ML Stedman - The Light Between Oceans: A Novel

M. L. S TEDMAN was born and raised in Western Australia and now lives in London. The Light Between Oceans is her first novel.

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JACKET DESIGN BY REX BONOMELLI
JACKET PHOTOGRAPHS: LIGHTHOUSE ALISON SHAW/CORBIS;
SKY MALCOLM PARK; BABY REX BONOMELLI

O n the day of the miracle, Isabel was kneeling at the cliffs edge, tending the small, newly made driftwood cross. A single fat cloud snailed across the late-April sky, which stretched above the island in a mirror of the ocean below. Isabel sprinkled more water and patted down the soil around the rosemary bush she had just planted.

and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, she whispered.

For just a moment, her mind tricked her into hearing an infants cry. She dismissed the illusion, her eye drawn instead by a pod of whales weaving their way up the coast to calve in the warmer waters, emerging now and again with a fluke of their tails like needles through tapestry. She heard the cry again, louder this time on the early-morning breeze. Impossible.

From this side of the island, there was only vastness, all the way to Africa. Here, the Indian Ocean washed into the Great Southern Ocean and together they stretched like an edgeless carpet below the cliffs. On days like this it seemed so solid she had the impression she could walk to Madagascar in a journey of blue upon blue. The other side of the island looked back, fretful, toward the Australian mainland nearly a hundred miles away, not quite belonging to the land, yet not quite free of it, the highest of a string of under-sea mountains that rose from the ocean floor like teeth along a jagged jaw bone, waiting to devour any innocent ships in their final dash for harbor.

As if to make amends, the islandJanus Rockoffered a lighthouse, its beam providing a mantle of safety for thirty miles. Each night the air sang with the steady hum of the lantern as it turned, turned, turned; even-handed, not blaming the rocks, not fearing the waves: there for salvation if wanted.

The crying persisted. The door of the lighthouse clanged in the distance, and Toms tall frame appeared on the gallery as he scanned the island with binoculars. Izzy, he yelled, a boat! and pointed to the cove. On the beacha boat!

He vanished, and re-emerged a moment later at ground level. Looks like theres someone in it, he shouted. Isabel hurried as best she could to meet him, and he held her arm as they navigated the steep, well-worn path to the little beach.

Its a boat all right, Tom declared. Andoh cripes! Theres a bloke, but

The figure was motionless, flopped over the seat, yet the cries still rang out. Tom rushed to the dinghy, and tried to rouse the man before searching the space in the bow from where the sound came. He hoisted out a woolen bundle: a womans soft lavender cardigan wrapped around a tiny, screaming infant.

Bloody hell! he exclaimed. Bloody hell, Izzy. Its

A baby! Oh my Lord above! Oh Tom! Tom! Heregive it to me!

He handed her the bundle, and tried again to revive the stranger: no pulse. He turned to Isabel, who was examining the diminutive creature. Hes gone, Izz. The baby?

Its all right, by the looks. No cuts or bruises. Its so tiny! she said, then, turning to the child as she cuddled it, There, there. Youre safe now, little one. Youre safe, you beautiful thing.

Tom stood still, considering the mans body, clenching his eyes tight shut and opening them again to check he wasnt dreaming. The baby had stopped crying and was taking gulps of breath in Isabels arms.

Cant see any marks on the fellow, and he doesnt look diseased. He cant have been adrift long You wouldnt credit it. He paused. You take the baby up to the house, Izz, and Ill get something to cover the body.

But, Tom

Itll be a hell of a job to get him up the path. Better leave him here until help comes. Dont want the birds or the flies getting at him thoughtheres some canvas up in the shed should do. He spoke calmly enough, but his hands and face felt cold, as old shadows blotted out the bright autumn sunshine.

Janus Rock was a square mile of green, with enough grass to feed the few sheep and goats and the handful of chickens, and enough topsoil to sustain the rudimentary vegetable patch. The only trees were two towering Norfolk pines planted by the crews from Point Partageuse who had built the light station over thirty years before, in 1889. A cluster of old graves remembered a shipwreck long before that, when the Pride of Birmingham foundered on the greedy rocks in daylight. In such a ship the light itself had later been brought from England, proudly bearing the name Chance Brothers, a guarantee of the most advanced technology of its daycapable of assembly anywhere, no matter how inhospitable or hard to reach.

The currents hauled in all manner of things: flotsam and jetsam swirled as if between twin propellers; bits of wreckage, tea chests, whalebones. Things turned up in their own time, in their own way. The light station sat solidly in the middle of the island, the keepers cottage and outbuildings hunkered down beside the lighthouse, cowed from decades of lashing winds.

In the kitchen, Isabel sat at the old table, the baby in her arms wrapped in a downy yellow blanket. Tom scraped his boots slowly on the mat as he entered, and rested a callused hand on her shoulder. Ive covered the poor soul. Hows the little one?

Its a girl, said Isabel with a smile. I gave her a bath. She seems healthy enough.

The baby turned to him with wide eyes, drinking in his glance. What on earth must she make of it all? he wondered aloud.

Given her some milk too, havent I, sweet thing? Isabel cooed, turning it into a question for the baby. Oh, shes so, so perfect, Tom, she said, and kissed the child. Lord knows what shes been through.

Tom took a bottle of brandy from the pine cupboard and poured himself a small measure, downing it in one. He sat beside his wife, watching the light play on her face as she contemplated the treasure in her arms. The baby followed every movement of her eyes, as though Isabel might escape if she did not hold her with her gaze.

Oh, little one, Isabel crooned, poor, poor little one, as the baby nuzzled her face in toward her breast. Tom could hear tears in her voice, and the memory of an invisible presence hung in the air between them.

She likes you, he said. Then, almost to himself, Makes me think of how things might have been. He added quickly, I mean I didnt mean You look like you were born to it, thats all. He stroked her cheek.

Isabel glanced up at him. I know, love. I know what you mean. I feel the same.

He put his arms around his wife and the child. Isabel could smell the brandy on his breath. She murmured, Oh Tom, thank God we found her in time.

Tom kissed her, then put his lips to the babys forehead. The three of them stayed like that for a long moment, until the child began to wriggle, thrusting a fist out from under the blanket.

WellTom gave a stretch as he stood upIll go and send a signal, report the dinghy; get them to send a boat for the body. And for Miss Muffet here.

Not yet! Isabel said as she touched the babys fingers. I mean, theres no rush to do it right this minute. The poor mans not going to get any worse now. And this little chickens had quite enough of boats for the moment, Id say. Leave it a while. Give her a chance to catch her breath.

Itll take hours for them to get here. Shell be all right. Youve already quietened her down, little thing.

Lets just wait. After all, it cant make much difference.