— — Do you know why they light the fires in the far lighthouses? — the old fisherman asked the children, squinting cunningly. He spread his fishing nets with reluctant, calloused fingers and cocked his ear as one after another his young listeners chimed in with their ideas.

— That the lighthouse keeper may read books? — asked a young boy of six wearing comical spectacles, which were constantly striving to slip from his nose.
— That sea monsters may be warded off? — timorously suggested a blonde girl in a striped dress and knitted gaiters.
— That we may look far out to sea? — asked a lanky freckled boy.
— That ships would know when the shore was near? — loudly asked a lad of ten.

— True! All true, my children! — chuckled the old fisherman, continuing to regard the children from beneath whitened brows which reminded them of dandelion seed balls with their bushiness. — They light the fires on the far lighthouses so that those who are in need may see the light and be delivered from danger.

— Oh, won't you tell us the tale about the lighthouse? — the blond girl asked the fisherman. — Please!
— Pleeeeeease! — joined in the other children.
    The fisherman took a deep breath, seated himself beside his boat, and asked:
— You truly desire to hear a story?
— Yes! — answered the children in chorus.

— This will take some time, for it is a lengthy tale, and one of my
most cherished...— said the fisherman, gazing out to sea.
It was a wonderfully tranquil evening, and hardly a breath of wind stirred upon the rocky shore of the island: the water was smooth, almost mirror-like, and only occasionally would a ripple from the light, warm breeze dart across its glassy surface. A little further off one could hear the splashing of fish.
The children, in silent accord, settled down where they could: one clambered right into the boat, another sat down by the fire, another settled directly upon one of the sun-warmed rocks. The blonde girl in the striped dress snuggled up to her brother.

— Once, not so very long ago, yet long enough ago, there lived a brother and sister. Just like these two, — began the old man, indicating the inquisitive young lad and his sister with a nod. — The brother's name was Sigurd, and he was around ten years of age. He loved to carve wooden ships with his little knife, and dreamed that one day he himself would have a great boat like that of his father. His sister's name was Eyja, and she was still quite a baby, and knew nothing of the world, but loved to spend her days out collecting bouquets of meadow flowers, stroking sheep and getting up to all kinds of mischief.

 — They often spent the days out walking together and were very close, but sometimes they quarrelled, as brothers and sisters are wont to do. — Here the fisherman winked at the children, who exchanged glances, laughing. — So once upon a time, when the sun had gone down over the island on which they lived and the shadows had begun to deepen, Sigurd and Eyja could not sleep in their beds. Their mother had prepared them tea from forest herbs, mint and dried whortleberry with honey, yet still they lay with open eyes, unable to sleep.

 — Mother, — asked Eyja in a soft voice, gentle, like the call of the shepherd's horn which you can hear now, — I'm afraid to close my eyes!
— What do you fear, child? — asked her mother, stroking Eyja's hair. The girl tossed her curly head from side to side. — Won't you tell me?
 — No! — she answered shortly, stubbornly pursing her lips.
 — She's afraid to tell you, — said Sigurd. — For if she tells you…
  — She must recognise that which she fears in earnest… — said their mother, smiling.
  — And do battle with her fears, — added Sigurd.
He himself was striving not to permit any evil thoughts to enter his head. The shadows deepened, the light in the house seemed less and less, and the sounds which reached them from the yard already seemed no longer friendly, but pregnant with danger, like the day. The wind from the sea picked up, and began to blow ever harder.

 — One day she will have no choice but to do it, — said their mother, with a hint of sadness in her smile. — Eyja, do you still not want to tell us what you are afraid of?
— I'm…afraid of… — murmured the girl in a barely audible whisper, — I'm afraid of the shadow spirits! — she said, looking down at the floorboards.
The flame from the lamp flickered slightly from the draught, the shadows truly became thicker and thicker and began to move threateningly.
— Do not be afraid, Eyja, — her brother consoled her. — For you know how to defeat them.
— Just cease to be afraid, — answered Eyja, just as a good pupil answers her teacher at school. — But I cannot simply cease to be afraid! — she cried loudly, trembling.
It seemed as if the shadows which had gathered around the bed had become even denser.

  — You must think about how you can overcome your fear, for when you begin to fight it, it will become weaker and weaker, — her mother said gently, adjusting her pillow.
  — It's only the shadows from the night light, isn't it? — asked Eyja, after thinking a little. Her voice grew clearly stronger.
  — Yes, child, — nodded her mother.
  — So we need just to brighten the light! — exclaimed Eyja joyfully.
  — Well noted, child! We can do that. And now, think again: do we not out of habit sleep in the darkness?
  — Yes… — replied Eyja thoughtfully.
  — And no evil comes of it for us? — her mother asked again.
  — No… — replied Eyja.

 — You know, darkness is nothing more than dense shadow, — said her mother in a calm voice, though for a moment the eyes of the girl again betrayed traces of fear. — You have nothing to fear from the dark night, you are at home, in safety, and Sigurd is beside you. You know what strength he has, he will never allow you to come to any harm. But even if Sigurd is not beside you, you must understand that every shadow has its end, sooner or later light will defeat it, like this darkness tomorrow morning, which is already so close. Sunrise will defeat it.

— I'm almost not afraid at all! — said Eyja, gripping Sigurd's arm.
— That's good, all is well, — answered their mother. — And it's the hour of sleep, now I'll put out the night light, but you first close your eyes, and listen to this lullaby I'll sing you:

The children slept soundly, despite the storm coming in from the sea.
By morning the squall had blown over, and all that remained were large puddles in the yard outside. The children took off their boots and frolicked about in them. Their mother tied medicinal herbs into bunches and hung them up to dry close to the hearth, where the air was warm and dry.

— Mother, but when will Father return? — asked Sigurd suddenly.
— St. John's Wort will come into bloom, and around that very time I will finish knitting your sweater. Well, at that time, three stars will ascend into the heavens and align themselves in a row, and Rusty Nils, who sits high, high up on the mast and looks out for land, will cry out in his hoarse old voice: 'Land!' Then your father will give the command to follow the light of the lighthouse, and soon enough they will be on dry land.
— Even if there might be a storm? — asked little Eyja.

— The lighthouse will shine, even if there is a storm. For when it is lit, it is easier for sailors to find their way home and not smash themselves onto the jagged rocks of that very cape whose name is Land's End, — said their mother, biting a thread and hanging a bundle of grass upon a nail.
    Sigurd was delighted.
— St. John's Wort will start blooming soon! — he said, smiling.
— Soon, soon! — said their mother, nodding her head. — Spring is about to end, summer will begin, then quickly it will be midsummer and soon be almost over – and the time will come.
— Hooray! — exclaimed Eyja in delight. — I already miss him so much!
— And me! — said Sigurd.
— And me! — laughed their mother.

Eyja ran off happily to the manger, where two new lambs had recently been born: one black and one white. Mother said that the black lamb would bring good fortune. Eyja decided to treat the creature to some fresh clover, but the lamb turned its nose up at the gift. “It's probably still too small,” she concluded. Sigurd went out to the shoreline and began to whittle himself a new ship.

The wood was soft and compliant, and the work progressed quickly. As Sigurd deftly wielded his pocket-knife, all the while his thoughts were fixed on how wondrous it would be to grow up all the sooner and set out with his father on a great voyage, into the limitless spaces of the ocean, in order that he might become as great a captain as his father. So that they might pass through the ice to the other side of the world and together with his father calm the burning sea, so it would again become calm and deep blue.

It seemed to Sigurd that he could overcome any difficulties. He could already visualise the scene: his vessel had come under attack from a great sea monster, and he, brandishing a fishing hook in one hand and a cutlass in the other, was leaping from side to side, trying to outsmart it and inflict serious injuries upon the beast. And then the sea was stained dark blue, the colour of ink, and the monster, giving vent to a last cry, sinks into the depths.

The crew hail their saviour with cries and whistles, Rusty Nils and Bosun Higgs shake his hand, and his father proudly proclaims: “That is my son, Sigurd Petersson, my own flesh and blood!”
Sigurd had become so lost in dreams that the modest coastal waves seemed to him to be as enormous as at sea during a storm, and the small, moss-covered rocks appeared to him as cliffs overgrown with forest.

Just then, a dark bird flew past, throwing its shadow across the newly-whittled birch boat. Sigurd involuntarily shivered.

Sigurd's mother was standing at the window, cleaning the rhubarb she would use to make the cakes for lunch. Suddenly the black bird settled upon the windowsill and slightly tilted its head, fixing her with its eye, sharp and bright, as obsidian, penetrating right into her soul.
— Here the old man attempted to demonstrate this gaze to the children. One of them gasped in surprise to see how his kind face had suddenly become so cold and angular.

 — What do you want, little bird? — asked Sigurd's mother gently, attempting to conceal the unease which had momentarily seized her. — I haven't even baked the cakes, there are no crumbs for you. Although there's a little left from yesterday's rye bread… — she said, putting aside the red rhubarb stalks.

The bird suddenly cocked its head even sharper, peering into the deepest corners of her soul. Then it gave a sharp cry and took flight, dropping a blue-black feather on the windowsill. Out of surprise, she spilt the crumbs which she had managed to gather.

— What a strange little feather... — she murmured, peering at it as if under a spell. She took the feather in her hand, and all of a sudden, unexpectedly pricking herself, gasped.