The sky glowed red and a thundering noise echoed through the valleys. A rain of ash showered the barren landscape of the deserted mountain range.
Tucking his orange robe tightly around him, the monk had predicted the anger from the sleeping depths of the holy giant.
The ancient scripts, in the monastery had detailed reports, of various monk generations, whom had to endure the wrath of this snowy clad crater.
Traditionally, at such times, the monks would gather in the cobble stoned court yard, with the aromas of incense filling the cold air, offering their prayers, to the mountain deities.
However, this time, it wasn’t just smoke escaping through its hollows. This time, it was an array of liquid colours, shooting out from within the depts of the opening.
Through the sheets of smoke and ashes, the monk could not recognise any other of his fellow brothers. Instead, all he was left with, was an overpowering smell and taste of sulphite. His sense of direction, had betrayed him several times, as he was stumbling through the apocalyptic landscape, that now presented itself to him.
These were the moments, when everything you were supposed to have learnt, during endless rituals of prayer, meditation, solitude and fasting, should be applied into reality.
However, how could one find comfort in their breathing, if the air was void of any lively substance?
The ground shook, yet again and fear spread through his blood, like venom. Blindly, he stumbled barefoot through the snow, becoming deaf to the voice, that tried to guide him.
Today’s occurrences, were the reason, why he had been sent to this isolated mountain top monastery, as a 4 year old 23 years ago. His spiritual, mental and emotional capacity, was thought to have been a match to the relentless forces, that were presenting themselves to him now. Nevertheless, here he was at breaking point, stripped off everything, including his senses , stumbling through what appeared to be hell.
The brotherhood, consisted of 11 monks, representing the 11 peaks of the sacred mountain ranges. Majestically, amongst them, was a volcano, which was thought to guard the dark secrets of the human mind. Legend has it, that when negative and undesirable human traits outweigh those of love, kindness and compassion– the mountain would release such, in order to restore balance.
Currently, the world was enveloped into greed and separation, causing great rifts amongst various societies upon the planet. The earth was now purging the toxins to the surface, to cleanse itself of that, which threatened to destroy it.
The monk knew, that his only chance out of this nightmare, was by surrendering himself and letting go. Was it true that overcoming his need to control the situation, was the only obstacle that hindered him on manifesting himself into an alternative reality? Was he more scared of loosing the life he had right now or entering an unknown and new reality?
He thought he was above them all, so he relished making them feel small.
His head held high, he walked through the world, In his heart, much anger swirled.
The hard earned cash sitting cold in his pocket, his personal reputation crashed like a faulty rocket.
Failing gave him so much fright, he just assumed that, what he was doing, must be right.
The mirror hanging on the wall, his reflection handsome, proud and tall.
Now, on lockdown day number four- he decided he can’t stand himself anymore.
His heart is empty and feeling cold, all of a sudden he realises, he too will get old.
He never felt, alone like this before- and now felt shaken to his deepest core.
So he picked up a pen and started writing a letter, to each of those he hurt, so he could start feeling better.
In solitude his pride got lost, allowing his heart to slowly defrost.
The lighthouse stood on the edge of a tall cliff, on the north side of the rugged island.
When the tide was low, one could just make out the sandy bench, which stretched over 700 metres, from the main land to the isolated small gathering of land mass, amongst the relentless ocean.
Apart from the lighthouse, there were no other buildings occupying the island.
The Randall’s, had been manning the lighthouse for generations- a trade bestowed upon children and grandchildren, under the scrutiny of the inhabitants, living on the main land.
Arlo, a man in his mid 30s- grew up with the scornful gossip of the townsfolk, on the weekly trips over to the mainland, in order to stock up on supplies.
He, had no time to entertain himself with the opinions of the others and was often described as blunt, quite and introverted.
Overwhelmed, by the expectations of the outside world, it had always been him, out of the three brothers, that was to carry on the legacy of manning the tower.
The three brothers were homeschooled by their mother, until they were given the opportunity to continue their studies, away from the confinement’s of their surroundings. Stan and Quinn, were itching to leave the island, in search of “normalcy” and to satisfy their hormonal cravings for the other gender.
Arlo however, could be found sanding or painting rowing boats, reading or befriending the sea lions that often could be found lazing along the beach. He felt the most comfortable, when high tide made it impossible, to cross the distance to the mainland.
His father had told him everything there was to know about the island and the upkeep of the lighthouse, before passing 8 years ago, when he tried to cross the short distance to the mainland and the storms came in.
His grief stricken mother, had moved back to the town shortly afterwards, not being able to bear the sight of their shared isolated home.
Once a week, Arlo would go to his aunt’s house, where his mother lived, for lunch- then he would stock up on supplies and quickly leave back to the island before the waters closed over the pathway.
Today however, things were different as he mounted the little rowing boat, at the jetty.
There was a crowd gathered, in front of a red door, next to Maddy’s bakery. A green sign in cursive writing above the door, announced „Emily’s Book Treasures“.
His aunt had mentioned, that a young woman and her mother were to move into town. They were rumoured to be nomads and apparently fluent in several languages, due to having occupied several countries around the world.
Arlo felt magnetised towards the red door and intrigued to update his barren bookshelves, with the promising offer of this book store.
The door opened and a woman in a green dress emerged. Her hair hung in two chestnut braids, over her shoulders. Her face was open and her blue eyes clear and piercing. She looked at Arlo, turned around and swiftly walked back inside the shop.
Too stunned to move, he still stood on the pavement, when she returned with a book inside her hand. She handed it to him, with the brisk warning not to open it until he was back in his home.
Never, before had he climbed the stairs to the lighthouse as quickly, as he did that night.
He took the book out of the brown paper bag and his heart stopped, as he read the title. „Randall Island, a history of the lighthouse guardians“.
How did she know?
A handwritten note fell out, just as the first lightening strike cracked through the grey clouds and the waves crashed along the side of the lighthouse.
„Dear Arlo, by going ahead opening this book everything about your existence will change. You are not just a man with the power to guide ships back to shore with your light but, so much more. You are not the mediocre hermit, you believed yourself to be. Go ahead and turn the pages, then meet me during the turning of seasons, under the oak tree by the jetty- and everything you’ve read will make sense. Emily“
And with that, the thunder started and with the ocean in turmoil, so his inner self started to surrender to the uncontrollable forces, that were to be his destiny.
