The Lantern Keepers Path

One

Brineport it's called, an' a hard place it is, surely. Bent deep into th' bay it sits, crouching from th' gales that come roaring off th' Atlantic, winds salt-toothed, rain enough t' drown ye. Grey th' stone, grey th' slate, grey-white th' foam that hammers th' sea-wall an' pulls back an' hammers again, same as it's always done. A place that endures. That's th' word for it. Endures.

Work there was here, once. Pressing in th' fish used t' come, whole silver walls o' them, so thick th' water boiled with it. Boats going out in dark an' coming back in morning-light, heavy an' low, th' gunwales near th' waterline. The quay loud from first grey t' last, smoke-houses running night an' day. Women's hands red-raw from th' brine. Children playing in th' offal an' caring nothing for it. Hard work it was, bone-deep, cold an' wet an' ne'er a day's ease. But th' kind o' hard that makes a life. Holds a man up.

Gone it is now, th' fish. Gone too th' work, th' money, an' after th' money a good deal else besides.

Down at th' wharf th' boats sit still, rotting where they lie. Names bleached off th' hulls, paint gone t' flake an' dust. Three boats out last spring, an' those two men still talking o' going out again, an' November it is now. A chandler's on th' main street selling rope an' credit in equal measure. A public house called th' Anchor an' Rope, where th' name makes more sense than th' custom. A chapel. A school with seven children in it, down from nine, from twelve, from a number nobody says aloud anymore.

It's th' leaving that does it, so it is. Not all at once, mind ye. One family, then another, then two together, quiet-like, in th' night. Houses going empty. Curtains left up as if someone might be coming back. A boot on a step. The particular silence a house gets when th' people who made it a house have walked out o' it.

On th' harbour wall Old Tom sits most mornings, cap pulled low, hands wrapped round a mug gone cold. Watching th' water he is, th' same strip o' channel he's watched since he was a boy no higher than th' bollards. Not a man for speeches, Old Tom. What he knows he keeps close. He'll tell ye about th' fish if ye sit with him. About th' years when th' quay was loud. About his own father's boat, th' name o' it, th' colour o' th' hull, th' way it sat in th' water loaded. He'll tell ye all o' that, an' gladly.

What he won't tell ye, not in daylight an' not in company, is about th' other kind o' leaving. The kind where they don't go t' th' city.

Up on th' headland, where th' cliff juts out over th' channel an' th' sea-wind comes in unbroken from th' open water, stands a stone cottage an' three lanterns. White th' cottage tries t' be. Every spring Saoirse paints it back t' white. Every winter th' sea takes it back again. The lanterns are on iron poles along th' headland path, th' glass blown thick an' clear. She made th' last set o' glass herself, learning th' technique from a man who came through one summer an' taught her over three evenings, carefully, as if he knew it would be needed.

Keeping those lights she has been since she was twelve years old. Before that, helping her mother keep them she was. The weight o' each fitting she knows, which bracket has th' stiff hinge, where th' glass runs thicker on one side. Trimming th' wicks each morning she does, before th' rest o' th' work, her hands moving through th' tasks with a sureness that lives in th' fingers themselves an' not in th' head at all. The way o' it she learned young, an' deep.

Three lanterns, an' each one with its purpose, as her mother explained once, plainly, no ceremony about it.

Amber burns th' first, for th' channel. A passage there is between th' rocks an' th' sandbar, narrow an' treacherous in bad weather, an' before th' first lantern was lit, a dozen keels found th' wrong side o' it. Since th' light, not one.

White burns th' second, for th' lost ships. A signal it is. Someone is here, it says. The shore is attended. Not forgotten ye are.

Blue burns th' third.

A thing ye explain carefully or not at all, that is.

Out past th' mist-line, where th' channel disappears an' sea an' sky melt t' one grey blur on certain nights, on certain tides, there lies th' Grey Shore. Not on any chart. Not a place a man can point t' an' name a bearing for. But a place. Real enough, or real in th' way that matters.

Warm it is there, on th' Grey Shore. Full tables an' a fire that ne'er goes low. No cold, no hunger, no pain in th' joints on a winter morning. Gone th' old aches. Gone th' worry. The struggle that's been riding yer back since ye were old enough t' carry one, set down at last, an' it won't come after ye.

Many's th' one walked into that mist an' ne'er walked back out.

Folks in Brineport will say they're better off, surely. Quick they say it, like it's been rehearsed. With relief, because relief is easier than grief, an' easier still than asking th' question underneath.

Old Tom says different, if ye ask him right. If th' pub is quiet an' he's had enough t' be honest. He sits forward then, elbows on th' table, an' looks at th' fire.

"Comfortable they are, right enough," he'll say. "Warm. Fed. No want o' anything. But themselves?" A shake o' th' head. "That's what goes. The self o' them. Left at th' door, it is, like a coat they'll ne'er come back t' collect."

Understood this Saoirse did, from th' work itself. Her mother had explained th' third lantern plainly: burn it blue for those being pulled. Burn it blue t' give them something t' look toward that is neither here nor there. A fixed point. A hesitation. A moment in which a person might remember who they are.

Whether it held them, her mother couldn't say. But worth doing th' work is.

So she does it. Each morning th' wicks, th' glass, th' log. The goat's milk, th' small garden, th' meals made simple an' eaten without fuss. She mends what breaks. She watches th' weather an' th' water both. She sleeps with th' sound o' th' channel below her, an' wakes t' it, an' does not find it lonely in th' way other people sometimes expect her to.

That autumn th' mist was forming early. Thicker than th' time o' year warranted. Down t' th' quay walked Old Tom an' he looking at it an' saying nothing t' anyone. Up th' headland path he went, which takes a man his age a good while, an' sitting with Saoirse over tea they were. Looking at th' water.

Already she'd seen it. Always she sees it first.

Two

Thursday it was that Fionn arrived, coming up from th' harbour with a pack on his back an' a long case in his hand, th' instrument-kind. Coat too thin for th' season, though sound enough th' boots were. A man somewhere in his middle thirties, brown-haired, with a face th' weather had worked on but not closed. Some faces th' weather closes, shuts like a fist. Open his had stayed. Something watchful in it, an' something patient, an' something else besides that ye couldn't quite name but that made ye look twice.

At th' Anchor an' Rope he asked for a room an' told there was none he was. True enough in th' technical sense, an' false in every practical one. Four rooms upstairs Croft th' landlord had, an' a disposition toward keeping them empty that nothing short o' a direct question would shift.

Up th' headland sent him Old Tom. A woman there was, he said, who sometimes took in a lodger. Fair-minded she was, expected work in return, an' not a woman for talk unless it had something worth saying in it.

Fionn thanked him an' went.

The path up t' th' headland is steep an' exposed an' on a November afternoon th' wind takes ye sideways on it without any ceremony. Arriving at her door he was with his coat pressed flat against him an' his hair in all directions. He stood on th' step an' introduced himself an' stated what he needed: shelter, work in exchange, nothing complicated.

Looking at him she did for a moment. Then standing aside she did an' letting him in.

The room off th' kitchen was small an' cold, a single window looking north over th' channel, a bed with a wool blanket, a shelf, a hook on th' back o' th' door. Setting his pack on th' floor he did an' his case on th' bed. Looking around th' room he was, th' way a person looks at a space they intend t' inhabit properly. Not judging it. Measuring it. Finding where things would go.

Earning his place th' first week he was, well enough. Re-pointed a section o' th' windward wall with a competence that surprised her, mixing th' mortar right, pressing it firm, finishing th' edges clean. Carrying fuel without being asked. Tidy he was, which matters more than people say it does when two strangers share a small kitchen. On two evenings he cooked, producing from th' near-empty store things that were better than they'd any right t' be. Not talking too much. His hands always doing something, even at rest.

On th' fourth evening out came th' flute.

Standing still Saoirse was in th' kitchen, cup in her hand, not moving. The sound o' it low an' unhurried, a melody moving th' way water moves, finding th' contours o' whatever lies beneath. Not knowing th' tune she was. Not sure a fixed tune it was at all, t' be honest. Building itself as it went, th' music was, out o' something in th' room or th' air between them, or th' sea below.

Not asking him about it she was, that night. Not ready she was t' hear th' answer yet.

Himself it was who told her, a few evenings after. He was oiling th' case clasps, working th' hinge o' th' lid back an' forth with a small cloth, his attention on th' thing in his hands.

"A song it is," he said. "Old. Older than I know th' edges of, surely. My grandfather had it, an' his mother before him, an' back it goes further than that. Memory it holds." Said plainly, no performance about it, th' way he said most things. "When playing it ye are, people remember. Not just their own things. Older things. What th' body knows before th' mind catches up."

Said she it sounded like an uncomfortable song t' be carrying.

Said he it was. But worse it would be t' put it down. An' he closed th' lid o' th' case with th' care o' a man closing something he intends t' open again soon.

In th' third week playing he was in th' Anchor an' Rope, Croft having asked him. Full was th' room for th' first time in a long while, because word o' a thing goes round a small town quickly an' a rumour o' music goes fastest o' all. Coming they did, Brineport's people, because nothing else there was, an' because something had gone ahead o' Fionn like a change in th' weather. A feeling. The expectation o' a feeling.

There was Old Tom, in his corner seat. Watching th' room he was, th' way he always did, more interested in what th' people did with a thing than in th' thing itself.

What he saw was them remember. Not names or dates, maybe, not th' exact surfaces o' th' past. But th' shape o' things. The weight o' a child asleep against yer shoulder. The hour after a funeral when yer people are still around ye an' th' world is still going an' both wrong an' necessary that feels. The particular warmth o' a fire after real cold.

Crying nobody was. Not that kind o' night. But heavier in themselves they sat, an' better for it.

Without charging Croft poured. Worth remarking on, that was.

On th' headland in th' weeks that followed, talking they were in th' evenings, Saoirse an' Fionn. By th' fire, with th' lanterns burning outside an' th' channel below doing what th' channel does. Far he'd travelled an' many kinds o' work he'd done. Fishing boats, labouring, a season's tutoring in a village somewhere inland. Moving when th' season turned he did, not from restlessness exactly but from something more like an obligation. A sense that staying too long in one place was a kind o' dishonesty for him. As if th' song needed t' keep moving t' stay true.

About th' three lanterns she told him. All o' it. He listened without breaking in, which was his way, an' when she'd finished he looked at th' blue lantern outside th' window for a long moment.

"Think ye it works?" says he.

Says she: worth doing th' work is, whether or not it works.

A pause then. "Either very wise that is," he said, "or very sad."

Says she: most things worth doing are both.

At that he smiled. The kind o' smile that means something has landed true.

The town kept talking. Pressing in th' winter was, an' harder than usual. Two more families gone quietly in th' night, an' Old Tom knowing well enough they hadn't gone t' th' city. Knows th' look o' it, he does. The wrongness o' a house after that kind o' leaving.

On a morning when both o' them were up early, watching Fionn he was from th' path, standing at th' headland edge looking at th' mist on th' channel. A stillness in th' man there was that Old Tom didn't care for. The stillness o' someone listening t' something at th' edge o' what they can hear. His hands loose at his sides an' his face turned toward th' water, an' th' water grey an' close.

Nothing he said then. But watching he was.

Working at th' flute Saoirse was, in th' evenings now, in a small way, Fionn teaching her th' fingering. No natural she was an' said so herself. Said he that was fine. Not skill th' song needs, he said. Attention it needs. That's a different thing.

Paying attention she was. Always had been.

Three

It was th' Keeper o' Tides that called him, an' at night it came, th' way those things always come.

Hearing about it Old Tom did later, in pieces, th' way ye hear things in a small place. What he understood was this. Late on th' headland path Fionn had been, late enough that thick was th' mist an' burning was th' blue lantern. Something in th' water he heard. Not a voice exactly. More like th' shape o' a promise. Health, comfort, rest, an end t' th' long wandering. All th' things a man running out o' season might want t' hear.

Patient th' Keeper o' Tides is, mind ye. Not grabbing, not demanding. Offering it is, an' knowing what ye want it does, because long practice it's had at knowing, an' because what people want in th' end is not so different from one t' th' next.

In th' morning gone Fionn was.

Only th' flute left behind, on th' kitchen table. Set there carefully, th' cloth folded under it, th' way ye'd leave something ye wanted found an' wanted kept.

Standing there Saoirse was, a long time, looking at it. The cloth he'd used t' oil th' clasps. His hands had been on it last night. Then she lit th' stove, boiled water, did th' morning's work. She checked th' lanterns. She wrote in th' log. She moved through th' routine o' th' day with th' concentration o' someone who knows that routine is a kind o' armour, an' wears it as such.

Up came Old Tom in th' afternoon. Sitting at th' table she was, th' flute in her hands, not playing it, just holding it th' way he'd held it, testing th' weight o' th' thing.

"Better off they'll say he is," says he.

"So they will," says she.

Down he sat. Low th' fire was an' she hadn't fed it.

"Is it what ye think?" says he.

Looking at th' flute she was. "Warm it is there," says she. "An' comfortable. Cold he won't be an' hungry he won't be an' stopped th' wandering will have." A long pause then. "But gone th' song will be. Going th' memory will, an' th' feeling, an' himself. The Fionn o' it. More it takes than it gives. Always has done, so it has."

Nothing said Old Tom. True it was an' both o' them knew it.

"Going after him I am," says she.

He had expected this. Known it from th' moment he'd seen th' empty path that morning. Coming up here he had been t' say she should think carefully, an' going away again without saying it he had planned.

"The last one that went in after someone," says he.

"Know it I do," says she.

"An' th' one before that."

"Know that too."

Looking at her he was. Steady she was. That particular steadiness she'd always had, since a girl learning th' work on this headland. Not fearless, mind ye. Never without fear had she been. But holding it she could, without letting it steer.

Lighting th' lanterns she would first, she said. All three before she went. Burning as long as they'd burn.

That night, when th' mist thickened an' th' tide turned an' quiet th' channel went in th' strange way it goes quiet on those particular nights, down th' headland path she walked an' into th' grey. The flute she left on th' table where he'd set it.

From th' wall Old Tom watched until see her he couldn't anymore. Then watching th' three lanterns he was.

Thinking he was: this story has happened before. Thinking: happen again it will. No comfort in that, but true it was, an' true things matter even when no comfort they bring.

His coat he pulled tighter an' he waited.

Four

Cold th' mist was, but not th' cold o' weather. A different kind, so it was. The cold o' nothing in particular. The cold o' absence itself. Walking she was an' th' path dissolved behind her an' th' sound o' th' sea went an' th' sound o' wind went an' only her own breathing there was an' her own footsteps an' th' blue-light o' th' lantern she carried, burning on a short pole, held out before her like a question.

How long walking she was she couldn't say. Time does a different thing in th' mist.

Then thinning th' mist went, an' th' Grey Shore opened.

Perfect it was, in its way. That herself'll tell ye, if asking ye are. Not beautiful, mind ye. Beauty needs contrast, needs shadow, needs th' hard thing set beside th' soft thing so knowing ye do which is which. Something else this was. Smooth an' even an' untroubled. The light falling there was like an overcast afternoon that ne'er changes, warm an' directionless, casting no shadow at all. No edge t' it. No relief.

Wide th' shore itself was, pale sand without a stone in it, each grain th' same size as th' last. Grasses beyond, low an' even, moving in no wind because wind there is ne'er here. Houses further still, well-built, warm-looking, smoke from th' chimneys but no smell t' th' smoke. No fish-smell, no turf-smell, no salt. Trees in th' distance, leaves perfectly still.

Moving about th' place people were, slowly, without urgency. Not unhappy they were. That clearly enough ye could see. No distress, no hurry, no argument. Moving th' way water moves in a pond with no current, without destination. Children sitting an' playing quietly, without th' shrieking that real children make, th' joy o' it, th' fury o' it, th' whole loud weather o' being young. A woman by one o' th' houses, hands in her lap, looking at nothing particular an' finding it enough.

Watching them she was an' feeling th' wrongness settle in her chest. The quiet o' it. Not peaceful-quiet. Not th' quiet after good work. The quiet o' things that have forgotten what they were made for.

By th' shore itself she found him.

Sitting on th' pale sand he was, looking at th' water. Grey an' smooth th' water was, moving in long even swells that made no sound an' meant nothing. Well he was, clearly enough. No cold in him, no hunger. Clean his coat. His boots dry. His hands resting open in his lap, th' fingers loose, th' way hands rest when they aren't thinking about themselves. The hands that had closed th' flute case with such care. Resting now, emptied o' purpose.

His name she said.

Turning he did, an' looking at her he was, an' seeing it she did immediately. Not gone. Not yet. But going. Like a fire left without fuel, still burning but th' light changed, th' coal o' him still there but th' flame lower an' losing ground. Looking at her he was with a kind o' recognition that was half a question, as if knowing he did that her face meant something without being quite sure what.

"Saoirse," he said. Her name in his mouth, but gently, like testing a word in a language he was starting t' forget.

"Himself," says she. "The very same. Come on now."

It was then th' Keeper o' Tides made itself known.

Not a figure exactly. More like a presence, th' way certain places have a presence, old churches, old battlefields, old houses where much has happened. A weight an' a voice both, coming from th' still air itself.

"Comfortable he is," th' Keeper said. "Well. Warm. What he needed."

"Needed no such thing he did," Saoirse said.

"Cold he was. Hungry. The wandering was killing him."

"Living th' wandering was," says she. "An' th' cold an' th' hunger too, in their way. Real they were. His they were." Her hand on Fionn's arm she put, an' feeling him she was under there, th' real him, deep an' present still, th' way a coal is present under grey ash, needing only air. "A man without wanting is not a man. A man without his song is not himself. Taken th' want out o' him ye have. The reach. The song. No kindness that is. A theft."

Thickening th' Keeper's presence did. Patient it stayed, not angry. "Everything here he has."

"Wants for everything he does," says she, "and not knowing t' want, that's th' trouble itself. Take th' pain away ye cannot without taking th' music with it."

Quiet th' Keeper was then. "Take him, then," it said at last. "If ye can."

The condition was this. Leading him out she would, back through th' mist, back t' th' real shore. Following he would. Walking they would, not looking back, neither o' them, until both feet were on solid ground, both o' them together. If turning she did before that, if looking back even for a moment, th' mist would take him. Closing around him th' Grey Shore would, an' remembering he would not that anything else there was.

"So it has always been," th' Keeper said. An' in those words something there was that sounded like an old contract. One that'd been written before, in other times, in other voices.

She agreed.

His hand she took. Warm it was in hers. Out she set.

Following he did. Slow at first, reluctant th' way a sleeper is reluctant, not resistant but heavy, not wanting exactly t' wake. Dream-like his steps. Talking t' him she kept, steady an' low, as walking they were. About th' lanterns she told him. The first for th' channel, th' second for th' lost, th' third, blue, for those in between. About th' mortar he'd pressed into th' windward wall she told him, how it held through November, how she'd checked it each week. About th' goat she told him, who had a name now, Cait, because after a while ye name what stays. About th' evenings she told him, how sitting by th' fire she still was, working at th' fingering he'd taught her, getting it wrong th' same way, reliably an' without improvement.

Coming back t' himself she felt him, th' way heat comes back into a cold room. Slowly, from th' edges in. His grip on her hand changed. Tightening it did. His steps finding th' ground more surely.

"The flute," he said. Not a question. Remembering.

"On th' table," says she. "Where ye left it. The cloth folded under it."

"The cloth," he said, an' something in th' way he said it, th' particular-ness o' th' memory, told her th' flame was catching.

Pressing in th' mist did around them. Feeling it she was as a physical thing, cold an' close. The Keeper's presence in it, but no voice now. Just weight an' pull, coming from behind, from everywhere behind, from th' direction she could not look.

Walking she kept.

Don't turn. That was th' whole o' it. Simple enough as a rule. Simple th' way th' hardest things are simple.

Something she could hear ahead. Faint at first, then clearer. The real sea. Wind with salt in it. The sounds o' th' actual world, which is louder than ye realise until ye've been somewhere with none o' those sounds, an' hearing them again ye are, like a door opened in a room ye thought was sealed.

Stronger now were Fionn's steps. The waking fully in him she could feel. His breathing changed.

Then th' Keeper whispered.

Shouting it didn't. Threatening it didn't. Speaking in th' tone o' a reasonable concern, a gentle worry, th' voice o' someone who only means well.

"Is he still there?"

Walking she was.

"How d'ye know he's following? Can't see him, ye can't. Can't see his face."

Walking she was.

"What if changed he is? What if what comes out with ye isn't what ye went in for?"

An' that was th' thing, that particular whisper. Not fear for herself. Fear for him. Fear that th' Fionn she was leading out was not th' whole o' him, that something had stayed behind in th' grey warmth, that reaching th' real shore an' turning she would an' finding something diminished where someone whole should be.

The sea clear now she could hear. Real wind ahead.

An' she turned.

Just for a moment. Just t' see. Just t' be sure.

Five

His face when she turned.

That is what she carries. What always she'll carry.

Fully awake he was, in that moment. Fully himself. Blazing th' coal o' him, high th' flame, his eyes finding hers with recognition an' with love an' with something else besides, something that looked like grief but looked too like understanding. Like knowing he did, always had done, that this was th' shape o' it. That th' story had always been going t' go this way.

The mist came.

Resisting it he didn't, an' that was th' terrible thing. Reaching for her he was, yes, his hand out toward her. But not struggling against th' mist. Only reaching, t' be sure she knew.

"The song," he said. "Have ye th' song. That's enough. Carries it, that does."

An' then th' grey closed around him an' gone he was.

Standing she was at th' edge o' th' real world, one foot on solid ground an' th' sea-wind hitting her an' th' sound o' th' channel below an' Brineport's lights down th' cliff, an' standing there a long time she was. Long enough for th' cold t' come back into her properly. Real cold this time. With edges t' it. With salt.

Up she walked t' th' headland. Checked th' lanterns, each one. The amber for th' channel, burning steady. The white for th' lost. The blue, still burning. Filled it she did, trimmed it, closed th' glass.

Inside she went, an' sitting at th' table she was, an' picking up th' flute she did. Holding it in both hands th' way he'd held it. The weight o' it, th' temperature o' th' metal, th' cloth still folded under it where he'd placed it.

A long time it took her t' make a sound that was more music than breath. More weeks than she'd admit, an' th' goat heard th' worst o' it without complaint. Working at it she was, th' way she worked at everything. With attention. Without quitting.

Winter passed. Spring came back, th' way it comes back here, not with a flourish but with a gradually lessening argument. Sharp th' wind still but not vicious. A bit o' green in th' cliff-grass. The light different in th' evenings.

Down t' th' town she went sometimes, which ne'er much she'd done before Fionn. Sat in th' Anchor an' Rope, not saying a great deal. Once she played, just a short while, sitting near th' fire with th' flute, an' going quiet th' room did, th' way it'd gone quiet for him. Not th' same music. Not as good, mind ye, herself'll tell ye that without hesitation. But something o' th' song in it. Something o' th' memory an' th' truth o' it, coming through th' notes she'd learned by paying attention t' his hands.

There was Old Tom that night. Watching th' faces he was, as he had before. Seeing th' same thing in them, th' remembering, th' settling back into th' weight o' themselves.

After, walking up t' th' headland with her he did. Clear th' night was, for once. No mist. Visible th' channel was all th' way t' th' dark line where th' sea begins in earnest. The three lanterns burning in their order on th' poles.

"Nearly had him ye did," says he.

"Nearly I did," says she.

"The turning," he said. Not an accusation. Just th' fact o' it.

"The turning," she agreed.

A while they stood in th' cold, th' sea below them doing what th' sea always does.

"Not wrong he was," Old Tom said, after a time.

Looking at him she was.

"The song," says he. "Here it is now. Carried it out ye did, th' whole o' it. Teaching it ye are. Further it'll go than either o' ye." He paused. Pulled his coat tighter. "Always was that th' thing, so it was. Not th' man or th' woman or th' loss o' them. The thing they were holding. That's what wants t' carry on."

At th' three lanterns Saoirse looked, burning in their order. Amber, white, blue.

"Repeats th' story, he said," says she. "That try again love an' hope will."

"So they will," Old Tom said. "So they always do."

That's what he'll tell ye, if asking him ye are. In th' Anchor an' Rope on a winter night, or on th' quay watching th' water, or on th' headland path looking up at th' lights on th' poles. Tell ye he will about th' fish that used t' come, an' th' boats, an' th' work that was. Tell ye he will about Brineport an' th' way it endures.

An' tell ye he will about Saoirse, who is up on th' headland still, tending three lights every evening without fail. The amber for th' channel. The white for th' lost. The blue for those in between.

An' tell ye he will about th' music that comes down from th' headland on quiet evenings now, when th' wind drops an' th' air goes soft with salt. A flute. Not th' playing o' a gifted man born t' it. The playing o' someone who learned it for love, an' kept learning after, because that's what ye do with th' things love leaves ye. Ye keep them lit. Ye keep them going.

Tending th' flame, that is. Not a small thing, so it's not. Keeping a flame for something gone. Carrying a song that holds memory an' truth into a place where thin on th' ground both are. A courage in it there is that looks like nothing from th' outside. Looks like just a woman doing th' same work every day, same as yesterday, same as th' day before. Same as her mother did, an' her mother's mother before that.

But knows th' shape o' it Old Tom does. Seen it once he has, an' see it again he will, likely. Happens here, so it does. A pull there is, in certain places, in certain weathers. A call from somewhere promising relief from all th' hard an' th' cold an' th' loss o' it. An' always there will be those who follow it. An' always there will be those who go after them.

An' sometimes bringing th' lost one home they will, an' th' song will carry on.

An' sometimes standing at th' edge o' th' real world they'll be, one foot on solid ground an' th' sea-wind coming in, an' turning they'll do for just a moment, for love's sake, an' th' mist will have what th' mist always wants, an' walking back alone they'll be.

But th' song carries on.

That's th' whole o' it, so it is. That's what Old Tom'll tell ye.

If letting him ye do.

End