There was always something that washed up on the shore.
Malcolm Hayes sprawled half-drowned under the relentless sun. Waves dragged his body towards the water, grinding him into the cold, grey sand. Even the crabs ignored him. Dozens of tiny legs pricked against his flesh as they walked over another piece of debris.
Mud dripped from his face. Through blurred vision, he saw nothing but ocean and tiny green stones scattered along the shore. Each one flickered faintly, like distant, glowing beacons.
Even though the sun was at its highest, a shadow hung over the western side of the island. It shifted, then stopped when it saw Malcolm.
Sand flung into the air as heavy footsteps approached. The crabs retreated into the sea.
A walking stick drove into the ground beside Malcolm’s head. The old man followed, dropping to his knees. He smelled of salt and ash.
Rough hands patted Malcolm’s body with all the finesse of a security officer on their first day. First, the old man checked his pockets. His phone, shattered and seeping saltwater, was tossed aside.
The old man reached under his robes and drew a silver dagger. A glimmer of light glistened along the blade. He froze. Over one shoulder, he stared towards the centre of the island. The old man knew he was being watched. He kept searching, and found the chain around the intruder’s neck.
Malcolm’s hand barely shuddered.
The sterling silver snapped like string and a locket dangled from the gaps between the old man’s wrinkled fingers. He tried to pry it open, but the gold plate refused to move.
Malcolm spat sand and water. A wet broken sound bubbled from his bloodied lips.
When the old man realized Malcolm was alive, he crumpled the locket in his palm. He checked the stranger’s pulse points. The old man spoke with a coarse voice he had not used in decades.
“You’re not supposed to be here yet.”
Before Malcolm could register anything, the old man hoisted him. Sand and water tumbled from his body. His world ricocheted. Waves, sand and the stones all blurred into streaks of colour.
Malcolm could no longer tell if he was dreaming again. He saw himself at the top of the tall, strange lighthouse as he had dreamt every night for the last year. He struggled to light a beacon with a flame. The stars above him faded one by one.
The old man left him to rest in the concrete doorway. Malcolm’s limbs refused to obey. He could only watch as the old man carried over a tin cup. The metal was pressed against Malcolm’s teeth and droplets trickled down his throat.
With each sip, Malcolm’s senses returned. The old man stood before him, pale with matted grey hair. The hood of his robe was draped behind him. Eyes a blue darker than the ocean watched Malcolm carefully. Strength radiated from him.
“How did you get here?” the old man asked.
Malcolm could not answer. All that remained in his memories was a life long gone. Just before the island, he was digging in the garden with bare hands. He found his mother’s locket, buried by the cherry tomatoes. And then, there was only darkness and a grip around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.
Malcolm reached for the old man’s pocket, for the rattling of his mother’s locket, to prove it still existed.
The old man retrieved a lit candle from the table before he turned back to the intruder.
“The green stones,” he said, low and rough. “They’re emeralds. They wash up after the storms. I come down after the heaviest rainstorms and take my favourites.”
He gestured at the hundreds of stones along the floor of the building. Each flickered with a faint pulse.
“Truth be told, they remind me of when I first arrived.”
Malcolm dragged himself to his feet, his legs almost foreign. His gaze drifted towards the staircase, coiled and leading upwards into darkness. Half of the old man’s face was bathed in candlelight and the other half covered in shadow.
“Would you like to come with me?”
The idea of running crossed Malcolm’s mind. Instead, he nodded.
Together, they ascended the spiral staircase. The wind struck the building, the stench of salt and rain permeating in the air. The wooden stairs groaned under their weight. Within seconds, the dull candle flame was their only source of light.
The old man pushed open the small door. A torrent of wind tore at them, almost flinging Malcolm off the stone balcony. He clutched the wall, heart pounding, forcing himself upright. The old man stood firm, his robes billowing in the wind.
The sunlight was all but gone. A tightness pressed against Malcolm’s chest. His stomach knotted as he looked over the edge. The Earth’s surface had vanished.
Bolted onto the stone walls, there was a rusted ladder. The old man began climbing. Malcolm moved to follow, but his hand froze. A shadow stretched over his suspended limb.
Then he finally saw it. The air left his body in one sharp movement. A titan stood, a mountain in the sky. Its humanoid form was cloaked in darkness. They had only reached the creature’s abdomen.
Malcolm hurled his body back into the structure. He moved for the stairs and his foot struck… nothing. Hands flailed at a staircase that no longer existed.
He fell.
The tips of his fingers caught the frame of the doorway. His legs thrashed like a dangling fish.
The candle plummeted. The heat of the burning wick brushed along his body before it was swallowed by darkness.
He wanted to scream, but nothing emerged from his mouth.
Strong fingers wrapped around his forearm.
“The lighthouse does not like those who turn back.”
The old man’s voice was muffled by the gale-force winds. With almost casual strength, Malcolm was hauled back onto the balcony.
The titan loomed.
“It will not harm you unless you try to harm it,” the old man said as he returned to the ladder.
Malcolm gripped the steel bars, his hand burning from the cold. Wind shredded his clothes, his hair slashed his face. The ladder wobbled beneath him, metal clashing against the stone, but he dared not look away or even wipe the sweat from his eyes.
He could not shake the feeling of being watched. With every rung, the sensation gnawed at him. It pierced the back of his skull, deep into his soul. It dug through his thoughts, through his memories. The knots in his stomach returned. His head rattled with the ringing of his ears.
He forced one more look. The giant filled the sky, a fraction shorter than the lighthouse itself. The face was concealed with a black mask shaped like a raven silhouette with a long beak stretched crookedly. Deep, shadowed eyeholes bored into him.
The image seared into his vision. He tried to think of his mother and even his father, but only the titan remained.
The creature did not seem bothered with his existence. It focused on the large crystal orb it cradled with both hands.
When they reached the top, Malcolm could not resist one more look.
The giant snapped its neck to meet his gaze. Two amber eyes pulsed within the darkness.
The old man sealed the door and the thumping of winds drumming against their eardrums ceased.
The top of the lighthouse offered a panoramic view of the ocean. The island, as Malcolm had suspected, was very small. Malcolm felt as though he had been here before.
In the centre of the room there was a stone altar with five final steps and a large artefact resting under a heavy drape.
They stood together and watched the titan, who had returned to staring at the crystal orb. Deep within, a light shimmered with faint, dull flashes, as though the light itself struggled to cling to life.
“That is what you perceive as time,” the old man said, pointing at the orb.
Malcolm said nothing, confusion written plainly on his face.
“I’ve lived in this lighthouse for thousands of years,” the old man continued as he lumbered to the pillar. “Back then, the orb glowed brighter than the sun.”
He pressed both hands against the window, fogging the glass with his breath. “I watch over it. When the timeline falters, when the light is too weak, the world can no longer be sustained.”
There was a sadness in his eyes, tears forming at the edges. He stood like a wounded animal, his body trembling.
“I should have lit the beacon long ago. I’ve been watching it for so long I’ve started talking to it. The orb is my friend. When it’s gone, so is my hope.”
The dangle of the locket’s broken chain echoed around the room as the old man took it from his pocket. He dropped it in his guest’s hands and then drew his dagger. “Perhaps that’s why you’re here,” he said.
The locket was heavy in Malcolm’s hand, uncomfortable, radiating warmth through his bones. He understood why the old man had brought him to the lighthouse.
“This is your final link to the rest of time,” the old man continued. “Break it and the beacon can be lit.”
The old man climbed the steps to the altar. His wrinkled hands clutched a thick rope, his knuckles turning white. The dagger’s edge struck the fibres, scraping and sawing through. Each cut sounded as though he were tearing through wood.
Threads flayed and splintered.
The rope snapped.
Malcolm held his breath. The locket responded to his touch, flipping open. Both the parchment and the emerald inside fell into his palm. The green stone was alive with light.
He joined the old man beside a massive goblet. The old man gestured to drop the stone inside.
Malcolm’s hand hovered.
A torrent of voices flooded through his mind. First, his mother called his name. Then the rest of his family. His friends followed. Finally, there were even acquaintances and voices he did not recognise. He squeezed so tightly the emerald dug into his flesh, drawing blood.
“Will I remember anything?” Malcolm asked.
The old man had a sad smile on his lips. “I don’t.”
He let go. The blood-stained stone fell and bounced into the goblet. Flames burst from the bottom, turning a pale green that illuminated the evening sky, slicing through the clouds like paper.
The giant tracked the beam of light, its beaked mask following its path. When it returned its gaze upon the orb, it began to close its hands, squeezing, until only dust lined the bony hands. Both hands clasped together and the giant lowered its head and the amber eyes vanished.
Malcolm slumped to the floor, resting his back against the pillar. Memories surged through him and vanished immediately after. He tried to hold onto his mother’s face, or his father’s, and his brother and sister, but they all dissolved like smoke. Only the locket remained, broken and heavy in his hand and the tiny parchment inside.
The rope dangled beside him and he began counting the split frays of the fabric.
When Malcolm awoke, sunlight seeped through the window, casting rows of shadows across his face like prison bars. His body ached, his eyes bloodshot.
Behind the pillar, Malcolm found the old man lying in a makeshift bed. His head was resting on his folded robes, a red blanket over his legs. Ants crawled along his body, campaigning towards a single destination.
The goblet was covered.
The giant remained, transfixed by a new, glowing orb. This time, the light pulsed with blinding flashes. Time had restarted. Malcolm wondered if his mother would be born in this timeline.
The locket was gone and Malcolm tried to remember his mother’s face, one last time. All that remained was the piece of parchment, with the words etched: come find me.
The emeralds on the beach stopped glowing. Malcolm descended the lighthouse to see how many had washed up on the shore during the rainstorm. The words flooded back in a voice similar to his own: you’re supposed to be here, now.
