“Off we go then,” Bertie said. “We’ll only be a few minutes, Lucy, so no need to lock up after us.”
“Can Charles come?” Mary-Sue cradled the big cat in her arms.
“He’d love to,” I said, “but better not. The birders won’t thank us if they hear he’s been running through the marsh.”
She tapped him on the nose. “Naughty boy.” She put him on the floor. He gave me a filthy look and stalked off, tail high, no doubt in search of an overlooked crab cake.
Bertie led the way outside and the women followed. Ronald, Charlene, and I brought up the rear. Charlene called good night and headed for her car. I closed the door behind us. Once we’d stepped out of the light cast by the lamp over the door, we were plunged into near total darkness. The cloud cover was heavy tonight, and not a trace of moon or stars could be seen. Even when the light high above us came on, it didn’t throw much illumination down to the ground. It had been designed to be visible thirty miles out to sea, not to show the way to a group of librarians at its feet.
“Is there a word for a collection of librarians?” I whispered to Ronald.
“Not that I know of, but there might be. There is for just about everything else.”
“A leaf of librarians?”
“A shelf of librarians?”
“I like that one,” I said.
The group began to spread out almost immediately. Some walked faster than others, some stopped to admire their surroundings or take pictures. Lucinda tried to get a selfie with the lighthouse in the background. Louise Jane, who’d taken off her white apron and white lace cap, hung back with Sheila while Bertie walked ahead with Ms. Sanchez, who set a brisk pace. Ronald hurried to catch up with Bertie and shine the Maglite on the ground in front of them to guide their way.
It was a lovely evening, warm and still and quiet. The light from my little keychain barely showed the tips of my toes, but I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the peace. Something rustled in the marsh grasses, and one of the women squealed.
“It’s only a rabbit,” Ruth said. “It’s more afraid of you than you are of it.”
“I doubt that,” Lucinda mumbled.
“Bertie,” Ruth called, “you must get a lot of people coming into the library, wanting information about the marsh wildlife. I hope you have a good collection of natural history books.”
“We do.” Bertie dropped back to chat with her friend, and Ms. Sanchez charged on ahead alone, into the dark, her brown cloak swirling around her. Ronald hesitated, unsure of which person or group to walk with.
“I’m trying to learn,” I said to Ruth, “but the names of birds have never exactly been my forte. I can tell a robin from a duck and that’s about it.” I wasn’t lying about that. We kept a guide to birds of North Carolina at the circulation desk, and if people came in and asked about a specific bird they’d seen, I’d learned not to try their patience by attempting to locate the reference myself. I just handed them the book.
Everyone walked at a different pace. As we crossed the lawn, the group spread out, and voices drifted on the light night wind. Lucinda had dropped into step next to Ronald and tried to take his arm, saying her shoes were unsteady. He’d mumbled something about needing to light the way for Mary-Sue, and Lucinda soon fell back. “I’ve had enough. I’ll wait for y’all in the library,” she called after us.
The first of our group reached the boardwalk, and I heard the planks settle under their feet. East of the lighthouse, a wooden boardwalk runs from the parking lot down to the marsh, through tall wet grasses and patches of swamp, ending at a pier jutting into the green water. During the day, it’s a popular spot for birders. Beyond the marsh, Highway 12 winds along the edge of the open Atlantic Ocean. The calmer waters of Roanoke Sound are behind us, to the west.
Points of light from Ronald’s powerful Maglite, my little beam, and the light from iPhones, spread out along the boardwalk as we reached it.
“Turn off your flashlights, everyone”—Louise Jane’s voice came from somewhere ahead of me—“so we can get the best effect.” One by one the lights went out.
A dim yellow glow lit up the sky to the north. Otherwise, all was completely dark. If not for the clouds, the display of stars would be magnificent.
“Imagine,” Louise Jane’s voice settled into storyteller mode, “it’s the year 1611, and you’ve arrived on this coast after three horrible months at sea. There’s no lighthouse. No town. Over there, perhaps, burns a small cooking fire. Maybe a kerosene lamp or a single candle is lit behind the paper window of one of the small houses, but not for long, as fuel is not for wasting.”
It was a warm night, and I was surrounded by friends, but I felt the hairs on my arms rise and a shudder run down my spine. Most of us were dressed in some manner of dark clothes, including Louise Jane, Ronald, and I, who were all in black, and the figures blended seamlessly into the darkness of the night.
In the modern world we’re rarely, if ever, enveloped by complete darkness. Even I, living so far out of town, have the benefit of the lighthouse light shining through the night and all the electricity I need at a flick of my fingers.
“You’re part of one of the first groups of Europeans to arrive on these shores,” Louise Jane continued, “but not the first people. Is someone watching?”
I wrapped my arms around myself and reminded myself I was surrounded by friends.
“It’s 1715. Caribbean pirates have been known to sail up the coast in search of plunder. Blackbeard himself has a base in Ocracoke. With no lighthouse to warn of the treacherous currents in the Graveyard of
