get up there to help you,” he said.

  “No, no,” said Pandora. “Injury to your leg now will set you back a month of healing. Just keep the fire going while I work.”

  And while Seabold fed the fire in the kitchen and kept a pot of tea hot and ready for them both, Pandora climbed up to the lantern room. She trimmed the great lamp’s wicks and lit them. She checked the kerosene vessel. She cleaned the storm panes. Then she climbed down to the watch room.

  Just around suppertime, an enormous fog bank began rolling in. High in her tower, Pandora watched it spread toward land like creeping cotton, and she began to ring the bells and sound the horn that would guide smaller boats to shore, giving them escape from the storm that was surely about to hit.

  Down in the kitchen, Seabold fretted. He listened to the bells and the horn. I could be doing that, he thought. I could be helping. But he had to sit there by the fire and wait. He was miserable.

  Over the next few hours the wind built to an astonishing speed, and its gusts rocked the tower Pandora worked in. She was undaunted. It was nightfall now, and this was a very bad storm for any ship at sea. Fog, lightning, lashing rain, hard wind—all could lead a ship
onto the rocks and sink her.

  Pandora worked in the watch room, sounding the horn again and again. Above her the great light kept its strong beam out upon the water. She was cold—she’d had no time to dress warmly or carry wood to the watch room stove. But she could not stop to remedy this. It was a terrible storm, and she knew what a terrible storm could do.

  In the kitchen, Seabold sat at the window and watched the great light shine and listened to the warning horn.

  One hour, two hours, three hours, four hours . . . How did Pandora do it? Where did she find the strength? He was only tending the kitchen fire and already he was tired.

  Finally, sleep got the better of him. The storm raged on, without his witness.

  • • •

  Bright sun shining into the kitchen woke Seabold the next morning. He had lain beside the stove all night. And where was Pandora? He looked out the window.

  And there she was, far out near the edge of a cliff, a shawl about her shoulders and her paw in the air, waving.

  Off in the water, barely a spot on the horizon, was a sailing ship. At rest. Safe.

  She saved them, thought Seabold.

  He watched his friend in wonder.

  Seabold had planned to sail away by October’s end, before the hard winter storms began, before the ice and wind. He was a sailing dog, the sea was his home. He knew this and Pandora knew this, and they both were prepared for the sorrowful good-bye.

  But destiny had other plans.

  Seabold’s boat did not come together as quickly as he’d hoped. Small essential pieces were still missing and had to be made by hand. This would take time. It would take a long spring and a long summer and perhaps an entire fall as well.

  Seabold was resourceful. But he could not invent time.

  And his leg was very slow in healing. It had been a bad break, and in spite of Pandora’s marvelous herbs and capable splinting, the leg was weak. Seabold still walked with the aid of a stick.