For Her Sake

On the night of the solstice, Maeson must brave the infamous Lighthouse—a place of danger and unanswered mysteries—to fulfill his dying mother’s last wish. | Est. read time: ~15 minutes

A quivering hand rose to quivering lips as Lara attempted to feed herself. 

“I’ve got it, Mama,” Maeson said, grabbing her spoon—a gesture she was happy to oblige. She could barely lift herself, let alone the stew’s wooden vehicle.

“Thank you, my sweet boy. You’ve always been so kind to your Mama. I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

At the onset of Lara’s condition, the village doctor struggled to provide a precise diagnosis, but he shared many could-be’s. 

It could be consumption.

It could be Typhus. 

It could be the spirits. 

Regardless of the could-be, Doctor Larj surmised that Lara was very sick, getting sicker still, and required constant attention.

In the beginning, there was never a still day. Lara’s three children were readily available and at her disposal. Familial laughter bounced off the cottage walls in a way they hadn’t in over ten years. But the air of joviality dissipated as quickly as it came. Jarl was the first to stop coming by, except when he needed something from Maeson. Lanna was next. 

After six months, the sounds of stories from their shared histories were gradually replaced by the snaps and cracks of the fireplace. Only Maeson remained—a fact Lara consistently reminded Maeson of when affirming he was her favorite. 

“The solstice is in a few months,” she mused. “Where do you think the Lighthouse will appear this year?” 

Maeson shrugged, dreading the destination of her train of thought. “I don’t know.” 

“Are you going to try to get to the Keeper this year? For Mama?” a smile stretched across her face—not because Lara was happy, but because Maeson’s answer might make it so, and she wanted to give him a taste. 

Maeson drew a deep breath, “I hadn’t really thought about it.” 

The smile dissipated, replaced by a burning wave of heat and emotion consuming Lara’s wispy face. The whites of her eyes disappeared behind her eyelids.

“How can you not even think of getting to the Keeper this year? Once a year, that lighthouse shows up, but you can’t make it there for me? You can’t ask the Keeper how to make your mother better? You don’t want Mama to get better?” 

Maeson traced the stitching of his left pant leg, avoiding Lara’s anguish. Every year, the village suffered losses to the Lighthouse and the climate it brings to the people. Sundar lost a leg, Jorgan never made it home, and countless other tales flooded Maeson’s mind—even those who make it to the Keeper lose a light in their eyes. 

“It’s not that,” he started. “It’s just dangerous.”

“And raising you without your father wasn’t ‘dangerous’? I always had dinner on the table after a day at the mill. I never hit you. I never fooled around when your father was sick. I wasn’t the best mother, but I was far from the worst. But fine. Look after yourself like you always do.” 

A frenzy of feelings flooded Maeson’s chest and head before they found themselves lodged in his throat. The less Maeson could define his emotions, the more they defined him. Guilt was a bouncing knee, shame was a shortness of breath, and self-loathing was a dry throat. 

Despite being unable to speak to these feelings, tears were one of the few things Maeson had grown comfortable sharing with Lara. They communicated to his mother that he did, in fact, care—even if he didn’t know the words to express it. 

Noticing the first of Maesons’ sobs, Lara’s flushed face reverted to a small, sad smile. 

“Oh, my sweet boy. I know you love your Mama. You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to me.” 

Maeson grabbed her hand with both of his. “Of course not. I’ll get to the Lighthouse first, talk to the Keeper, and ask him how we can get you better.” 

“Of course you will, my sweet boy. You’ve always looked after me. That’s why you’re my favorite.”  

“But Mama,” Maeson started, “I am scared. People get hurt every year during the solstice. Many don’t even make it home.”

“Oh honey,” Lara said with a wheeze that would have been a chuckle only a year prior. “You’re not a fighter, so don’t try to be. Put your head down, wait for your chance, and take it.” 

She resigned to resting her cheek on her pillow, looking away from Maeson. 

“Maybe if you ask the Keeper how to make Mama better,” she said without looking up, “I’ll show you where I put the last of your father’s letters.” 

Mikel died when Maeson was nine years old. Memories with his father were cloudy, and most of what Maeson remembered were impressed upon him by stories from messages beyond the grave. Mikel left behind a stockpile of letters addressed to his children, written during his final days. For each birthday, Lara would give Maeson a letter addressed to him. 

Some recounted fond memories from their summers in the cottage. Others would recount old fishing adventures shared only between Maeson and Mikel. Most messages spoke directly to Maeson, advising him how to be the best man he could. 

Always be there for your mother—because I won’t be, one read. 

That’s what family is for. 

Family first. 

“Look what your mother finally found from Papa,” Lara would say as she placed a letter before Maeson on each birthday. He needed to know how hard his mother worked to dig up Mikel’s letters. 

But the letters dried up after Maeson’s eighteenth birthday. 

“You never told me there was another letter from Papa.”

Lara sighed, still looking away from Maeson. “You never earned it.” 

* * *

Lara never made it through spring. 

In her final days, the sunny chirpiness of migrating birds and floral blooms contrasted with the cottage's interior gloom. Lanna and Jarl sporadically dropped in to see her but never managed to catch her awake—only Maeson was awarded those rare glimpses of her final conscious moments.

“I’ve got my own family to think of,” Lanna had said, leaving behind a basket of bread. “I can’t put my life on hold like you. Don’t expect me to stick around.”

Even after Lara passed, Maeson kept the cottage as Lara would have liked, with every decoration and knickknack meticulously placed. All the while, he kept a watchful eye out for Mikel’s letter, flipping through every book and investigating the cottage’s every nook.

The hunt distracted Maeson. The more he moved, the more he eluded the cloud of shame and regret homing in on him. 

Why did he share his reluctance to look for the Lighthouse after everything his mother had sacrificed for him? Why instill her with doubt in her final days? He should have accepted the task readily—maybe she would have given him Mikel’s letter then. 

One night, the looming cloud caught up to him. Lara’s urn stared at him, bathing in the gentle light of the crackling fireplace. It spoke softly but clearly. Maeson could make out each of Lara’s words from the urn.

You never did care. 

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Maeson said aloud. “I should have been better.” 

He had one chance to make things right—for her and himself. Scattering Lara’s ashes at the Lighthouse during the upcoming solstice would be his final act of penance. In truth, he made the decision following her cremation, but he distracted himself from it. He never entertained notions of being first to the Keeper, but he felt he’d be doing right by his mother’s memory by making it to the Lighthouse. 

The weeks leading up to the solstice are fraught with paranoia. People whispered, shared rumors about the last villager to find the Keeper, and speculated where the Lighthouse would show next. Even the children seemed tense. Somber undertones replaced the usual lightness of their games. Dialogue among conspirators would be snuffed out the moment Maeson entered any room where he’d be considered “mixed company.” The entire village planned for this one day.

Farmers planned to ask the Keeper which crop would have the highest yield. 

Fishers ached to know the waters in which they’d have the most success. 

Wives and husbands intended to ask if their partners were faithful—or if their partners knew of their own infidelity. 

From financial success to true love, each villager felt justified in their pilgrimage. 

“I’m sorry about your mom,” Sundar said, handing Maeson a wrapped cod. “We all loved her. Lara was family.” 

Maeson would see Sundar once a week while Lara’s health was failing but hadn’t been to his shop since her passing. The pungent smell of fish triggered memories of Mama. He associated the stench with the rare moments he’d have outside the cottage. Standing in front of Sundar, Maeson found himself instinctually drawn to run home to tend to Lara, though now there was no one waiting for him there. 

“What do you think you’ll ask him?” Sundar asked before Maeson turned to leave. “The Keeper,” he clarified. 

“I probably won’t won’t make it there first,” Maeson said. 

“Then why try at all?” Sundar pressed.

“I don’t know,” Maeson said. “Because I could be wrong?” 

“So what will you ask him if you’re wrong?” 

Maeson was embarrassed by his true purpose in scattering his mother’s ashes. While he felt his motivations were valid, the concept of Lara’s memory still guiding his actions made him feel pathetic.

“Papa left behind some missives,” Maeson said, “and Mama passed away before she could share where she stowed them.” 

“Like a will?” 

“Yeah, like a will.” 

“Mikel was a good one, too,” Sundar mused.

“What have you heard about the Keeper?” Maeson asked, changing the subject. “Do you know what he’s like?”

Sundar chuckled, “They’re not much for talking. One answer—that’s all you get. Before the solstice, he’s all people talk about. But those who make it to him won’t say a word after they return. Anyone who wants to find the Keeper has to find him themselves.”

“Will you look for the Lighthouse this year, too?” Maeson asked. 

“No,” Sundar shook his head. He patted the sock over his left knee where the rest of his leg used to be. “The Lighthouse brings out the worst of the village. I’ll be sitting this one out. Not all questions need answers from the Keeper.” 

* * *

Muffled footsteps often sound the loudest, especially during the solstice. 

Hunched over and at a snail’s pace, Maeson waded through the sea of tall grass. Each step left inch-long streaks of scarlet across his hands and forearms as serrated edges brushed against him. He kept his head low beneath the grass canopy, clutching the satchel containing Lara’s ashes tightly to his chest. 

Each year, the Lighthouse would materialize from thin air, following no discernible pattern other than remaining within a 10-mile stretch of coastline immediately west of the village. With little strategy beyond following the coastline north, Maeson relied on luck to stumble upon it. 

The difficulty of his search was exacerbated by a blanket of fog shrouding the area ahead in a dense haze, enveloping everything beyond the first hundred feet. Sunlight refracted through the cloud and cast a ghostly glow over the landscape. 

Dead grass crunched beneath Maeson’s tattered boots with each step, no matter how much he begged for their silence. But as he held still, the distant rustlings of footsteps from other villagers, also traveling with their heads down, served as a constant reminder that his quest was not unique. 

Everyone wanted to reach the Keeper, but no one knew where the Lighthouse would appear—and everyone was scared.

As long as Maeson maintained his distance from the footsteps of others, he was safe. 

Until he wasn’t. 

As he continued cautiously, the base of the Lighthouse came into view first. Its massive stone trunk revealed its tall wooden entrance, beckoning him from within the swirling mist. The top of its structure loomed above and grew increasingly shrouded with height. The sight was both compelling and terrifying. Maeson fought every urge to sprint toward it and instead pressed himself flat against the dewy grass. 

Lara’s words echoed in his mind: You’re not a fighter, so don’t try to be. 

As he lay still, Maeson realized the orchestra of encircling footfalls faded. All was still, save for the subtle breaking of waves against the rocky shore. 

No one wanted to be the first to the Lighthouse—only the first inside. 

Maeson held his breath, not daring to look up from the ground, until an auditory flurry of carnage erupted around him. 

A scampering stampede from every direction gradually moved away from him and toward the Lighthouse. Over a dozen distinct voices rang out—some in fury, others in agony. Cries came from the old and the young; men and women alike. Maeson never witnessed such violence firsthand; gutting fish was the closest he’d come to blood. The subtle sound of steel dispassionately slicing through flesh preceded the groans and cries of his neighbors. 

And then, silence.

Still clutching his mother, Maeson picked himself up from the ground and stood tall, surveying the landscape littered with bodies and assorted blood-stained fishing tools. Some still drew shallow breaths, while others remained motionless. A single man remained upright amongst the sea of figures. Disheveled, beaten, and bloodied, he limped toward the Lighthouse door with his back to Maeson, who almost let the man get there. After all, the Keeper was never his objective—only the Lighthouse. He first thought to remain quiet and wait for the man to enter, and then scatter Lara’s ashes outside. But his mind raced with possibilities. 

No longer having his mother to lean on, and with his father being long gone, Maeson yearned for Mikel’s support—words left behind, telling him the man he ought to be. 

 Lara’s words echoed yet again. 

Wait for your chance, and take it. 

Without saying a word, Maeson charged forward toward the Lighthouse, forcefully shoving the man to the side, and swung the massive door open only to swiftly shut it behind him. He held it shut for a few seconds, expecting the man to be close behind, but the bangs and shouts never came.

Maeson never thought about what he’d find inside the Lighthouse, but the scene set before him defied any expectations. The familiar aroma of fish stew and burning wood hit his senses. 

He was inside his mother’s cottage, or at least a room set to look like it. 

The bed in which she withered away was empty, but every knickknack was meticulously positioned, just as Maeson had last placed them. The fireplace imbued the space with a familiar warmth that sent his mind back home. In the middle of the room stood the prime differentiator: a full-length mirror. 

Maeson positioned himself in front of the mirror and gazed at his reflection. Everything, from his eyes to his shoulders to his knees, seemed to pull downward to the floor. The sheer weight of gravity had aged him ten years over the span of one. 

Is that what I look like? Maeson wondered, shaking his head. 

But Maeson’s reflection did not shake his in turn. 

Instead, the man in the glass flashed a crooked smile and raised a single finger. He did not speak but the gesture was clear: one question. That’s all Maeson was permitted to ask. 

This was the Keeper. 

Maeson’s knees shook beneath them, all moisture evaporated from his throat, and his chest grew tight—each breath he drew was shorter and shallower than the last. 

He thought of Lara’s final days. He thought of how much more he could have done. He thought of Mikel’s letters over the years. He thought of the man his father would have wanted him to be. 

Maeson broke eye contact with the Keeper and looked to the ceiling, illuminated by the fireplace, and gave himself space to think. He recalled stopping Jarl from exiting the cottage during his last visit. Maeson confronted Jarl about not visiting more when their mother needed them most, but Maeson’s older brother only shook his head. 

“You’ll always be Mama’s favorite,” Jarl had said, “She loves me because I’m her son, but she doesn’t like me—and never will; I’m done trying to make her. I only dropped in to see her off.”

Maeson said nothing at the time, but a part of him feared Jarl was right. But if Maeson was Lara’s favorite, why hadn’t he ‘earned’ Mikel’s last letter to him? Maeson wondered how his mother had such a hold over him—even in death.

He met the Keeper’s eyes again and asked, “All those letters from Papa…” Maeson’s gaze locked back with the Keeper's. “They weren’t his, were they?”

The Keeper shook his head and lowered his hand. His crooked smile dissipated, and he reverted back to assume Maeson’s posture. 

“Mama wrote them, didn’t she?” he asked.

But the Keeper was gone, and Maeson’s reflection was, once again, his own. Even so, Maeson had his answer. Every letter had come from Lara.

He left the Lighthouse quickly—and having shed the weight of Lara’s ashes and the burdens they carried, Maeson finally felt lighter.