The little lighthouse keeper by Chiara Cadrich

The little lighthouse keeper

Read The little lighthouse keeper

.oOo.

The prince entered the workshop, his riding boots treading the sawdust.

The fragrance of sandalwood and cork rose from the shavings on the floor, reviving his childhood memories. Around the hulls under construction, like in the past, echoed the chirping of saws, the blazing of planes and the muffled clatter of mallets. Under the centuries-old vaults, only the rumbling voice of the old master shipwright sounded a little more croaking than before:

– Show a little respect for wood, my lads! That's alive, that's venerable! Do you realise, you whippersnappers, that this piece of oak is over one hundred and fifty years old? So you are certainly not going to abuse a lady this age! Gently with your wagoner's axes!

Bowed on one’s rowboat work, each apprentice ducked his head when the workshop magister gave his commentary. But always the calloused hand of the master-craftsman gently corrected the grip on the chisel or adjusted the posture of the labourer bent on effort. With his eye on every detail, the old man paced his fiefdom, hobbling on his wooden leg, guiding the assembly of the least piece or lending a hand - and what a strong hand!

The prince took off his hat and stepped forward between the newly-rimmed hulls. The master, noticing the visit, turned to his former pupil and greeted him gravely, crossing his hands over his chest.

–  "O Bar-balkumagan Ornindal [1]" the prince said, bowing his head in return.

An astonished murmur ran through the workshop, rolling from one hull to another - never again did the crown prince linger on their dock, at small boats refit! The royal council was only interested in high-class warships, as the Guild of Venturers brought back rumours of wars from distant lands.

The master craftsman looked doubtful too. For a moment he smoothed his curly beard, from which a cloud of sawdust escaped. But his bellowing resounded under the workshop's hangers, as dryly as ersthwhile on his war galley’s deck, quickly calling his apprentices back to work:

– Come on, let's get back to it, my lads! And, you four, let's get these planks out!

The novices’ small hands resumed their patient sanding of the pulleys, while the senior companions, tall young men from the valleys of Númenor, bare-chested and dripping with sweat, took hold of the long pruned planks, all steaming out of the oven.

The master carpenter and the prince faced each other, their formal stiffness softened by a half-smile of bittersweet connivance: both measured what the years had taken from one in vigour, and granted in majesty to the other.

With a slightly embarrassed nod, Ornindal pointed to the back of the old shed to Prince Minastir.

Seeing the heir take a deep breath and his features harden into a determined expression, the old shipwright patted the prince on the shoulder with his rough, splinter-filled hand. He grumbled softly, his muffled voice a little embarrassed:

– Easy on him, my Prince! He's not running away from his responsibilities... Coming here is just a way to escape the court’s pressure for a while. Perhaps you should do the same from time to time?

Hidden behind the wooden stores, a barely outlined hull bristled with round oak lumbers, like the skeleton of some stranded whale.

The heir to the imperial throne of Númenor approached, torn between the ceremonial restraint he had now assumed and the rebellious reminiscences that came to him in that shed, the effervescence of a marauding boy, quick to engage in the slightest mischief between brothers.

Minastir restrained this childishness. The king had sent him to remind his younger brother of his duties. He had to embody dynastic duty.

But the hull, in front of him, attracted the eye of the connoisseur... The tapered keel promised a beautiful ardour on the swell... The prince admired the graceful regularity of the planks already laid. A small cutter... built for racing.

His brother had not heard him approach. The young man was straining at the bow, which he had designed to be slender, with a slight curve. In an uncomfortable position, he arched his back to press in reinforcements of his own invention. He applied himself, complained and redoubled his efforts.

From the cutter, Minastir turned his attention with amusement to his struggling younger brother. Doubting his dovetails[2], the young man checked his measurements. Without noticing his elder brother, who was glaring at him, he weight-shifted and moodily resumed his manoeuvre. The twin strong-pieces had to be pressed simultaneously onto the bow... This required the precision and strength of two companions.

Minastir finally took pity. Silently, he approached and placed his hands where his brother's were missing. Miraculously, the symmetrical reinforcements fitted together, to which the prince gave a cheerful nod:

– "Good morning, Colvaldor!"

The stung young man sat up:

– "Well, there's no peace anywhere!"

– "I am also very happy to see you! Indeed we don't have the honour of meeting you at the Council, not to mention attending the Palace meals..."

– "I'll tell you what: if you're to serve me God the Father's heartburn, you can leave right now!"

– "Unless you still have to put together a wooden piece that needs a companion? Because, you know, the workshop is a team!"

Colvaldor rolled his eyes in annoyance.

– ... "A team, like the government of the Kingdom!" Minastir insisted.

– "If the Old Man has something to say, shouldn't bother sending his lapdog! He has the right to come in person!"

With a hard face, the elder replied curtly:

– "Have you forgotten that our father is king, that he has only duties and that he needs us? Monarchical dignity forbids him to beg for our help. He should have our unconditional support!"

– "But I can't take a step without having him on my back! Nor can I try anything in my own way!" Colvaldor shouted.

– "Peace, boys! "

The old master's admonition had sounded like thunder in a storm. He added in a low voice:

– "I cannot tolerate such disorder in my workshop! You know that better than anyone! Especially in front of the youngest recruits... And especially from young men called to such high positions, whom my pupils adore and whom I have helped to train here... "

The brothers exchanged an unkind glance. But they understood each other. The shipwright was right, their dispute should not be made public. With the same instinct, they grabbed both ends of a saw, abandoned on a huge timber.

The old master smiled into his beard and hobbled back to scold his pupils.

And the two princes sawed. Like in their youth, for every adolescent punishment. Like in their youth, together and angry with each other. And like in their youth, the antagonistic rage, driven by resentment, slowly faded with fatigue and dissolved into the hypnotic and complicit hum of the saw.

Finally, exhausted, the brothers met at the barrel, passing the ladle of fresh water to each other. The eldest, who never lost sight of his duties or his objectives, mentally reviewed his father's recriminations, putting aside the trifles and the thorny subject of female conquests. He tested the water, between two sips:

– "You just need to partake in the Council. You have an... offbeat point of view. Strangely simple on complex subjects."

– "You're the one who complicates everything! Observe with your heart, not just with your brain!"

– "I couldn't have said it better myself! You got to the bottom of it! That is what helps our father, it reassures him that several different opinions, complementary points of view, are expressed sincerely before he makes his decision!"

– … à une condition ! ajouta Colvaldor, qui connaissait son grand-frère par cœur.

The younger man gave the elder a long look underneath. There was some cunning in the coating, but Minastir was sincere about the substance. He sighed, pretending to give in out of weariness:

– "Yeah, that's all right, I can do that!"

Imperceptibly, Minastir relaxed his shoulders and exhaled with some relief.

– ... "on one condition!" Colvaldor added, knowing his big brother by heart.

The latter raised an annoyed eyebrow:

– "What now, brother?"

– "You become a co-owner of this cutter! It'll do you some good to get back into the real world!"

– "Granted wholeheartedly, with my thanks for the honour and your trust!" Minastir concluded, bowing ceremoniously.

The two brothers looked at the plans for the racing boat.

– "The old man could have come himself and asked me nicely! …"

.oOo.

Two rocky ridges encircled the bay, shaded by emerald umbrella pines undulating gently in the sun. The small light-coloured houses with their wise ruby roofs cast bright reflections in the changing meanders of aquamarine, sapphire and turquoise that animated this blessed cove.

The serenity of the crystalline waters veiled with navy blue ripples, with a sudden cold gust. The fragrances of jasmine and pine were clouded with the smell of iron.

A storm was approaching.

Families crowded to the end of the pier. Cattlemen, spinners, craftsmen, all had a parent, son or little sister on board the boats that had gone out that noon to picnic and "pick the lobsters" on the islets off the red cliffs.

On this day of fair, the youth had gone off to have a little fun. Away from their parents, of course. But too few of them were seasoned at sea. They should have been back two hours ago. The mothers had covered their heads with their shawls in the biting wind and were looking out to sea. The fathers had gone to the shipyard for help.

For a moment, a sea wing was seen flying by and rounding the Cape. It seemed to fly ahead of the storm, with all sails set. The ocean off the coast must have been terrible: the bow of the cutter raised enormous sprays, amidst disturbing breakers.

And the waiting resumed, punctuated by prayers to the Lady of the Seas. The men, not wanting to remain idle, went to light the storm lantern at the entrance of the bay.

At dusk, a superb sea steed was seen entering the cove, towing a dismasted lobster boat.

One of the young people's boats had sunk, but help had arrived in time to bring everyone back.

This feat became a tale in all the havens’ taverns of Númenor for a long time, adding an aura of infallibility to the glory of the two princes.

Their cutter had become famous. After the solemn consecration of the name "Elyât Roth"[3], the ship had been launched in mysterious tuning races, and the famous duo had won a few regattas.[4]   The speed of the cutter, in light and heavy seas, was unmatched. When the Palace sent a formal message to one of the provinces of Númenor, the princely cutter set sail and never failed to outstrip the speed of the royal steeds that galloped along the paved roads of the island.

The great thing was that the princes handled sails to the limits of capacity for a hull of this size, with only two crew members. There may have been nothing more to it than innovative design and top-notch workmanship in the rigging and fittings, but the ship left in its wake a scent of wondrous deeds.

Many tales were told about them. It was said that very few friends, and in any case no young girls who could have aroused the rivalry of the two brothers, were allowed on board. They were supposed to have taken a vow never to sail without each other on their sea wing. And of course, the Lady of the Seas must have taken the two princes under her protection...

It was exhilarating for anyone, sailor or washerwoman, to see such a steed set sail on the waves, a radiant emblem of Númenor, of its inventiveness and its ability to meet challenges. The king himself appreciated this powerful symbol of strength and unity within the ruling family, even if he was excluded from it.

.oOo.

The sky was black.

In less than an hour, in the middle of the afternoon, the north had clogged it with low, dark clouds.

Nowhere did the sun shine. An ominous haze seemed to have covered the horizon to the north, masking the coast and its white cliffs with grey, shifting mottles.

– "The squall is going to hit us, it's imminent! "

– "No kidding! "

Indeed, the rain fell suddenly on the bridge. Downpours hit the ship, which immediately became heavier.

But the two brothers had already closed all the hatches and reduced the sails.

– "Ride tightly upwind, as much as possible! "

– "It's coming from the north, but I think it's leaning to the east.  We still have a chance to reach Romenna Pass before the swell builds up! "

– "So we're heading west, provided we've already rounded Cape Mitan of Hyarrostar! And I wouldn't bet on it: it's been two hours since I saw any landmark!"

– "Or the slightest sail! We have behaved presumptuously, unworthy of the most elementary prudence for the sons of a king! "

The Elyat Roth was lost in the middle of the ocean, alone on choppy waters. The storm was setting in. Its dark mass cast a gloomy shadow over the ocean. Thunder could be heard in the distance.

– "You can't see anything anymore! There are two solutions: go north to anchor at the foot of the Orrostar cliffs, sheltered from the wind... "

– "Hopefully we'll see them in time, provided we're sure that north is in that direction!"

– "Right! Or wait for it to pass! "

– "With the risk that the sea would still worsen! "

Indeed, the sea was getting rough. The violent wind was digging the heavy swell, opening otherworldly blue chasms between sinister ridges. Flying lights began to dance slyly at the top of the mast.

The roar of huge criss-crossing wave trains now drowned out the howl of the gusts. Soon there was no choice for the two sailors stowed in the cockpit: Minastir at the helm, Colvaldor at the sheets, struggled to keep the ship from heeling over and avoiding the breakers. For many hours, without being able to worry about the course, their only concern was to maintain the right speed to negotiate the treacherous waves at a favourable angle.

Suddenly, Minastir felt the helm give way under his expert hand. The boat had entered a fairly strong current.

Both sailors swore about this blow of fate, but they soon noticed the waters were calming down around their ship. They watched this respite with suspicion. No sea-wolf of the Guild of Venturers had ever mentioned such a stream off the eastern coast of Númenor - at least when sober! The furious wave trains carried by the storm dissolved into fleeting eddies where livid foam was bubbling. The brothers exchanged incredulous glances at this chimera. Yet, without needing even a word of consultation, they took advantage of the strange windfall and tacked to stay in this providential current, that – probably – led west.

Lost before them in the ghostly spray, a channel was winding, as if traced by the chimerical bow of Ossë's ship. [5]   The gusts of wind themselves seemed to soften over the stream, which resounded with liquid and distant echoes. Worried but amazed, the brothers let themselves be lulled for a long time by the indecisive flow and the bewitching song of the breeze. Unable to predict where this miracle was leading them, they eagerly scanned the ocean, anxious to face the storm again, which was not letting up.

– "There, a lantern!"

– "Where?"

– "Just halfway up the shrouds, to starboard... I think I recognise... Calmindon's signal! "[6]

– "It can't be. It's disused! And anyway we are way too far... and yet..." finished Colvaldor in a doubtful whisper, as he too was counting the intervals of the flickering light."

Incredulous, on the lookout, both sailors scanned in all directions, watching the storm, the current and the lantern ahead. The Elyât Roth sailed on for a few more unreal moments, the helmsman taking care to stay in the channel, as the lighthouse light rapidly approached.

Thus the brothers landed on the island of Tol Uinen on a stormy night.

The western harbour, guarded by the pier of the Calmindon, seemed to be spared the fury of the winds. But all around, the storm and the raging sea would have broken any boat: the swell was unleashing there, at the bottom of the bay, the force transmitted by the wind on the open sea.

Colvaldor and Minastir docked and climbed onto the pontoon, exhausted.

A pelting rain wore down the quay. The modest trees that had colonised the small island could be heard bending in the breeze. The rocks around the bay crackled in the downpour. The high lighthouse at Calmindon had gone out. In the almost total darkness, a lantern swayed at the end of the landing stage.

.oOo.

The princes approached. The modest lantern was calling them, swinging at the door of a hovel. No doubt the lighthouse keeper's hut... They pushed the wooden door open. The shack, patched up with pieces of teak or oak ships, was hung with pastel cloths, strewn with starfish and shells.

– "Well, it took you long enough! I've been waiting for you for hours!"

The brothers expected to meet an old bearded man, scowling, his leather tanned by years of work.

A young woman was staring at them with a sea-grey look of intense curiosity, her sweet face genuinely surprised at their delay. As she tilted her head in expectation of an answer, her brown hair waved, as if lulled a gentle wave. She stepped forward to greet them, her deep blue dress rustling like ripples in a calm evening.

The boys both stood still, spellbound. She gently took them by the hand with a mocking chuckle and closed the door behind them.

Minastir was the first to recover, bowing gracefully:

– "Thank you, kind lady, for your welcome! We did not know we were expected and will not try on your patience again!"

The young woman smiled benevolently. She returned the curtsey with application and offered chairs to her visitors, tapping the back to invite them sit with her.

This girl was not used to seeing people, stuck on her island...

They all sat down casually at the small card table, no doubt salvaged from the officers' lounge of some imperial schooner.

– "So?" she said, propping her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.

Surprised, the princes exchanged a questioning look.

– "What do you want to know, fair maiden?" inquired Minastir cautiously.

– "Tell me all about it!" she said enthusiastically, revealing her string of small pearly teeth.

Another puzzled look from the princes. But the boys' stunned silence stung their hostess, who squirmed in her chair:

– "Well, tell me about yourself: what's it like to set out for new horizons? To glide over the foam? To split the wave? How does it feel to fly on the waves with what your mind has conceived and your hands have crafted? … "

– "That is a matter that will keep us awake all night!" Colvaldor interrupted enthusiastically. "May I ask, before we embark on such a voyage, if you have enough to feed two hungry sailors? Of course we shall compensate you for your trouble!

– "You are hungry?" The girl said to herself, as if the evidence of a memory had suddenly come back to her. "How confusing men are! "

But in a flash she came out of a small buffet and served them grilled octopus and mackerel fillets.

The boys pounced on the food, Minastir a little stilted by etiquette, and Colvaldor like a deckhand on leave.

– "Aren't you going to eat?" The youngest boy stammered between spoonfuls.

– "Would you like that? Then yes, I'll keep you company!" The young woman said after some thought, helping herself to a bowl.

As she tasted her own menu, she nodded with conviction:

– "Good things are much better shared! "

She smiled at the boys, very grateful for this discovery. But then a small spark of mischief flashed through her diligent eyes, and she stood up and pulled a bottle from a double bottom of her enchanting buffet.

She filled a tumbler with turquoise liquor and set it down in front of the boys, watching them quell their hunger and share the drink as a mother would have done when her offspring had returned from a long journey.

– "Are you the lighthouse keeper? "

After a moment of astonishment, she answered with a knowing look:

– "Oh, yes, of course, I lit the lantern for you! Who else would have done it? No man is patient or attentive enough for such a task!"

Minastir thought it more courteous not to bend over backwards in defence of male honour:

– "My dear, you have certainly saved our lives! May we know the name of our heroine?"

Once again disarmed by the question, the little lighthouse keeper gracefully straightened her chest. For a moment a serious gleam clouded the clear blue-grey of her eyes, then she answered thoughtfully:

– "The name of the thing gives anybody who knows it power over the thing – to envisage it, to describe it, to appropriate it. To make it one's own in a sense... "

The young woman turned pink, watching the reactions of her guests from underneath. The older man kept the bantering half-smile of the jaded courtier. The younger man poured himself another drink with a good-natured chuckle.

– "To define a thing is to circumscribe it, to isolate it from its nourishing whole, to put it forward is already to transform the thing, to make it unique, to push it towards its becoming... "

Minastir was beginning to glimpse unfathomable depths in the psychology of lighthouse keepers, thinkers condemned, in their solitude, to explore the mysteries of metaphysics.

Colvaldor, for his part, amused and enchanted by this unexpected and delightfully offbeat tirade, stared at his hostess and waited impatiently for the rest.

The young woman, pleased by the interest of the two men, was embracing them with enigmatic and slightly mocking words:

– ... "He who calls out a name invokes it to the world... To give one's name is to open the door to oneself! ... He who whispers my name embraces in his thoughts the dreams he thinks I have... But would you yourself give me your names, sailors saved from the abyss? "

Minastir made the introductions, deploying the oratorical pomp of royal protocol and all the resources of his personal charm, no less royal.

The young woman willingly surrendered to the refinement of his manners:

– "You may call me... Gaërwen!

... Both of you!" she added, smiling frankly at the boys to fill the silence that greeted this concession to her own philological conceptions.

... "As for your names, you can imagine I already knew them! "

No one in Númenor was unaware of the princes’ identity, but the two brothers sincerely wondered if this singular young woman had ever left her hermitage. As they looked doubtful, she added with a mocking smile:

– "The dolphins told me, the little squadron that swims together with the Elyat Roth!"

And that is how the boys got to know the little lighthouse keeper.

.oOo.

Sheltered from the cruel winds of the tiny hut, the survivors and the recluse shared what they had: a meal, memories and their faith in the world.

The little lighthouse keeper was passionate about everything, surprised by the slightest thing. She contemplated the contradictions of the two boys with astonishment, but a tender benevolence. Colvaldor passionately discussing his innovations to the Númenor astrolabe, while mocking the stilted morals of the naval officers in his class who had taught him the basics... Minastir personifying royal pomp, but eager to seduce and to be recognised for his own qualities...

The boys' questions astonished her, the little keeper's answers amazed them. For she knew many of the secrets of marine life, of the science of the ocean and the wider world, but she seemed ignorant of the little facts of everyday life and society.

Where was she from? From a southern island, of course. But which one? No one had ever told her. Her parents? Her real family was the whole horde, the cenacle of aunts for protectors, the wind to sing her legends and the swell to lull her childhood. Brothers and sisters? But in each island dwelt a sister, in each lagoon hid a cousin, the whole archipelago lived in harmony.

The little lighthouse keeper had a large family. But so many and so raucous... How she would have loved a thoughtful big sister, a wise big brother, who would have guided her...

She had rounded the octopus cape in the company of dangerous sharks. Yet she listened with delight to the boys' bickering and was moved by the charming puzzle of their family life.

She told them with a straight face about the wreck of a whaleboat in the icy waters of Forochel as if she had rammed it herself. But emotion clouded her grey eyes as soon as the boys sang those sailor's verses about lost loves and ever-renewed horizons.

The little lighthouse keeper was somehow hard to pin down. She cultivated a puzzling taste for language, songs and their powers. When asked about her family, her origins, she sang sweet stanzas about playful dolphins and wise groupers.

The passion of the sailors and their battles fought against the waters’ fury captivated her, but she was also fond of court anecdotes and the pomp of princely receptions, like some customs of an exotic tribe. The little keeper delighted in tales of travel, discoveries, wonders of distant shores. She had questioned many a master mariner, but never seemed to tire of listening to the sailors’ chatter.

The liveliness of the docks, the wild beauty of the Middle Earth shores, the splendours brought back from overseas, the infinite variety of the seabed, the ingenuity of the shipwrights, the habits and customs of the archipelagos, all of this excited the curiosity of the young woman, spurred on by the passionate and so contrasting appreciations of the two young men. As she listened to them, she marvelled at the fact that the flame of men could burn with such bright and varied colours.

In the early hours of the morning, the boys, replete with fatigue and palaver, nodded their heads over their glass of algana. A complicit silence had settled around the table cluttered with plates, portolans, sketches where hulls and cetaceans intertwined...

A sweet silence…

Gaërwen inhaled deeply the air, smelling the spirit of this fleeting moment. This silence... indeed the wind had stopped! Streaks of orange light were slowly creeping into the intimacy of the hut.

The young woman opened the door to the rising dawn.

The storm had subsided. The young sun bathed the cove in a serene clarity. Clumps of aromatic trees bloomed from the foot of the lighthouse to the shore, where a couple of otters were frolicking.

The little keeper called to the boys, stripped off her clothes and dived with a laugh into the transparent wave.

The princes eventually emerged from the hut, wobbling with fatigue and blinking.

The bay was smiling at them in all its glory, shining and washed by the storm, caressed by the morning. Jests seemed to fly maliciously from all the hiding places in the cove, calling the two chilly boys to the water.

Out of pride and playfulness, the princes finally abandoned their shiny uniforms and dove into the lagoon’s softness. The boys let themselves be drawn into a hide-and-seek among the posidonia forests and coral colonnades. The elusive swimmer played with the two athletes, who were trained in fencing and horseback riding with the best masters of Númenor. She taunted them by picking up sponges and escaped with a backstroke. Only the playful otters were on a par with the mischievous undine.

.oOo.

The princes went up to the lighthouse – Oh, that decrepit old watcher! Go on without me! she had dismissed them.

The great bay of Romenna stretched out before them, dotted with fishing villages, around the mighty port city, its teeming docks and shipyards.

– "We'll have to go back... Duty calls us there... "

– "The whole family must be worried sick... Especially the old man, even if he'll never admit it! "

Maybe the brothers would have had a fight. Perhaps the little babysitter had sensed it.

Or maybe she just could not help herself?

A song rose from the hut.

A simple, disarming sweetness, set to the rhythm of the swell.

A song of happiness, a salute to the moon and the sun, to their renewed harmony.

An ode of serenity, the finally completed verses of a solitary soul that had found her key.

The two brothers forgot to quarrel. They went back down to the hut, sometimes surprised to hear each other echoing an arpeggio.

.oOo.

But they had to go back.

When it was time to leave, the little lighthouse keeper held them back on the dock for a moment, taking them both by the hand:

–  "Would you come back and see me?"

She plunged the imploring blue of her gaze into the boys' distraught eyes.

– "... yes, you will come back," she read with a little sigh of gratitude...

"... but I want to ask you something... "

The low tone of this voice, which usually had such a crystalline laugh, alarmed the boys, who exchanged a brief glance before interrupting the little keeper, almost in the same voice:

–  "We shall never take anyone else to your little haven! "

–  "We promise!"

.oOo.

Of course, the princes returned to see the little lighthouse keeper.

When they returned, the boys had brought tasty pastries and sweets of all kinds. She tasted everything, pretty excited.

While the boys remained silent, obviously waiting for her reaction, she admitted, after a thorough analysis and with great seriousness, that it was delicious. –  "Men are really ingenious gourmets!"

Then she gave a taste to her friends the otters, to her favourite seagull, a horrible thieving minx, as well as to the old bearded grouper with whom she used to play for hours in the bay. She ended with a large distribution to the island's commensals. The little keeper was very sharing.

In return, she served them the juice of an island fruit. Not quite a vine, not necessarily a tree, but with a sweet, iodized flavour that whetted their appetite.

Again they spoke of the shores to be discovered and of the genius of elves and men sailing the oceans.

From time to time, the princes tried to learn more from their strange friend, but she did not dwell on trivial matters such as supplies or mission orders. She was just taking care of herself!

Minastir had confirmed to the Romenna harbour master's office that the lighthouse was disused, but even he felt the need to not really clarify the matter with the young woman.

During gales, she would scan the ocean. Sometimes she would even sing a lullaby, standing in the spray at the end of the island's rocks. And sometimes the lighthouse would light up. But she never stocked up on fuel to light the lamp and keep the mechanism running - oh, there's plenty of oil left up there!

The rest of the time, she was careful not to let herself be seen by the ships in the bay.  The little keeper was very modest.

Sometimes she went on a trip, she said. On which ship? That remained a mystery. But obviously she certainly travelled since she knew so much about the seas.

Only once did the boys manage to guess one of her destinations. For she had brought back from Nísimaldar, the land of herbs on the west coast of Númenor, a tree that blossomed only in the spray of the ocean. Thanks to her, the Oiolaïre had multiplied on the small island, which scented with resinous and lemony fragrances.

When evening came, the boys would simply lie down in the girl's bed, under the blue tulles and the gull feathers. They would inevitably fall asleep to the soft song of their hostess. Sitting in a rocking chair where she liked to embroider, the young woman watched the two men fall asleep, sheltered from the worries of the court:

.oOo.

As time passed, the princes kept their promise not to divulge the secret of the little lighthouse keeper.

In Romenna, the island had a reputation for being haunted. It was hard to understand how this lighthouse, built by the navigator-king Aldarion, could still fulfil its high functions. Perhaps some elven charm remained dormant, which the wrath of Ossë could awaken? In any case, why change anything!

In heavy weather, the princes noticed that the lighthouse lit up, guiding the sails in distress. There were even a few shipwrecks that were narrowly avoided. The surviving sailors, drunk in the taverns of Romenna, spoke reverently and emphatically of an angel of light at the head of an armada of dolphins, guiding them through the storm which she calmed with her divine song.

And perhaps the boys were a little jealous.

Sometimes Gaërwen was absent. No otters on the shore, no soothing songs in the small cabin...

So the boys stayed at the quay for a few days, carrying out repairs or improving the rigging, in the hope that the little lighthouse keeper would return soon.

.oOo.

One morning, the little keeper found the princes sitting in the cabin with food brought from the Palace. They had not touched any of the refined food. An awkward silence greeted the young woman under her own roof; the chirp of joy that flowed from her lips dried up before their closed faces.

She hugged them both, but she sensed from the beating of the younger brother's heart and the quivering of the elder's jaws, that something was wrong.

The royal council, held that very morning, had discussed serious matters. War was spreading in Middle-earth. Gil-Galad was once again calling for help. The brothers had opposed each other with all the strength of their conviction and eloquence.

A deep resentment burned inside them both. They had come here to seek some relief, but they had brought discord with them.

– "They need us!"

– "Our people are not ready! We are not in a position to send an expeditionary force with any chance of surviving, apart from the bridgeheads already established!"

– "We must give hope to our human brothers and our elven allies! The slightest strength we have must be engaged!"

– "You heard the admiral's advice like I did! In the short term, we can only supply Vinyalondë and keep the pirates at bay!

– "But that's without taking into account the resources of the Guild of Venturers!"

Gaelwen approached Colvaldor, taking his hand to calm him down.

When the resentful young man challenged Minastir to send him to Middle Earth leading a squadron, he grabbed Gaelwen by the waist and shouted at his brother:

– "Since you won’t, together, we shall raise the honour of our island and help the oppressed!"

– "I didn't know you had such plans of your own!" interrupted Minastir coldly and with a bitter look at the young woman.

Immediately, the young woman firmly pulled away from the prince's arms, her stormy eyes glaring reproachfully at the two boys:

– "How dare you include me in your quarrels? How dare you decide for me? And how dare you insinuate some treachery on my part?"

The grimacing hydra of jealousy had just burst into her life, tainting even the memory of those happy hours of shared dreams with the boys. So the inner flame of men, their need to tame the universe, was finally consuming what they could not share... These children had to be protected from themselves... She swallowed her tears and seemed to grow as she ordered in a loud voice:

– "I shall not be treated like a palace vase! Go away! Both of you! "

The princes bowed and cast off under a stormy sky. The little lighthouse keeper was very angry.

.oOo.

That very night, in great secrecy, Prince Colvaldor set sail for Vinyalondë with a few followers, weapons and supplies on board the cutter Elyât Roth.

His relatives had no news of this reckless venture for several months.

Minastir, for his part, imagined that this dire move was not only due to the ideals of a young man; there was a part of love's frustration. Did he not feel it himself?

The prince planned an expedition in search of his younger brother, but the king forbade him to leave Númenor, as his heir to the throne.

.oOo.

One night, Minastir woke up with a start.

No one was in her room! Yet...

The caress of a warm breath lingered on his cheek. The shiver of a cajolery still stirred the locks of his neck. The iodine flavour of the cabin, its timeless tranquillity, still floated in the air of his bedroom.

He knew, in an instant, that a friendly soul had been watching over his sleep.

Shining in the glow of a moonbeam, small footprints, wet as if a naiad had emerged from the ocean, led from his bed to the balcony overlooking the bay.

He got up and, moved by an ambivalent presentiment, Minastir ran to the port of Romenna.

The guard there was in an uproar – an ominous ship had been spotted approaching the harbour!

But the superstitious crews refused to set sail in order to intercept it. The curse of Ossë hung over them.

When a ship, its sails in tatters, drifted across the entrance channel, the sailors' hair stood on end: no one was visible at the helm or on the mast.

In an unreal silence, on the flat sea, the ship, tilted on its port side like a great wounded animal, turned slowly on itself, carried away by invisible currents.

A powerful enchantment seemed to guide the ghost ship. No sailor, no captain dared to brave the curse and stay to board this spectre of the sea. So Minastir was alone on the quay when the ship docked of its own accord.

The prince moored the dilapidated hull and climbed in. No one was on board! It was indeed the Elyat Roth, but she had suffered damage, her poorly stowed cargo had scattered and a great deal of water had invaded the cabin and the lockers.

The prince sat on the steering board and held his head in his hands for a long time: a storm had swept away the crew, and Colvaldor had disappeared at sea!

His brother's death had remained a chimera until his ship had been found. Now he faced with the empty ship, this death boat indeed, his younger brother’s absence had taken shape in his mind, imposing itself like an omnipresent abyss.

With a heavy heart, he took the boat back to the dry dock and entrusted it to the shipwright, his old master Ornindal.

.oOo.

Grief kept Minastir with his family for a long time. The prince accepted a huge load of work, drowning his sorrow in study and responsibility.

Yet every evening, when he returned to the privacy of his conscience, he thought of her.

Of that little lighthouse keeper who must have been moping, who was perhaps waiting for news from one or the other.

Of the one whose pain he would never dare to face, for he feared to confront his feelings of guilt...

Of the one he no longer felt entitled to sail to, alone at the helm of the cutter, without this brother whom he missed cruelly.

Minastir chewed on his regrets. In these moments of despair, he tried to see the lighthouse from his room, waiting for some sign. But the lighthouse remained mute, shrouded in mist.

Finally, one night, when a gloomy weather had been stirring up threatening clouds all day, Minastir saw it.

The glow trembled, cold and determined, chanting a call that the prince knew was meant for him.

The imperious glare redoubled, piercing the drizzle of the bay and the sticky miasma of his remorse.

Calmindon's lookout was summoning him to the court of his conscience.

Minastir dressed and went down to the docks at the far end of the harbour. At the quayside, the cutter was swaying gently, waiting for him, repaired, rigged and pampered, its brass polished by Ornindal and his companions in remembrance of Colvaldor.

Feverishly, the prince embarked on the sea wing.

.oOo.

As soon as Minastir passed the Romenna jetty, the winds howled, violent and disorderly.

The Elyat Roth was heading for Calmindon, while the last boats were taking refuge in the harbour. The clouds thickened, slowly spiralling in dark streaks, crossed by lightning.

The prince's ship, the only sail in the middle of the bay, lit up with otherworldly lights, with a dull hiss that shook the sky. A pale violet glow haloed the ends of the yards, while the mast spire burned in the brazen air like a great candle flickering on the altar of the god of storms.

Suddenly lightning struck.

With a horrible crack, the charred mast broke.

Minastir blocked the helm and rushed to cut the props and sheets, which were pulled by the fallen sails. Thus he freed his ship from a dangerous list and was able to turn towards the fire that had spread to the cabin. But the flames had spread to the lower hull with supernatural rapidity.

In a few moments the prince was forced to jump into the water.

He watched as the cutter sank, a torch dislocated by the pounding water.

The swimmer struggled for a long time, submerged by the waves breaking one after the other, his eyes desperately seeking a glimmer of light to guide him to the shore.

Finally, it was only a question of floating, like a cork at the mercy of the swirls.

Think of nothing.

Let my mind drift over the raging elements.

Save my strength.

Push back the images of my life, emerging from the void of the night.

Calm my breath.

Focus on survival.

Flap my legs in a supple manner.

Think not of Gaërwen's bitter smile.

Force myself to breathe out.

Think not about the kingdom.

Rest my arms.

Think not of the war.

Breathe slowly.

Think not of Colvaldor's departure.

Lift my head.

Despise the cold rising from the abyss.

Think not of Gaërwen's smile.

Reject the regrets.

The thunderous laughter of my brother.

My left leg goes numb.

Focus on survival.

My arms are close to tetany.

I blame Gaërwen. Yet she has nothing to do with it.

A bar settling across my chest.

My breath becomes shorter.

Must concentrate. That’s vital.

The cold gripping my limbs.

I drank sea water. I have to pay more attention.

I should have opened up to Gaërwen.

My legs no longer hurt.

I should concentrate on what is important.

What is the point in fighting?

The cramp no longer bothers me.

Make peace with my brother.

Seaweeds clamp my chest like a jilted lover.

But who does she prefer?

Can't feel my arms anymore.

Languid seaweeds embrace and support me.

Colvaldor is waiting for me.

The bar in my chest has disappeared.

He smiles at me with his playful, rebellious air.

The shady darkness of the abyss was illuminated by a blue halo. The Elyat Roth stood by a small cabin, swaying slowly to the rhythm of the graceful kelp forests. Colvaldor went out and stepped forward, draped in an iridescent mantle, crowned with white pearls and ruby coral. His laughing eyes brimmed with indulgence. His calm smile enveloped Minastir with a benevolent warmth.

A diaphanous shadow undulated beside him, holding his hand like a jealous lover. But the undine also held out an arm towards Minastir in a desperate invitation, a graceful promise of eternally shared tenderness.

Colvaldor embraced the sea-wave curled against his side and stepped aside, with the heavy, rough step of one who pry himself away from the weightlessness of the waters, in order to return to the rocky shores.

Minastir accepted his brother's hand, while the sea shadow, tenderly sinuous, diluted into an infinity of tiny fiches, myriads of tears flooding the mourning abysses.

Colvaldor reached Tol Uinen and overcame the surf with a mighty effort from his legs to his shoulders, dragging his exhausted brother to the shore.

.oOo.

The pale sun looked down on the shore with a blank stare.

The man had returned to the earth. He felt embedded in the rock, his heavy limbs unable to move.

Above him stood the old lighthouse, extinguished forever, a mute witness to sea tales and nights of ordeal.

Slowly, the bruised man rose to his feet, his arms going numb, each movement awakening a new pain. A taste of kelp filled his throat. He gathered up the shreds of memory that stuck to him like otherworldly seaweed on his lacerated skin.

He was alive.

He spat and vomited sea water.

The storm had spared him. And yet he had come to throw himself into it.

He was Minastir, Prince of Númenor.

And he had been saved from the waters.

The familiar cove looked dull, shunned by the slightest remnant of life. A mineral desert bathed in water and wind.

A little further on, a broken bow pointed its bowsprit ^[7]  towards the heavens, as if to witness the violence of the night.

Minastir approached, his soul empty and his back stooped with pain.

He recognised the slender bow with its slight curve.

At the foot of the wreck he saw it.

Colvaldor lay there among some rotting spars, his skin pale and swollen in an extinguished tunic, crowned with green moss and marine concretions. His gnawed eye sockets gaping at nothingness. His toothless smile struck Minastir with overwhelming horror. A crimson shadow pulsed at the side of the corpse. A deep-sea scavenger was clutching the dead body with its slimy tentacles, gobbling up the horribly stinking entrails.

.oOo.

Prince Colvaldor, unlike the other members of the royal family of Númenor, was not buried in the catacombs of Meneltarma. At the request of his elder brother, his remains were embalmed and buried on the island of Tol Uinen, under a mausoleum representing the ship that the two brothers had built and steered. Minastir had assembled it himself, with the wreckage of the Elyât Roth and some trunks of the Oiolaïre.

When he became king, Tar Minastir, deeply marked by his brother’s death, wondered for a long time about the fate of men, loving the Elves but jealous of their immortality. He formed a mighty army and sent it out to the help of Gil-Galad, which led to the defeat of Sauron.

Since that time, no one visits the island of Tol Uinen, which is said to be haunted by a jealous and unhappy soul. It is told in the taverns of Romenna that a young girl sometimes dives from the island to swim with dolphins, and she harasses any ship that fails to perform the Eldar rite. Then the frightened crew, fearing the evil eye, complies with the ritual: a female relative of the captain decorates the bow of the ship with a branch of the aromatic tree.

The legends of Númenor tell us that Uinen, the Lady of the Seas, protected all ships that left the bay of Romenna... But sometimes she was overcome by despair when she came across a beautiful sailor who reminded her of those she had loved and could not keep safe. At such times, it was better not to be at sea, with or without a branch of Oïolairë...

.oOo.

NOTES

^[1]Adûnaic, the language of Númenor: "Hail, Master Shiprwright Ornindal!" This is a Sindarin name, which proves that the shiprwright’s family is versed in the language of the elves of Middle-earth. Ornindal means "Tree-foot", a tribute to Rosinski and Van Hamme's eponymous character in Thorgal.

^[2] Particular assembly of two pieces, in carpentry.

[3] Adûnaic : foam of twin stars

[4] A race on the sea, often with ships of the same kind.

^[5]A male divinity of the oceans (Maia in Tolkien's language), Ossë is reputed to be hot-tempered and whimsical, unlike his wife Uinen, the Lady of the Seas, who is considered more conciliatory.

^[6] Sindarin : Light Tower, built by King Tar-Aldarion.

[7] The mast at the front of the ship, very leaning.

---

Chapter End Notes

This fiction is built as a tale, a genre that is not listed if 

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