The sun was on my back as I followed the meandering path up away from the shadow of the tower. His garden was larger than I had expected. Small drifts of fine sediment breached the border of roughly hewn stones enclosing the darker, fertile earth of the garden. Short stalks of rich green and withered brown twitched in the breeze.

The well beyond was nothing more than a deep water-filled hole circled with stones even more worn than those of the garden and tower. A thin rope slanted into its murky uncertain depths. I raised the rotting, porous bucket at the end of the rope and filled the leather bladder with brown water. The empty bucket hit the water with a hollow thud. I hefted the water bottle onto my shoulder and limped back toward the beach. The lighthouse spire stood black against the soft pastels of a Red Sea sunset.

Clovis waited for me in the open doorway. "I was just about to prepare the light. Would you like to see how it works?"

"Yes, I would."

"Set the water down and follow me." He grabbed a lantern and went through the door leading to the tower. "I started the fish already. It should be done by the time we are finished," he said, starting up the circular stone stairs set into the masonry of the walls. Two heavy black chains dangled lifeless in the center of our ascending spirals. The stairs emerged onto the narrow catwalk I'd seen Drusel on the night before. The brilliant purples and reds of the sunset were so close it seemed I might stain my hand if I reached out with it.

A cupola of window panes surrounded the beehive-shaped clear lighthouse lens. Clovis opened a narrow door set into the framework of glass and motioned me toward him. He stepped in and walked around the lens until he found the small, hinged glass door that opened to reveal the soot-covered brass burner inside. Clovis ran a rag over the inside surface of the dome-shaped lens and wiped at the fine black powder that always tells of fire.

"Hand me that bottle please." He pointed toward a clear bottle half filled with yellow oil.

"One small flame can provide enough light?" I asked.

"It is not the brightness of the flame but the power of the lens." He took the cork from the bottle and poured a small measure of oil into a reservoir below the charred wick. "May I use your lighter?"

"Here let me," I prompted as I slid my hand in next to his.

"Alright. Apply the flame there," he said, pointing.

I lit it and withdrew my hand as he closed and latched the small trap door.