She Lightens the Beacon, Light at the End of World by Wielder -- Fur Affinity [dot] net

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She Lightens the Beacon, Light at the End of World

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She Lightens the Beacon, Light at the End of World

By Wielder,
posted 14 years ago High Priestess of Grunge | Support me with Shinies!

"An old man by a seashore At the end of day Gazes the horizon With seawinds in his face Tempest-tossed island Seasons all the same Anchorage unpainted And a ship without a name Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard He lightens the beacon, light at the end of world Showing the way lighting hope in their hearts The ones on their travels homeward from afar This is for long-forgotten Light at the end of the world Horizon crying The tears he left behind long ago The albatross is flying Making him daydream The time before he became One of the world`s unseen Princess in the tower Children in the fields Life gave him it all: An island of the universe Now his love`s a memory A ghost in the fog He sets the sails one last time Saying farewell to the world Anchor to the water Seabed far below Grass still in his feet And a smile beneath his brow This is for long-forgotten Light at the end of the world Horizon crying The tears he left behind long ago So long ago.... This is for long-forgotten Light at the end of the world Horizon crying The tears he left behind so long ago." -The Islander by Nightwish

The girl was a drifter, a purpose without a place to rest, a goal with no path to it. An old barkeep was a modern-day philosopher. The aged wolfhound knew more of philosophy and behavior than most who had a degree concerning both subjects. The wolf sat alone on a stool in the middle of the bar, neither close to the door she'd walked through nor near the end where the comfort of shadows lay. Another middle between two destinations. She didn't talk to the other patrons, only sat drinking with a deliberate pace and a paperback book held open in one large and calloused hand.

He'd heard the odd inflection when she'd ordered her beer...American, slow, firm, confident, and wistful but with a certain twang at the end of each word that was new to him. Travelers were rare in his small Scottish town, so they stuck out as sore thumbs when they did show up. A feral collie mix sat at her side, loyally resting his head on one of the rungs of the worn and weathered stool.

The old man wasn't one for wasting his time. "A barkeep can do on'a two things for you. I can spend mah time servin' you as though I were a therapist and an old friend, or I can quietly hand you anotha bottle until you be on ya way." His green eyes questioned her with experience, thinking that he could glean a proper answer without her voice needing to give it to him.

The wolfess promptly closed the book and shuffled it towards her chest, crossing her arms on top of it. "I don't mind talkin'." It was simple and to the point but friendly and considerate in tone all the same.

"What are ya here for, then? Not many tourists come up this road unless it's to use the phone in tha back or to wait out the bus," he asked, leaning over the bar to eye the strange sable collie mix at her feet who looked back at him with an unflinching sort of stare.

"Part of my heritage lies in this little town," she began, snapping her fingers, causing the feral dog at her side to leap into a perfect sit-stay. "I hope you don't mind dogs. He goes where I go."

"Bars in little towns don't mind dogs," he laughed, tossing a dog biscuit over the counter. The collie mix caught it and lowered it to the ground, scrutinizing it before he decided that both the treat and the stranger were acceptable. "They are some of our most loyal customers. Mah wife makes the biscuits for our lesser evolved friends. Nothin' in there that would hurt 'im, I assure ya." He offered her a wry and whiskered grin, his folded ears coming forward gently in a kind and welcoming expression. "What would be your family name then?"

"Leah," she replied, taking another slow and warm drink from the brown bottle.

The gray lifted his cap off and scratched his head. "Aye, some of mah family lived near a Leah family generations ago, but if you were thinkin' that you'd come 'ere to live out the Scottish version of The Quiet Man, I'm afraid yer a little late, girl. Yer family land was divvied up long before I was a wicked twinkle in my father's eye." He laced his last comment with a genuine gild of sympathy. If that was her purpose for traveling so far from home, he hated to reward it with empty hands.

She gave a morbid single chuckle. "The Quiet Man? Good movie." Then, her words became matter-of-fact but distant in the same breath. "I know there's nothing tangible to come here to. My family moved either to America or back to Britain, depending on their own preference. I guess I just wanted to trace it back as far as I could. Wanted to find a new starting point of some kind," she whispered with a smile. "Might sound like a younger person's folly to you, but it seemed like the only choice to me."

"On the contrary, dear girl." His green eyes were young though his coat was thinner and more wiry than it had been in days and years past. "No one would ever get annehwhere without young dreams. Youth drives the future." The wolf smiled back at him, spinning her bottle that dwindled slowly of its contents with each drink in her hands. "Now, where are ya off to?"

She shrugged. "Here, I suppose. As good a starting place as any."

"Not many opportunities for a young lady, I am afraid." A fatherly tone, and it made her feel welcome.

"No beginning had opportunities at first," the wolf said through a smile of clinched teeth. "That's why people have to struggle to make somethin' of it."

It was a small town. Kindness still grew in small towns. He was old and had learned a lifetime of compassion. "Thar's a room in the back," the grizzled sighthound chuckled as his thick thumb motioned to the back of the bar. "Have you ever been a bartender?"

"Nah, but I've been a bar customer, and I'm fairly friendly. I think I could get the hang of it fairly quickly." She seemed to be somewhat relieved with his unwarranted offer. "Can the dog stay? He goes where I go."

"Mah wife wouldn't have it any other way." He got a better look at the book she'd closed when he had approached her for conversation. A woman's eyes on the cover. "The Great Gatsby?" he remarked. "A good book, but a sad book. Ya won't like the ending I'm afraid."

The wolf's dark amber eyes stared into the eyes on the front of the cover. "I've read it several times...it was one of the only books I ever liked reading in High School," the wolf said, her voice lost in a memory. "It is a sad ending, and every time I read it, I hope that it'll change. The idea of watching someone from afar, changing your whole life just on the off chance that they'll notice...such a thing should be rewarded, I think."

"Black and white type doesn't change, girl," he replied softly. "Why reread it when it might as well be carved in stone?"

"After all he did to gain her attention...the saddest part was just looking across the water towards her...it was so very little distance they'd have had to close, you know..." Suddenly, she turned towards the doors that he always left open and looked out towards the sound...searching the water with determined eyes.

"My name is Duff Fletcher," the wolfhound informed her kindly, leveling his large right forearm and hand onto the worn smooth surface of the bar. "Duff will suit me fine. And what can I call you?"

"Wielder Leah, but "girl" will do just fine if you prefer." Her handshake was firm and honest, more of a man's than a woman's. "And I thank you kindly for your hospitality. Apparently small towns everywhere take in strays."

Duff watched after the later hours when the bar began to close its doors. When the harbor lights illuminated the rocky inlets and outlets to the waters tinged with the spicy and humid smell of far away salty seas. She spent long minutes staring out into the houses that lined the banks on the far side of the bay, the bright pastel fires of the lighthouse casting their alternating light on her. During those flashes of light, she shined like a guiding hope.

The girl had come looking for more than just something of the past to hang on to. He didn't get the feeling that she was running from something but that she was running towards something instead. Yet she stood on those rocks as the waves either lapped at the black stone edged with algae and weeds or crashed like thundering arms that wished to drag all near the blue waters in with the undertow, unmoving.

The Great Gatsby...was she Daisy Buchanan or was she Jay Gatsby. Was she the one trying to win a heart or the one with the heart to win? She'd said that she read the book over and over again with the hopes that, somehow, she could find a happier ending for the wonderfully flawed Gatsby. Was her life the same?

For what purpose did she stand as a beacon to guide? What answers did she hope to draw to her?

Personal and highly symbolic sketch done while working on zannah's trade. Wielder on a Scottish harbor of some sort, gazing towards something she probably doesn't have the courage to reach for just yet. Change is hard, but hopefully she'll find the gumption to grab it.

Will complete this one day.