Neptune's Fingers Read Online Free Page A

as the tide did on other occasions.
    â€œUse your brains, son,” his father said. “They’re not there just to fill up your skull.”
    Today, Jack wasn’t so sure. Wet, cold now that the wind fanned his drenched clothes, and exhausted, he trudged to the top of the hill. The stones in the sand did not bother his leathery feet. Most of the children went barefoot from preference, which was lucky. A good deal of them did not own a pair of shoes. There were few places to go where shoes were mandatory so bare feet were the order of the day. Shoes, if you had a pair, lasted longer this way but it was doubtful the children gave that a second thought. Walking bare-foot was synonymous with freedom. As a result, soft feet turned to leather at an early age.
    The heat of the sun-baked sand diminished in the nor’easter to a pleasant warmth. Jack stopped at the crest of the hill and looked back over the spit. There was nothing amiss as far as he could see. No boy stood there waving. He was strangely disappointed. He turned for home and reaching the top of the small hill, looked over the buildings below.
    The lighthouse commanded his immediate attention. It always did. It stood tall and resolute on the barren rocky ground, gleaming gold in the last embers of the sinking sun. The lamps were already lit as dusk settled down over the sea. It gave him a warm feeling inside to see it there. It never failed to stir up strong emotions. His heart and soul belonged in that monolith. The surety of its light, its own signature pulse announcing its location to sailors, gave him a sense of pride. His family kept it going generation after generation. He would be the next keeper after his father. The austere island, cut off from the world twice a day, was a hard master. Suddenly, after his ordeal and shame at his stupidity, the steadfast, reliable tower gleamed back at him, a pillar of certainty. Tears prickled his eyes.
    Jack, you’re fourteen years old, he berated himself. The world has gone mad but this place stays the same – a rock – a friend. You’re a lame-brain. He realized in one sudden moment what he had. The transient lives of those in the shanties and the tent city surrounding it, that his vivid imagination thought of as romantic, lacked the luxury and security he had here. It was as though the waters washed away his fantasies and focused his vision in reality. The houses beside the lighthouse, one for his father and him, and one for the new hand, Bob, were made of stone. Squat, square and gray, they looked small next to the tall beacon. No, Jack, he thought. This is romantic. It was then he saw his father.
    Henry Lambeth had seen Jack too. He waited for the boy to reach him, giving no indication of his mood. Jack felt uncomfortable. He would prefer his father to tell him off rather than this silence. He felt sillier than ever. Henry Lambeth’s eyes were fixed on him the whole way down the hill. They were still there when Jack, sheepish, reached him. The look said what words could not. His father had been worried sick. He came out with the express purpose of getting the launch and going in search of his son. A man who lost all his family was a desolate thing. Anger, annoyance, worry, concern, relief, all contributed to his expression. Jack suddenly realized how much he loved his father but it had never before occurred to the boy how much he meant to his father.
    â€œDad,” was all he could say, and hung his head like a small child. “I’m sorry.”
    Henry Lambeth was a no nonsense, astute man. His son’s bedraggled state, his meek, embarrassed demeanor made chastisement redundant. He let out a sigh; a breath that had been begging to escape for some time.
    â€œDamned fool,” he muttered. “Brains made of cotton wool.”
    â€œWet cotton wool,” said Jack, before he could stop his wayward tongue.
    â€œWhat in blazes do you think you were doing? I thought you