A cry came across a million years of water and mist. A cry so anguished and alone that is shuddered in my head and my body. The monster cried out at the tower. The Fog Horn blew. The monster opened its great toothed mouth and the sounds that came from it was the sound of the Fog Horn itself. Lonely and vast and far away. The sound of isolation, a viewless sea, a cold night, apartness. That was the sound…
Maybe it’s the last of its kind. I sort of think that’s true. Anyway, here come men on land and build this lighthouse, five years ago. And set up their Fog Horn and sound it and sound it out toward the place where you bury yourself in sleep and sea memories of a world where there were thousands like yourself, but now you’re alone, all alone in a world not made for you, a world where you have to hide…
‘That’s life for you,’ said McDunn, ‘Someone always waiting for someone who never comes home. Always someone loving some thing more that that thing loves them. And after a while you want to destroy whatever that thing is, so it can’t hurt you no more.’