Lars Boye Jerlach

The Somnambulist's Dreams

The Somnambulist's Dreams is the story of a lighthouse keeper somewhere on the coast of New England who discovers a collection of seemingly deranged writings left behind by his somnambulant predecessor. He swiftly becomes an unwitting participant in a nebulous narrative that not only defies time and space, but also brings into question his own sanity. 

BELOW IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE NOVEL

There was no denying it was lonesome. Now that the frost had irrevocably moved down from the north, he found the nights particularly long. He rubbed his hands over the kerosene stove in the galley, before putting on his fingerless gloves and wrapping a thick grey woolen scarf around his neck. His uniform was far from adequate, so to keep warm he picked up his overcoat, put two of the heated stones in his coat pockets and climbed the stairs. It was cold in the watch room, and as he exhaled, small shapeless clouds formed in the air.

He put down the lamp on a small battered rectangular oak table on which a number of initials and other inscriptions had been veraciously carved, removed a watch from his pocket and flipped open the cover to check the time. Not that it was necessary. The sun was still dispersing a sheath of liquid fire on the horizon, so he still had some time. As usual he had cleaned and inspected the lens earlier that morning. He had also refilled the fuel and checked the wick. Although it was somewhat frayed, he hadn’t found it necessary to trim it. He began winding up the mechanism that rotated the Fresnel lens. He counted the revolutions and when he could feel the proper resistance from the weights, he stopped and looked out at the sky that, with its millions of effulgent flecks, stretched above him in an infinite elastic expanse. At least tonight he wouldn’t have to worry about visibility. After he had lit the wick and set the lens in motion, the light would be flashing for the next hour and a half, before it needed another rewind. 

He stared into the night and listened to the wind lambaste the waves against the granite, almost sixty feet below. He could almost sense their febrile, liquid tentacles surrounding the belfry as the tide moved in. He was fascinated by the facility and seemingly infinite power of the ocean, and in his first few months in the tower he had often devoted his entire watch to gazing at the sea, utterly lost in the immensity before him. He unbuttoned the top of his coat to remove a small package that he set down on the table next to the lamp. He repositioned one of the rickety armless chairs and sat down.

He had found the package earlier in the day, when he had cleared out the small storage area next to the water cistern on the lower level. Something light had been hastily wrapped in an old waxy piece of paper and tied together with a piece of oily twine. Due to its lack of substance he had almost discarded it, but then he read the faded fragment: “.....ust acquaint themselves with the working of the apparatus in their charge. Upon any doubtful point questions must be a ….”on the outside of the pallid but dirty paper. He recognized it from the booklet, Instructions to Lighthouse-Keepers by authority of The Lighthouse Board. Before taking up his current position he had read it studiously, and he had even brought his own copy of the 1881 edition with him. It was now sitting in the small bookshelf by the bed, in the sleeping quarters on the second floor.

He had put the small package aside and after he had finished clearing out and rearranging the storage area, he carried it upstairs and put it on the small stool next to his bed. Although he was intrigued by its content, he nevertheless decided to wait until evening to properly examine it. He had left it on the stool as he slept. Now it was time. He put his hands in his pockets and closed his fingers around the warm smooth unyielding surface of the heated stones. He realized that he would have most likely appeared deranged to the casual observer, as he had walked up and down the beach picking up, examining, comparing and rejecting a great number of stones until he found four that were as close to faultless as they could be. The surfaces of the specimens he had finally selected were completely smooth and when he closed his fingers around them, they fitted comfortably in the palm of his hands.  They were all slightly irregular in shape and placed together on the stove in the galley, they very much looked like a small pile of grey tapered potatoes. He rolled the stones around in his pockets until his fingertips started to prickle.

When his fingers had regained their mobility, he picked up the small parcel, untied the twine and unfolded the paper to expose a small bundle of papers. He twice folded the waxy cover paper, pressed it down with his hand, and placed the rolled up twine on top. He put it at the corner of the table and looked at the bundle in front of him. The papers were small, not much bigger than a regular postcard, and nearly translucent. When he carefully removed the top piece from the pile and held it up to the light, he felt like he was holding something evanescent between his fingertips. The paper flowed against his skin like a thin membrane and the words decorated the page in a fluid, intricate pattern. He thought of the wings of a butterfly as he gingerly placed it on the table and read.

The Dreams of Enoch S. Soule

My Dearest Emily,

When we were young, you often asked me what I dreamed about in the night and though I was always reluctant to tell you, mostly because I was embarrassed and fearful of your response, I have finally decided to write to you about my dreams, and trust that you will recognize and know the true me and not be abhorred by the fantasies of my mind, over which I have no control. I am, as far as I know, compos mentis and yet I cannot explain, even to myself, where the figments originate. Beside their esotericism, I do not know if there is any other significance to them. I have chosen to share my dreams with you, so that you can better understand and perhaps accept why I could not share them sooner.

The dreams have always been the same, and despite some slight variations, they have not changed for as long as I can remember. I have attempted to name the places that I visit, though without proper research, I cannot be sure if they hold true.  I have not ordered or dated the dreams, as it seems that there is no beginning or end to them. They flow into one another, like a stroke from a painters’ brush, to form one complete but enigmatic picture.

However, before I tell you what transpires in my somnambular state, I want you to know, how truly sorry I am to have left you lonely all these years.  It was never my intent for us to be apart for such an extensive amount of time. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

Although you have said in jest many times, that I was in love only with my tower, you should know that, from the depths of my heart, there has never been anyone else on this earth that I loved more than you. Blessed Mary herself has but a morsel of the affection of my heart as you do. You have always been and will always be my one true love and our beautiful girls my eternal inspiration.

Sitting here overlooking the expanse of the sea, I wish that I could rewind time, so that I could have devoted more of it to being at home with you and the girls, instead of being locked away in this tower, listening to the eternal thrashing of the waves. Alas, that is not possible. In the end we all must accept and live the life we have chosen with the happiness and misgivings that follow. You have never complained or lamented your lot in life, however, I am deeply sorry if I have brought you more heartache than joy, both in our time together and apart.  I would like you to know, that I believe my time here is coming to an end. These days my body is in near constant agony and my mind has started to wander, even more so than usual.

I miss the sight of the trees in the street, the smell of flowers in the garden, the sound of small songbirds and the laughter of our girls. But mostly I miss having my arms around You in a loving embrace. I bide my time until we meet.

Please pass on my everlasting love and affection to the girls.

I will forever be yours.

Your Loving Husband,
Enoch

He turned over the page; it was blank. He looked through the window into the darkness and searched the horizon. Nothing was moving but the sea. He wondered how the package had found its way to the tool cupboard in the storage area. When he looked down he realized he was still holding the letter between his fingers. He carefully placed it face down on the table next to the bundle and picked up the next sheet.