Wendell the Damp

The Story

The lighthouse keeper on Lake Michigan kept umbrellas the wind stole. By March she had 912. Each got a paper tag: date, weather, color, and a guess at the owner's name. Usually wrong. Her name was Agnes Pell. Nobody visited, except the gulls. Then one Tuesday, a red umbrella washed up with a letter inside. It said: Please return to Theo. No address, just a map. The map showed the far shore. Agnes stared at it for three days, then rowed out before dawn. The gulls followed, complaining loudly. Midway, the sky turned green. Two boats were losing sails. Agnes, of course, had umbrellas. The fishermen rigged them as sails and sailed home under polka-dots. Agnes rowed on, soaked, stubborn. The far shore had a village where everyone was missing an umbrella. They'd been losing them for years on purpose, a little girl confessed. She was nine and named Pip. She'd been setting them loose so the keeper wouldn't be lonely. Agnes sat down in the mud. Then she laughed until hiccuping. Theo was Pip's late grandfather. He had been keeper first. That night, a ship's horn sounded and the lighthouse stood dark, unminded. Agnes ran for her boat. Pip and the whole village followed, every boat bristling with umbrellas. The storm hit them midway. Lightning split the sky open. Pip yelled: Umbrellas up! Canopies bloomed on black water and threw the lightning back, brighter. The ship saw them and turned. It slid safely into the cove. Its captain carried a soggy box. Inside was Theo's old logbook. It listed lost umbrellas, too. Theo had started the collection. Theo's umbrella crowned the dome. Word reached the city by morning. The village hung paper lanterns. The tide drew silver ribbons. The tower stood taller somehow. An umbrella drifted in, upside down. The lighthouse blinked twice. Hello. Then another, then a tiny pink one. Then one big enough for two. A rainbow one hung from the lamppost, and nobody would admit losing it.