The Lighthouse Keeper's Daughter

At the very edge of the land, where the rocks reached out into the grey sea like the fingers of a giant, there stood a tall white lighthouse. And in the lighthouse lived a keeper and his daughter, whose name was Maren.

Every evening it was the keeper's task to climb the long winding stair, all the way to the top, and light the great lamp. And every evening Maren climbed with him. She loved to watch her father trim the wick and polish the glass until it shone, and then — at the moment the sun slipped under the sea — strike the flame.

The light would leap up, huge and golden, and turn slowly, slowly, sweeping out across the dark water. And somewhere out there, Maren knew, sailors on their ships would see it and know which way was safe, and which way was rock, and steer themselves home.

"It is the most important light in the world," her father always said. "As long as it burns, no ship need ever be lost."

Maren believed him. But she did not yet know that one night, very soon, the keeping of that light would fall to her alone.

It happened on the stormiest night of the year. The wind came howling out of the north, flinging rain against the windows like handfuls of pebbles, and the sea rose up grey and angry, smashing white against the rocks. That afternoon, before the storm closed in, a message had come from the village: a fishing boat had not returned. Old Tomas and his son were still out there, somewhere, in the dark and the rising waves.

"They will steer by our light," said the keeper. "We must make it as bright as we can." And he began to climb the stair to ready the lamp.

But halfway up, he slipped on the wet stone, and fell, and could not get up again. His ankle had twisted beneath him, swelling fast, and when he tried to stand the pain turned him pale as the foam outside.

"Maren," he said through his teeth. "Maren, you must light the lamp. I cannot."

"Me?" said Maren. "But I have never lit it alone. I am too small. What if I do it wrong?"

"You have watched me a thousand times," said her father. "You know the way. Go now — before the dark is complete. Old Tomas is counting on us, though he does not know it is you."

So Maren climbed. Up and up the long winding stair, alone, with the storm shaking the great tower around her, until she reached the top where the lamp stood waiting.

She trimmed the wick the way she had seen her father do. She struck the flame. And the great light leapt up, golden and huge, and began to turn, sweeping out across the wild black water.

"I did it," whispered Maren. And for a moment her heart was full.

But then — a hiss, a sputter. The wind had found a gap in the old glass, and it reached in like a cold hand and snuffed the great flame out. The top of the tower went dark.

Maren struck it again. The wind put it out again. Again, and again — and each time the dark came rushing back, and out on the sea old Tomas and his son had no light to steer by at all.

Maren wanted to cry. The great lamp was too big, the gap too wide, the wind too strong. She could not keep it lit.

And then she remembered the small lantern that hung by the stair — the little one her father carried up and down, no bigger than her two hands. It was nothing beside the great lamp. Its light was small and plain. But it had a good tight glass, and the wind could not reach inside it.

Maren took it down and lit it. The little flame caught, and held. The wind howled and rattled, but it could not get in. The small light burned on, steady and sure.

She could not lift the small lantern to where the great lamp stood. So instead she carried it to the window that faced the open sea, and she held it there, pressed to the glass, with both her hands.

It was such a little light, against such a great dark. Maren almost despaired. How could anyone, far out on that wild water, ever see something so small?

But she held it. She did not let her arms drop, though they ached. She did not put it down to rest, though the night was long. Hour after hour she stood at the window and held the small steady light to the glass, and would not let it go.

And far out on the heaving sea, old Tomas, near to giving up hope, lifted his eyes one more time toward the land — and saw it. A small light. A faint, steady, golden point, shining where the lighthouse should be. Not the great sweeping beam he knew. Just a little light, held faithfully in one place.

"There," he cried to his son. "There — steer for the little light." And they turned the boat, and followed it, and the small steady flame led them in past the giant's reaching fingers of rock, into the safe dark water of the harbor, and home.

In the morning the storm blew itself out, and Old Tomas climbed the hill to the lighthouse. He found the keeper resting his ankle, and beside him a small girl asleep in a chair, with a little lantern, long since burned down, still held loosely in her two hands.

"Was it the great lamp that brought you in?" the keeper asked.

"No," said Old Tomas softly, looking at the sleeping child. "It was a small light. A small light that someone would not let go out. And I will tell you — on a night like that, a small light held faithfully is worth more than the greatest lamp that ever was, if no one stays to keep it burning."

And Maren slept on, and did not hear it, though it was the truest thing that anyone had ever said about her.