The Salt Stings Both Ways

The shriek of tortured metal was louder than the storm. Ronnie threw his shoulder against the huge cast-iron crank, his boots slipping on the oil-slicked floor plates. Every muscle in his back and arms screamed in protest. The gear, thick with a century of grease and salt, refused to budge.

"It's not moving!" he yelled over the wind, the words tasting of copper and panic. He could feel Gino right behind him, his presence a warmth against the damp chill that had settled deep in the stone tower.

"Push on three," Gino’s voice was strained, but steady. A city voice, clipped and clean, utterly alien in this place of rock and sea. "We push together. One… two… THREE!"

They heaved, a single, desperate motion. There was a groan, a shudder that ran up from the floor, through their bones, and into their teeth. The gear moved. A fraction of an inch. A victory that felt monumental.

"Again," Ronnie gasped, not needing to look back. He could smell the ozone scent of the rain on Gino's jacket, could feel the slight tremble in the body so close to his own. They found a rhythm born of necessity: the count, the coordinated shove, the grating complaint of the machinery, the shared, ragged breath in the aftermath.

The lantern room, normally a pristine jewel box of polished brass and cut glass, was now a cage of shadows. The emergency battery lamp they'd hung from a hook cast long, dancing monsters on the curved walls. Outside, the Atlantic was a black, furious thing, throwing itself at the base of their lonely rock.

"My grandfather used to tell me about this," Ronnie said between shoves, his voice tight. "The old manual array. Said they had to do it every time the generator failed. Sometimes for a whole night."

"Did he say it felt like trying to push a house over?" Gino grunted, his feet finding better purchase. He was surprisingly strong for someone so lean, all sinew and stubbornness.

"He said it was an honest night's work," Ronnie replied, a small, bitter laugh escaping him. "Kept you warm."

He wasn't warm. He was slick with a cold sweat, his flannel shirt clinging to his skin. But where Gino’s arm brushed his as they reset for another push, there was a startling, radiating heat. It was a distraction. It was the only thing keeping him from thinking about the fishing boats that might be out there, trusting the light that wasn't there.

An hour bled into two. The initial panic subsided, replaced by a dull, aching exhaustion. The massive lens assembly above them was now turning, its movement agonizingly slow but blessedly constant. They had won. They had wrestled the old machine into submission.

Now came the second part: climbing into the heart of the lens to re-ignite the main bulb. A task that required a steady hand and a complete disregard for heights.

"I'll do it," Ronnie said, already reaching for the maintenance ladder. It was his place. His responsibility. His grandfather's ghost was probably watching, judging.

"No," Gino said, his hand closing around Ronnie's wrist. The touch was light, but it stopped him cold. "You've got the crank. I've got the climb. Fair's fair."

Ronnie looked at their hands. Gino’s fingers were long and pale against his own tanned, calloused skin. He could see the faint blue of veins. He pulled his wrist away, a little too quickly. "You don't know how. You could break it. That lens is from France. It's irreplaceable."

"You can talk me through it," Gino said, his eyes, dark and unreadable in the swaying lamplight, fixed on Ronnie's face. "Unless you don't trust me."

The question hung in the air between them, heavier than the storm. It wasn't about the light anymore. Ronnie knew it. He looked away, at the hypnotic, slow sweep of the glass prisms. "Fine. But if you drop the igniter, you're swimming to St. John's to get a new one."

Gino’s smile was a quick, bright flash in the gloom. "Deal."

Ronnie watched him climb, directing him with terse commands. "Left foot on the brass strut. Not that one, the other one. Watch your head on the main prism array. Easy. Easy." His own heart hammered against his ribs with every move Gino made, a frantic, unsteady beat that had nothing to do with the exertion.

Gino moved with an unexpected grace, his lanky frame folding and unfolding as he navigated the intricate crystal maze. When he finally reached the centre and turned to look down, his face was illuminated from below by the emergency lamp. He looked like something ancient, a figure trapped in amber.

"Okay," Gino's voice echoed strangely inside the lens. "Now what?"

Ronnie talked him through it, the procedure as familiar to him as a prayer. The words were automatic, freeing his mind to simply watch. He watched the careful way Gino handled the delicate components, the focus that sharpened his features. He was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time since he'd arrived a month ago, the mainland kid with his fancy camera and quiet ways. He wasn't just a temporary fixture anymore. He was the person turning the light back on.

With a final click and a soft whoosh, the main bulb ignited. A brilliant, clean white light flooded the room, chasing the shadows into the corners and making them both squint. It was blinding. It was beautiful.

Gino climbed down, his face flushed with triumph. The roar of the storm seemed to fade, muted by the sheer power of the light they had resurrected. They stood in silence for a long moment, caught in the silent, sweeping rhythm of the beam.

"We did it," Gino said, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah," Ronnie breathed. "We did."

The air was thick with unspoken things. The relief, the shared danger, the strange intimacy of their struggle. Ronnie felt an overwhelming urge to… he wasn't sure what. Reach out, maybe. Say something that mattered.

But Gino spoke first, his voice casual, but with an edge Ronnie couldn't quite decipher. "My flight's at the end of the month. My dad already bought the ticket. Non-refundable."

And just like that, the storm outside rushed back in. The moment was over. The light was on, but the end was already in sight. Ronnie looked at the rotating beam, slicing through the darkness, a steady, predictable rhythm. A warning. A countdown.