The Night Lantern of Bramble Bay

On the edge of Bramble Bay the houses leaned toward the sea as if they wanted to listen. Their roofs were patched with old sails and their chimneys carried little ribbons of steam that smelled faintly of ginger. At dusk the windows warmed like turned-on lamps in a toy house, and each ledge held a plant or a jar of found shells. The people who lived there kept small rules: shoes by the door, lanterns on the porch, and a soft word for a passing neighbor. When the town made its evening carefulness, a narrow tower by the pier grew bright with a light that did not glare but hummed. It was the Night Lantern. It did not seek ships. It gathered sleep.

Etta Rowan had been nine for three days. She kept her hair in a scratch of a ponytail and tucked pebbles into pockets because they were comforting. She liked to trace the spiral rope of the tower and name the knots as if they were tiny secrets. Some nights she hummed without meaning to, and sometimes her aunt caught her whispering to chairs. She had a freckle above her left eyebrow and a habit of chewing the very end of her braid when she thought hard. A child of small hands and wide listening, she learned how to wind the lantern and how the gears heard the bay.

Gran Sela taught her. Gran Sela smelled of lemon and oil and the sea tangled in an old shawl. Her hands moved slowly but with the certainty of a tide. She had the job names of someone who had measured many quiet nights into her bones. In the evenings she would lay a palm on the lantern's cool glass and say, 'Listen to what the night asks for.' She taught Etta how to polish the glass until it answered with a soft bell, and how to tuck a lucky pebble into the lantern's little pocket so it would not forget the taste of day.

The thing about that night was how even the gulls forgot their usual squabble. Etta climbed the stairs with her stool under one arm and the polishing cloth wrapped like a small sail. She felt the tower's wood breathe under her feet. She slid the glass aside to give the lantern its last sweep. The leather bellows, that often sighed like an old cat, gave one hollowed sound and then fell strangely quiet. Etta's fingers smoothed the rim. She set her pebble into its slot. The lantern answered with a lull like cotton, but where there should have been a steady opening of light it hiccuped, as if somebody had plucked a strand from the field of night.