The Lighthouse Witches(5)

I spotted a handle on one of the windows, and a chill ran up my spine. A flash of a frightened child reaching for that handle darted through my mind. I wrapped my hand tentatively around it and pushed. The window swung easily open, the hiss of the sea and the groaning wind rushing in. Below, the roof of the bothy and the mossy rocks of the island rested in the sunlight. On the left side of the island a blonde-haired figure sat on the rocks, her feet dangling in the water.

Saffy.

I made my way back down the stairs as fast as I could and ran out to where she sat. She’d drawn a fresh Celtic squiggle on the back of her neck in biro—a preparatory tattoo, she liked to say. In her hand was an old book that I guessed she’d taken from the bothy. Clutched in her other hand was an old skeleton key. The bothy was full of clutter—books, ornaments, dried sea urchins, shark jaws pinned to the wall, for God’s sake—and Saffy was a scavenger, always had been. Even when she was a toddler I’d discover odd things sequestered beneath her bed—bottle tops, cutlery, weeds she’d plucked from the front garden. I’d learn that she gathered such things with no plan to play with them, no purpose at all, other than the act of taking and hiding, of holding a secret.

She had her headphones on, a heavy beat bleeding out the sides. Even when I managed to get her to make eye contact she didn’t take them off. Frustrated, I reached down and yanked them off her head.

“What are you doing?” she screamed. “Give those back!”

Immediately I regretted it. She snatched them back.

“Did you see a little girl?” I said. “In the lighthouse?”

She screwed her face up. “What?”

“I saw a girl in the lantern room. Did you see her?”

“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about . . .”

“Fine. Look, I need your help with something.”

“I’m busy,” she said, putting her headphones back on and opening up her book. “Isn’t that what you always say?” she added. “?‘Sorry, kids. Mum’s busy.’?”

I ignored the dig. “It’s about a symbol. I could do with your help. Saffy.”

For about a minute, she did nothing, and I waited. Eventually she said, “What symbol?”

I told her it was back in the bothy as I started to walk away. She slowly rose to her feet, tucked the book under her arm, and followed behind, the hems of her jeans trailing in the rock pools.


V

By the time she arrived in the kitchen I’d put on a kettle and poured us both a cup of tea. She was still holding the small book and sat at the table, absorbed by its pages.

“What are you reading?”

“It’s a grimoire.”

“A what?”

I handed her a cup, careful to avoid the book she’d placed on the table in front of her. It looked old, the paper yellowed and delicate.

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.

“On the bookshelf in the living room. It’s a book of spells. Some of the writing looks like it’s Icelandic. And there’s some stuff about witches.”

“Witches?”

“Yeah. There were witch hunts in Scotland as well as England. Worst witch hunts in Europe, apparently. Did you know that?”

I shook my head. Right then I was more concerned about how she was handling Mr. Roberts’ book. “Be careful with that, Saff,” I said. “It might be valuable.”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Why would anyone leave it lying around in this place if it was valuable?”

“Look, it’s not yours, OK?”

I handed her a cup and spread the drawing of the mural in front of her.

“That is a swastika, isn’t it?” I said, pointing at one of the symbols.

She stared at it and sat down. I relished the closeness of her. It had been weeks since she’d sat with me like this, and although she was sullen and reluctant, she was still here.

“What is this?” she said, turning to me. “Is this what they want you to paint inside the Longing?”

I nodded, and she laughed.

“They’re taking the piss a bit.”

“A bit, yeah.”

She looked again at the symbol. “Yes. That is indeed a swastika.”

I felt my heart sink. “I can’t paint bloody Nazi symbols,” I muttered, though I had no choice. I needed the money.

“Well, the swastika is a Nazi symbol,” Saffy said. “It’s also a Hindu symbol. And a Buddhist symbol. And Roman, and ancient Greek.” She laced her fingers and lifted her blue eyes to mine. “You want me to go on?”

I was puzzled. “So . . . he’s not a Nazi, then.”

“Who’s not a Nazi?”

“Mr. Roberts. The man who wants me to paint the Longing.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he is. All I’m saying is that the swastika’s been around since three thousand BCE. So has this symbol.” She pointed at the overlapping triangles.

“It has?”

“It’s a variation on the Borromean rings, or the Holy Trinity. You can’t remove one without removing the other. It’s a sign of infinity.”

“What about this one?” I asked, pointing at the one that looked like an Egyptian hieroglyph.

“Ah,” she said. “I could tell you what that one means, but it’ll cost you.”