Jason O’Rourke
An Unusual Conversation
The noise was overwhelming. Even though he’d experienced the spectacle at the West Lighthouse many times before, the shrieking, cracking, cacophony of the nesting birds still awed Charlie. In front of him loomed the Stacks, huge columns of rock standing resolutely beside the sheer cliffs, defying the ferocious wind and waves that rushed in from the wild Atlantic to batter the coast of Rathlin Island. Every surface was dotted with nesting seabirds, light specks against the black rock. The air around was full of them as well; thousands of them: kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, fulmars, puffins, and gulls, wheeling and swooping, soaring elegantly and then landing awkwardly on the narrow ledges and overcrowded slabs. He warmed his hands on the concrete wall, then lifted his binoculars and focused on a couple of puffins high up on the cliff to his right. Strange wee birds, he thought, cute, but strange. Live in burrows. Swinging round to the left and downwards, he spotted a black-backed gull. The other birds kept their distance, and left it alone, so that it sat in the middle of a circle. Charlie had read that it was a callous murderer that killed other birds, but didn’t eat them. Just killed them. So they shunned it; gave it the respect it was due. Are they all like that, he wondered, or are some of them alright? And if they are alright, then do the other birds accept them, or do they just steer clear to keep on the safe side? He moved across to the south side of the platform and scanned further out to sea. The first time they’d come, Dad had told him that from here you could see the hills of Donegal. In the clear May air he could easily make out the distant coastline. Glancing up to his left, Charlie could see the unusual, upside-down lighthouse, its massive lens glinting in the sun. He raised the binoculars again to track a diving bird, maybe a gannet, he thought excitedly, that would be class. The bird folded back its wings and shot like a bullet into the sea, disappearing from view. Definitely a gannet. He watched the sea for a moment to see if it would resurface with a fish in its beak, but got distracted. Looking down he could see the sheer face of the wall stretching down towards the swelling dark-green sea below. It must have taken some amount of concrete to build this place, he mused, and they had to bring it all in by boat and haul it up the cliffs, then transport it by horse and cart all the way down here; some achievement. One of the Islanders had told him that there was a pier down at Cooraghy, where they’d brought all the stuff ashore when they were building the lighthouse. You could get to it by going down a flight of steps near Kebble RSPB cottage. Better still,
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