boy making multiple trips to the library with loads of books in his hands each time.”
“Yeh well, I could’ve done it.”
They ate the rest of their dinner in quiet peacefulness. Their home invited a new feeling for them both. Warmth surrounded and covered them like all the wool blankets they had tucked away in an old cedar crate. Brixton sunk into his bed that night with great relief.
No more decorating. Tomorrow is also Monday.
He put his hands behind his head and watched the leaves trickle down like golden rain. If he listened close enough, their rustling actually did sound like a gentle creek flowing through his room.
“Tomorrow will be great,” he said with a sigh.
Chapter Three: The Man in the Lighthouse
Every Monday morning, he visited a friend of theirs. Brixton anticipated this particular trip more than any other. He couldn’t wait to tell Walt about the apartment makeover. Even though Sonu told him not to tell anybody, Walter wasn’t anybody . His mom knew that too. She wouldn’t mind. Walter was the only other person they could really, truly trust.
Brixton wished he could tell Walt the whole story; from the beginning when she heard about The Burning Ceremony. He wanted to explain every detail. Besides, Walter loved details. But he knew Sonu would never say how she found out. Not even to him. So even if he wanted to tell Walt the details, he would never be able to tell him the entire thing. Only the reading of her penny would explain the stewing mind of Sonuta Bex.
As he walked along the beach, the slight misty breeze from the rumbling ocean reminded Brixton of the first time he met Walter. His mother had set up a weekly visit to see the wise, old man.
“You could learn a thing or two from him,” she explained as they walked down the street.
At the time he was only five. How much could he learn? He didn’t care anyway. It wouldn’t bother him if he didn’t learn a single thing. It was Walter’s house that he wanted to investigate. All the kids in the Court wanted to. Every single one of them yearned for a chance to see what was up in the old man’s house that still went about lighting up the ocean at night.
Walter was a man who kept to himself. That made the lighthouse even more mysterious and desirable for everyone; big or small. To be the lucky individual to get the opportunity to see inside it was what convinced Brixton to go along with his mother on the weekly trips.
Children watched with envious scowls as they passed by. Brixton had made sure not to leave a single kid out when he let them all know what he was doing. He made the announcement at school the week before. He thought that gave them plenty of time to spread the word he’d be taking lessons from the man in the lighthouse. And did the word ever spread. He felt almost as if he and his mother were in a parade. Not only children but their parents stood on the sidewalk in great anticipation to watch them go by. Some called out to Brixton.
”Good luck! You’re going to need it!”
“I heard he eats kids. That’s why your mom’s taking you.”
“Be careful!”
Once they turned the corner and headed for the sandy shore, the crowd died down and they were alone again.
From their house to Walter’s, it took close to twenty minutes to walk. To go through town and stay on the street it was even less, but Sonu loved to sink her feet into the sand and feel its warm embrace.
Whatever that time was, they had to add about ten more minutes on because she enjoyed tossing up the sand and hunting for seashells washed ashore. She liked to think of stories about their travels and how they tumbled onto the beach. Were they hundreds of years old? Had they been buried at the bottom of the ocean all this time? What finally broke them free? She included all this in her tales she told Brixton each night before he went to sleep.
Walter’s house set firmly at the very tip of a small cove on the island. Not a single house surrounded him; only sand and sea.
“I wish we could live here,” Brixton said to Sonu as they came to the doorstep. “No neighbors, no tanks. This is perfect, Mom.”
“You would have to learn how to swim. The ocean would swallow you whole if tried to go out in it.”
“I could learn how to swim. You think Walter is going to teach me?”
“He may- someday. I don’t know if that is what he has in mind for you.”
The door opened before they could even knock.
“First good thing about living in a lighthouse, I can see you coming from a mile away.”
“Hello Walt, this is Brixton.”
“Yes yes, you were just a little one last I met you. Grown up have you?”
“I’m almost six,” Brixton replied matter-of-factly.
“Perfect, do you know your letters?”
“My mother taught me those.”
“Very good. And what of reading? Do you know how to read?”
“I start regular school this fall but I can already read some picture books.”
“Brilliant then we shall get started on our lessons. Do come in I’ll make us a pot of tea.”
Brixton watched as his mother made her way back down the beach; gathering handfuls of seashells she missed on the way. Waving goodbye, he climbed the stairs to the top where the old man waited for him. He shut the door then darted off into the kitchen; leaving Brixton standing in the entryway.
Walter Beaudieux preceded any set of rules the Fatalities created. That’s what all the children thought. No one knew exactly how old he was, but he was up there; probably the oldest man in the entire Court. His accent slightly altered itself from everyone else’s. Sonu said he was British. Another thing nobody knew for sure. How did he get in here when they weren’t allowed to leave the island? A second question, why would he even want to come here of all places?
Inside, the lighthouse emulated an old ship which immediately caught Brixton’s attention. Rusted anchors hung on the walls. Old fishnets draped from the ceiling. Their holes provided space for rolled up maps and drawings. Every inch of wall space allowed itself for Walter to draw out working calculations, sketches, and formulas of various sorts. On one wall there was a giant chalkboard about the length of two tanks. The rest of the walls were cinder blocks. He sketched out ideas on those as well.
Sonu told Brixton he knew everything. Physics and Science were his specialties; “his “crém de la crém,” as he puts it,” she said in his British accent.
She also described Walter’s penny as well. His read 1792. She showed him a picture of it from a book in the library. It looked like any other penny at first. But then he discovered the different profile on the front.
Being face to face with him at that moment, the penny resembled its owner in a strange way. The face depicted a long pointed nose and wavy hair that cascaded down to the shoulder tips. Walter never brushed his hair either. It grew rapid and wild like the man’s hair on the penny.
