Chapter 1: Match

An island barely attached to the mainland, like a loose tooth on a thread, is called a peninsula. On this small peninsula, there is a lighthouse, a tall gray one that swings its light at night over the small town by the sea. It stops ships from smashing into the rock that is so awkwardly positioned in the middle of the bay. It makes the night a little less dark, and the vast landscape and the wide ocean a little less vast and wide.
In the house beside the tower, Augustus the lighthouse keeper lives with his daughter. They have a small garden and a little rocky beach, where something or other is always washing ashore. They often used to sit there all evening, with the light turning in circles far above their heads. Augustus would make a fire, and small boats sailed up from the harbor, carrying a crew of pirates. They came to sit around the fire and eat grilled fish and sing all night long. They would sing drinking and eating songs, sad songs and longing songs, and terrifying songs too, songs about the Secrets of the Sea, which made the girl both happy and scared, and so she would usually climb up onto her mother's lap.
But no pirates come sailing along anymore, and her father has stopped making fires.
By the time dusk falls, the lamp must be lit. It is always the girl who lights it. Every night, she climbs the sixty-one steps, opens the rusty little door that covers the lens, lights the wick, winds up the mechanism that turns the lamp, shuts the door, and the job is done.
It was hard work when she was younger, but now her arms have grown strong and her legs can easily climb up and down the steps twice a day. Three times if she forgets the matches. That happens sometimes, and then her father always grumbles at her.
"It's almost dark and the lamp's not lit! What if a ship is lost, child? What if it runs aground on the rocks and it's all my fault? No--all your fault! Hurry up! Climb those stairs! Or should I just do it myself? I'm going to . . ." He's already getting up out of his chair.
"I'm on my way," the girl mutters, taking the matches from the drawer. The box rattles quietly. There's only one match left.
Must buy more matches tomorrow, she thinks. Don't forget. The girl knows, though, that remembering can be difficult. She always has so much inside her head: songs, stories, things she has to learn, things she wants to forget but that keep coming back. When she needs to remember something, she often forgets it, but she always remembers whatever she wants to forget. 
As she climbs the stairs, she comes up with a little trick. What was it she wanted to remember? Oh yes. In her mind, she picks up a matchbox and then places it on a table in the middle of her head--with a little lamp shining onto the box, so that it will be the first thing she sees when she wakes up tomorrow morning. Or so she hopes. What kind of lamp? One with a shade of green enamel with a worn golden edge. Her mother used to have a lamp like that by her bedside. But that is one of the things she would prefer to forget.
Think of another lamp, Lampie, she tells herself. Because that's her name. Lampie.
Her real name is Emilia. But that had been her mother's name too. And her father had always found it annoying when two people looked up as he called out the name, and then, later, he never wanted to hear that name again. So he calls her Lampie instead.
"You're not the brightest of lights though, are you, Lampie?" he always says whenever she forgets something or trips over her feet, usually when she is carrying something like hot soup.
Lampie climbs upstairs with the last match. She has to be very careful. It must not go out before the lamp is lit, because then . . . Shipwrecks and an angry father. She is not sure which would be worse.
She twists the wick and fluffs it up, so that it will light properly. Then she takes the match out of the box and gives it a stern look.
"Do your best! I mean it! Or I'll . . ."
Or she'll what? What would a match think was the worst threat of all? Being blown out? Snapped in two? No, she knows what it is.
"Or I'll throw you into the sea," she whispers. "And you'll be so wet that you'll never burn again." Until it washes ashore, of course. On a hot beach somewhere, where it will dry out in the sun and . . . 
"Lampie!" Her father's voice is so loud, even though it is coming from sixty-one steps below. "The light! NOW!"
Usually he has been asleep for ages by this time of day, snoring away in his chair. But not tonight. She strikes the match. A tiny, useless spark. And again. This time there is a proper flame and the smell of sulfur. That's good. She cups her other hand around the match and brings it to the wick. Come on! The flame hesitates a little, before growing bigger.
"Flame, flame, burn hot and quick.
 Drink the oil and eat the wick!"
she quietly sings to herself, as she looks into the bright light. She could feel a bit of a knot in her stomach before, but it is starting to loosen now.
Close the door. Wind up the mechanism. Done.
"Matches, matches, must buy matches," she sings as she walks back down the stairs. Must remember to buy matches.
But still, she forgets.

Chapter 2: Storm

And of course, the next day, there is a storm on the way. A bad one.
The weather has been perfectly calm all day, but now the seagulls are screeching restlessly and the dogs will not stop whining. They can feel the threat in the air, their owners say, as they look anxiously up at the sky.
Late in the afternoon, clouds begin to gather on the horizon. The sky above the sea turns as gray as lead, and the sun goes into hiding.
No twilight today, it whispers. I'm leaving. 
Everything starts to turn black outside.
Inside, a girl stands in front of an empty drawer, her face white with horror.
She has spent the whole day digging for mussels among the slippery rocks, because they taste so good and cost nothing. She also found sandworms for the chickens and driftwood for the fire, which she laid out to dry in the garden. Then she had a quick look for a special shell or a bottle with a message in it, but she did not find anything interesting. By the time she raised her head again, it was dark, and she knew she needed to light the lamp. And that was when she finally remembered what she had forgotten, all day long.
Outside, the darkness falls in silence. The town has just a moment left.
A moment to dash outside and bring in the washing and fasten the shutters. To close the shops, to call the children inside.
"Oh, can't we play just a bit longer? Come on! Just a bit?" "No, not even a little bit. Get inside, now!"
A moment for the old fishermen to nod their heads, their eyes gleaming as they mutter and mumble: "Yes, yes. It's going to thunder for sure. Like it did that one time, you know, and that other time when . . . When there was the Easter Storm, and the North Cape Storm in February, when the sheep went flying through the air and the ships crashed onto the beach." It surely won't be as bad as that? Or will it? They slowly sip their milk. Everything was worse in the old days, they know, but maybe it could be even worse. Who knows; maybe they still haven't seen the very worst.
The wind begins to blow.
"Lampie? Lampiewhereareyou?" Her father's voice runs all the words together. "Lampieisthelamplit?"
"Yes, yes," mutters Lampie. "I'll just go and get some matches."
She puts her scarf on, grabs her basket, and runs out of the house. The wind tugs the door from her hands, slamming it behind her.
"Thank you, wind," says Lampie. It's always best to be polite to the wind. Then she dashes, slipping and sliding, through the garden, along the path, to the town.
The sea washes over the rocks as the waves get higher and higher.
A narrow path of stones, as uneven as a set of bad teeth, runs from the peninsula to the mainland. Even at high tide, they stick up above the water. Lampie jumps from stone to stone. The wind blows into her face and pulls at the basket with the chamois cloth inside. The cloth is for wrapping up the matches to keep them dry, later, on the way back. Yes, she will have to come all the way back too. She tries not to think about that yet. That is not too hard, as the wind blows all the thoughts out of her head. 
"Thank you, wind. Thanks again." She hopes that the wind is maybe a bit like a friend.
But then Lampie's friend tries to push her off the rocks and into the sea. Her shoes are already soaked through and are slipping on the stones. But there are wooden posts here and there that she can hold on to for a moment to catch her breath.
Not that far to go now, she thinks, but she can't see all that well. Sand is blowing into her face, along with other bits and pieces that the wind has picked up from the beach. Clumps of seaweed, branches, pieces of rope.
Presents, Lampie. Look!
She brushes them out of her hair. Dear wind, angry wind. I don't need them, thank you. I don't need anything. All I need is matches.
That makes the wind really mad, and it starts pelting her with rain. Within a few seconds, she is drenched, and the wind blasts at her, making her even colder. She fights back.
"Stop it. Now!" she pants. "Get off, wind! Down!" The wind is not a dog. It does not listen to her. It runs and jumps up at her again and again!
But there are the steps. Lampie slips and slides her way over to them, falling and bumping her knee, but then she grabs the handrail and pulls herself up. And there, finally, is the quay.
In the harbor, the ropes are all slapping against the masts. An orchestra: drumbeats, shrieking, and the first crashes of thunder. Lampie cannot hear her own footsteps as she runs along the quay. The storm tries to blow her down the wrong street, but she knows the way, even in the dark.
No one is out on the streets. The houses stand calmly, braving the storm. They are not afraid of being blown away. The trees brace themselves, losing leaves and branches. A metal bucket rolls by, rattling. All the shutters are closed, and all the shops are shut.
Down alleyways, down streets. When she is almost there, the rain turns into hail, and the wind throws handfuls of it into her face. Ouch, ouch! She shields herself with her arms and runs on. There is the street with Mr. Rosewood's shop. The wind tugs at her basket one last time.
Go on, give it to me. Such a lovely basket to throw around, to blow so far, all the way to another country, or . . . 
"Get off!" Lampie screams, holding on tightly to the basket. So the wind throws more hail instead.
But then she is there. There is the shop. The vegetable crates have been taken inside, the shutters are closed, the light is off. The door is locked. Of course it is. Who would want to go shopping now?
"Me!" cries Lampie. "It's me! Mr. Rosewood! Open the door!"
The wind even blows her voice away. She can barely hear herself. She pounds on the door with her fists. "Mr. Rosewood!"
Fool, pipsqueak. Don't think anyone will hear you. I'll blow your voice away. I'll blow you away. I'll blow you in two. And I'll blow out all the matches you light. It'll be a breeze! Ha ha!
Her friend who is not a real friend rolls about, howling with laughter.
The wind's right, thinks Lampie. What am I doing? She's cold, and her legs are trembling. Will she have to go all the way back now? Without any matches?
She screams one more time, at the top of her voice. "Mr. Rosewooood!!!"
A small light appears, at the back of the shop. Someone walks to the door, carrying a candle. It is the grocer, Mr. Rosewood, in a dressing gown and a scarf. When he sees Lampie, he hurries to the door, slides the bolt, and opens up. An enormous gust of wind blows Lampie through the doorway. The shop bell rings away like crazy.
"Um, hello," says Lampie, shivering. "Do you have any matches?"
"Close the door, close the door!" shouts Mr. Rosewood, and together they push the door against the storm until it clicks shut. Instantly, there is quiet. The hail clatters against the windowpanes, but that is outside. Lampie stands there, panting and dripping.
"What did you say, child? Have you come all the way from the lighthouse, through that storm?"
"We've run out of matches. And the lamp needs to be lit." Mr. Rosewood gasps. "It's not lit? Yes, of course it needs to be lit! Tonight of all nights! But you're not going back out into that storm."
"Yes, I am," says Lampie. "I have to." She tries to sound firm, but her voice comes out as a strange squeak. She wrings her scarf out a little and notices that her feet are standing in a big puddle.
"Come upstairs with me for a moment." The grocer lays one hand on her wet shoulder. "Dry clothes, warm milk. Child, you're freezing. You can't . . ."
She shakes off his hand. "I have to get back! Two boxes, please. Will you put it on our account?"
"That's insane!" Mr. Rosewood shakes his head. "This storm will be the death of you!" But he is, above all, a grocer, a salesman, and his hands are already searching through the store cupboard. "Swallow Brand, right? Top Quality? But first you need to warm up. I mean it. Whoever would send a child out in this--"
"Frederick? Who's there?" Mrs. Rosewood's voice, calling down the stairs.
"It's Lampie. She's here to buy matches."
"Lampie? From the lighthouse?"
"Yes. How many Lampies do you know, woman?"
"Send her up here!"
"That's exactly what I was going to do."
Tutting and sighing, Mr. Rosewood takes off Lampie's soaking scarf, hangs it over an oil drum, and gives her his scarf to wear instead. The wool tickles her wet cheeks.
"Take off your shoes down here, and then you can get out of your wet things upstairs, and we'll . . ."
"No, thank you," says Lampie. "I need to get home." The scarf slips off and falls onto the floor but, without stopping to pick it up, she wraps the matches in the chamois cloth and puts them in her basket.
Then she hurries back outside.

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Excerpted from Of Salt and Shore by Annet Schaap
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.