Storm night at the lighthouse

Mael lived at the very top of a red and white lighthouse, at the end of an island so small you could walk all the way round it in ten minutes. His dad was the lighthouse keeper. Every evening, he climbed the hundred and twelve steps of the spiral staircase to switch on the great lamp, and Mael counted the steps with him.

That night, the wind blew so hard the windows sang. The waves rose high against the rocks and crashed back down in great white sprays. "It's a stormy one," said Dad. "Yvon's boat isn't back yet. Our light needs to shine bright tonight." Mael pressed his nose to the glass. Somewhere out in the dark, the fisherman's little green boat was looking for the way home.

Suddenly there was a loud clack, and everything went dark. The power was out. In the blackness, Mael felt his heart thumping. He was scared for Yvon, and the dark, thick as ink, didn't help. But Dad switched on his torch, and his voice stayed calm. "No need to panic, sailor. Lighthouses always have a backup plan."

They climbed up to the lantern room. Inside a wooden chest was an old brass oil lamp and a crank handle. Dad lit the wick. "Now the light has to turn. Sailors know our lighthouse by its rhythm. Do you want to work the crank?" Mael grabbed the handle with both hands. It was stiff. He turned it, and turned it again, counting under his breath: one, two, three, flash. One, two, three, flash. His arms burned, but he didn't stop.

After a long while, a small green light appeared between the waves, then a red one. Yvon's boat slipped behind the harbour wall and came to rest where the water was calm. Three blasts of a horn rang out through the night. That was his way of saying thank you. Mael let go of the crank, and Dad pulled him into a hug. "Tonight, you were the lighthouse keeper."

A little later, the power came back and the great lamp went round on its own again. The wind was running out of breath, and the waves grew gentler. Mael went down the hundred and twelve steps in his dad's arms, counting more and more quietly. By step eighty, he had stopped counting altogether. Outside, the beam of the lighthouse swept slowly over the sea and over the little green boat, asleep in the harbour.