“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. Except, to his surprise, the person on the penny wasn’t a man.
Brixton was embarrassed to have compared Walt to a woman. She was the ideal vision of Miss Liberty. When the artist created her, that image was what they saw when they thought of Miss Liberty.
Besides the fact that his penny had a woman on it, another thing that made this coin so special was that it was an experimental penny. To keep the weight down, the mint put silver in the inside and surrounded it with copper. Before that, they were all solid copper.
They should’ve just done away with the coin then. Brixton thought when she read him the history. We wouldn’t be in this mess. If only they knew coins were going to flop anyway.
“I like for it to have a mind of its own,” he said after he caught the boy staring at his hair still.
Brixton immediately jumped and looked down at the floor. He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at the old man and thinking about his penny.
He inched his way further in. Sketches caught his eye as he glossed over the scattered paper on the writing desk by the window overlooking the ocean. By the looks of it, Walter had been laboring over the same equation for months, maybe even years.
Without touching anything, Brixton tried to collect enough information as he could. With the quick glances from the kitchen to the papers, he pieced together some sort of blueprint for an underground tunnel. Two questions came to him.
Why is he so interested in tunnels? Where does this one go?
About that time, Walter hobbled back into the room, bringing fresh lemonade, soft fruit crepes, and gooey butter cookies. He stumbled along with a wooden cane in one hand and a carved mahogany pipe in the other.
Just by looking at it, Brixton knew the pipe had to be as old as Walter; probably even older. Perhaps it was his grandfather’s. He had given it to his father and then his father had given it to him. Whatever the age and how he got the pipe, it remained in excellent condition after all these years.
On the pipe, tiny whales danced along the waves that shaped it. Their flukes and the ocean’s swirls wrapped around to form the bowl. Their heads came up the long part of it.
“Do you know the humpback whale is acknowledged for its musical ability, Mr. Bex?”
Brixton, still quite shy and embarrassed for staring for the second time, didn’t say anything. He shook his head for his response instead.
“You’ve got to answer me better than that. Good heavens, how will we ever hold a proper conversation if all you know how to do is bobble your head? Is it fully attached? Shall I summon your mother to bring us an apparatus to fix it?”
Brixton let out a nervous laugh. He knew then that they would get along just fine.
“No, I didn’t know that,” he replied.
“Brilliant creatures they are. I suggest you study them before our next meeting. Bright as the sun. “The song of the sea” they would call them. I can describe them in three words; one of many. Before even I came to be on this earth,” he paused. “You can grasp what that means can’t you, boy? Surely your mother taught you something?”
“Before you were born?”
“Very good Mr. Bex. There’s hope for you yet. Where was I? Oh yes, before all that, whales traveled in what you would call pods. Mainly groups of fifteen or so. They’re a lot like humans- they stick together,” he paused a moment then added, “maybe those should be my three words.” Walter tapped his pipe with his forefinger. “When I say “one of many,” I mean that the humpback is only one type of whale. There are many more or were I should say. We haven’t studied ocean creatures since fishing became obsolete.”
Close to fifty years ago, some scientist invented a type of cell fish that they could grow in labs instead of actually harming marine life. Since then, nobody has been allowed out in the ocean. And because other ways of transportation came about, like the coast-rail, ships became extinct as well.
“What do you think? Do you think there are still many?” Brixton asked intrigued.
“Every once in a while I see them rise to the surface. Right out there on the horizon. I sit on the balcony upstairs and try to hear their songs. I suspect their style has changed some. There isn’t much to sing about these days.” Walter walked over to the window and looked out at the setting sun. “They’ve changed as well.”
“A whale can change?”
“It’s been half a century since anybody has actually gotten a good look at them. But from what I’ve seen, they’ve grown not only in size but in numbers too. Sometimes, out in the middle there, a dark circle appears out of nowhere. Like the ground is rising from the bottom of the ocean. It moves this way and that; in one uniform motion. I believe it’s the whales. They’ve banned together and have created a new species.”
“You actually believe that?”
“Haven’t you studied evolution boy?”
“I’m