A story
Saffron the Harbor Cat Counts the Boats Home
At the very end of a stony harbor, on a little hill above the sea, stood a white lighthouse with a red cap. In the lighthouse lived an old keeper named Mr. Anselm, and his orange cat, Saffron.
Saffron had fur the color of marmalade, a white tip on her tail, and one ear that always flopped a little to the side. She loved the lighthouse very much. She loved the round rooms and the curly stairs. She loved the warm patch of floor where the afternoon sun came through the window. But most of all, she loved the evenings.
Every evening, as the sky turned peach and lavender, the fishing boats came home.
Saffron would climb up the curly stairs, all the way to the top, and sit on the windowsill beside the great lamp. From there, she could see the whole sea, wide and shining. And she would count the boats as they sailed into the harbor.
First came the big green boat, with seagulls following it, crying, "Kee-ow! Kee-ow!"
Then came the two yellow boats, side by side, like sisters.
Then came the striped red-and-white boat, putt-putting along.
And last of all came the little blue boat. It belonged to a young fisherman named Ewan, who always waved up at the lighthouse when he passed. Saffron was sure he was waving at her.
"One, two, three, four, five," Saffron would purr. "Everyone is home." And then, and only then, she would trot down the curly stairs, curl up on her cushion by the stove, and fall asleep.
One evening, the sky was especially beautiful. Pink clouds floated like cotton candy. The sea sparkled gold. Mr. Anselm climbed the stairs, slowly, one hand on the rail, and lit the great lamp. It began to turn, sending its long, bright beam sweeping across the water.
Saffron sat on the windowsill and counted.
The big green boat came in. One.
The two yellow boats came in. Two, three.
The striped boat putt-putted in. Four.
Saffron waited for the little blue boat.
She waited while the peach sky turned purple. She waited while the first star peeked out. She waited while the lights in the harbor houses flicked on, one by one, like friendly eyes.
But the little blue boat did not come.
Saffron's tail began to twitch. Her floppy ear pricked up as high as it could go. "Where is Ewan?" she meowed. "Everyone should be home by now."
Mr. Anselm came and sat beside her on his creaky wooden stool. He scratched her gently behind the ears. "What's the matter, little one?" he asked. "Are you waiting for someone?"
Saffron meowed again and pressed her nose against the cool glass.
Mr. Anselm looked out at the sea. "Ah," he said. "The blue boat is not home yet. Don't you worry. Sometimes a boat is a little late. Maybe Ewan found a good spot for fishing. Maybe he stopped to help a friend. The sea is calm tonight, and the moon is bright."
Saffron listened, but she did not move. She did not want to go to bed. How could she sleep when the counting was not finished?
The stars came out, more and more of them. The moon rose, round and silver, and laid a shining path across the water. Saffron's eyes grew heavy. She blinked slowly. Her head drooped, and then she jerked it back up.
"I must stay awake," she thought. "I must count Ewan home."
Mr. Anselm smiled. He reached out and stroked her back, from her head to the white tip of her tail.
"Do you know why we have a lighthouse, Saffron?" he said softly. "It is so the boats can always find their way home, even in the dark. The light keeps turning all night long. It doesn't get tired. It doesn't need to sleep. It is watching for us."
Saffron looked at the great lamp. It turned and turned, round and round, sending its beam far, far out over the sea. The beam swept past the rocks, past the waves, all the way to the edge of the sky.
"The light is doing the watching," Mr. Anselm said. "And the sea is gentle, and Ewan knows the way. You can rest, little one. You do not have to carry everything all by yourself."
Saffron thought about this. The light was very bright. It was much brighter than her eyes. It could see much farther than she could. And it never, ever got sleepy.
She gave a big, wide yawn, so big that her whiskers stretched out like a fan.
Mr. Anselm scooped her up in his arms. He carried her down the curly stairs, one step at a time, humming an old sea song. The song went up and down like gentle waves. He set her on her cushion by the stove, where it was warm and smelled of toast and wood smoke.
"Goodnight, Saffron," he whispered. "The light will keep watch."
Saffron tucked her nose under her tail. Above her, she could hear the soft hum of the great lamp turning. Outside, she could hear the waves going hush, hush, hush against the rocks. Her eyes closed. Her breathing became slow and deep. And soon, she was fast asleep, dreaming of silver fish and moonlit water.
In the morning, the sun came up bright and clear. Saffron woke, stretched, and raced up the curly stairs to the window.
There, in the harbor, bobbing happily between the yellow boats, was the little blue boat.
And on the dock, Ewan was waving up at the lighthouse. Beside him stood another fisherman, an old friend whose net had tangled far out at sea. Ewan had stayed to help him untangle it, and they had sailed home together, slowly, following the lighthouse beam all the way.
"Five," purred Saffron, and she pressed her nose to the glass. "Everyone is home."
Mr. Anselm came up behind her with a cup of tea. "You see?" he said, smiling. "The light kept watch."
That evening, when the boats came home, Saffron counted them again. But if one was late, she did not worry so much. She simply gave a big yawn, curled up on her cushion, and let the great light do the watching. After all, she was a lighthouse cat. And lighthouse cats know that the light never sleeps, so that everyone else can.
Saffron had fur the color of marmalade, a white tip on her tail, and one ear that always flopped a little to the side. She loved the lighthouse very much. She loved the round rooms and the curly stairs. She loved the warm patch of floor where the afternoon sun came through the window. But most of all, she loved the evenings.
Every evening, as the sky turned peach and lavender, the fishing boats came home.
Saffron would climb up the curly stairs, all the way to the top, and sit on the windowsill beside the great lamp. From there, she could see the whole sea, wide and shining. And she would count the boats as they sailed into the harbor.
First came the big green boat, with seagulls following it, crying, "Kee-ow! Kee-ow!"
Then came the two yellow boats, side by side, like sisters.
Then came the striped red-and-white boat, putt-putting along.
And last of all came the little blue boat. It belonged to a young fisherman named Ewan, who always waved up at the lighthouse when he passed. Saffron was sure he was waving at her.
"One, two, three, four, five," Saffron would purr. "Everyone is home." And then, and only then, she would trot down the curly stairs, curl up on her cushion by the stove, and fall asleep.
One evening, the sky was especially beautiful. Pink clouds floated like cotton candy. The sea sparkled gold. Mr. Anselm climbed the stairs, slowly, one hand on the rail, and lit the great lamp. It began to turn, sending its long, bright beam sweeping across the water.
Saffron sat on the windowsill and counted.
The big green boat came in. One.
The two yellow boats came in. Two, three.
The striped boat putt-putted in. Four.
Saffron waited for the little blue boat.
She waited while the peach sky turned purple. She waited while the first star peeked out. She waited while the lights in the harbor houses flicked on, one by one, like friendly eyes.
But the little blue boat did not come.
Saffron's tail began to twitch. Her floppy ear pricked up as high as it could go. "Where is Ewan?" she meowed. "Everyone should be home by now."
Mr. Anselm came and sat beside her on his creaky wooden stool. He scratched her gently behind the ears. "What's the matter, little one?" he asked. "Are you waiting for someone?"
Saffron meowed again and pressed her nose against the cool glass.
Mr. Anselm looked out at the sea. "Ah," he said. "The blue boat is not home yet. Don't you worry. Sometimes a boat is a little late. Maybe Ewan found a good spot for fishing. Maybe he stopped to help a friend. The sea is calm tonight, and the moon is bright."
Saffron listened, but she did not move. She did not want to go to bed. How could she sleep when the counting was not finished?
The stars came out, more and more of them. The moon rose, round and silver, and laid a shining path across the water. Saffron's eyes grew heavy. She blinked slowly. Her head drooped, and then she jerked it back up.
"I must stay awake," she thought. "I must count Ewan home."
Mr. Anselm smiled. He reached out and stroked her back, from her head to the white tip of her tail.
"Do you know why we have a lighthouse, Saffron?" he said softly. "It is so the boats can always find their way home, even in the dark. The light keeps turning all night long. It doesn't get tired. It doesn't need to sleep. It is watching for us."
Saffron looked at the great lamp. It turned and turned, round and round, sending its beam far, far out over the sea. The beam swept past the rocks, past the waves, all the way to the edge of the sky.
"The light is doing the watching," Mr. Anselm said. "And the sea is gentle, and Ewan knows the way. You can rest, little one. You do not have to carry everything all by yourself."
Saffron thought about this. The light was very bright. It was much brighter than her eyes. It could see much farther than she could. And it never, ever got sleepy.
She gave a big, wide yawn, so big that her whiskers stretched out like a fan.
Mr. Anselm scooped her up in his arms. He carried her down the curly stairs, one step at a time, humming an old sea song. The song went up and down like gentle waves. He set her on her cushion by the stove, where it was warm and smelled of toast and wood smoke.
"Goodnight, Saffron," he whispered. "The light will keep watch."
Saffron tucked her nose under her tail. Above her, she could hear the soft hum of the great lamp turning. Outside, she could hear the waves going hush, hush, hush against the rocks. Her eyes closed. Her breathing became slow and deep. And soon, she was fast asleep, dreaming of silver fish and moonlit water.
In the morning, the sun came up bright and clear. Saffron woke, stretched, and raced up the curly stairs to the window.
There, in the harbor, bobbing happily between the yellow boats, was the little blue boat.
And on the dock, Ewan was waving up at the lighthouse. Beside him stood another fisherman, an old friend whose net had tangled far out at sea. Ewan had stayed to help him untangle it, and they had sailed home together, slowly, following the lighthouse beam all the way.
"Five," purred Saffron, and she pressed her nose to the glass. "Everyone is home."
Mr. Anselm came up behind her with a cup of tea. "You see?" he said, smiling. "The light kept watch."
That evening, when the boats came home, Saffron counted them again. But if one was late, she did not worry so much. She simply gave a big yawn, curled up on her cushion, and let the great light do the watching. After all, she was a lighthouse cat. And lighthouse cats know that the light never sleeps, so that everyone else can.
