The boatman cut the rope without looking back.

Thomas Calloway stood on the black rocks of the Shetland island, salt spray on his face, watching the sail disappear into the grey morning. He had been thrown at the edge of the world, as if the sea itself had rejected him. The island was a rusted iron nail driven into the ocean, barren and silent except for the wind whistling through cracks in the stone.

He walked inland. The island was small. He reached the center within an hour and found the hole in the hill—a mine shaft, its mouth scattered with black coal dust. Beside it stood a great iron pot on a stone stove, large enough to serve as a roof. There was no fire in it. The air smelled of something oily and strange.

A figure emerged from the mine—a thin old man, dark as a piece of driftwood bleached by decades of sea wind. He dragged a cart of coal up the wooden tracks, the wheels squeaking like a dying thing.

"Help me," the old man said.

Thomas pushed from behind. The cart stopped beside the coal pile. All the coal from this tiny mine went to burning that one great pot.

The old man collapsed against the cart wheels, gasping.

"I've come to find you," Thomas said. He didn't need to ask who this man was. There was only one person on the easternmost island. "I've come to beg you."

"I'm nothing to beg of. A fire-keeper. A life of suffering." The old man waved a black hand. "People say you can fix the stars for people with terminal illness."

"I'm not long for this world myself, boy. Old."

"The earth has a star for every person. If that star sickens, the light doesn't reach them. If it dims too long, they get a disease no doctor can cure."

"Everyone knows that."

"You have a great book. You can find each person's star in it. You can climb to the heavens and repair the damaged ones."

The old fire-keeper looked up at Thomas. His eyes were clouded, struggling to focus. A faint, mocking smile touched his lips, but something in them shifted—interest, perhaps, or the first flicker of something like hope.

"You're ill?"

"The girl I love is ill. Terminal. I know money is useless to you here, but if you can fix her star, I'll do anything for you. I'll die for you. If you won't help me, I'll die on this island. Without her, I can't live."

The old man studied him for a long moment. Then he shook his head and laughed—a dry, rattling sound. "All the others said the same. When I finished fixing their stars, they were gone."

"I won't leave. I'll take your place. I swear it."

"Try, then. I can only try. What other choice do I have?"

They began to prepare for the ascent. First, gunpowder—saltpeter and sulfur from the mine, and whale bone for charcoal. The island was littered with great whale skeletons on its beaches, their bones white as marble ruins in the edge-light. The old man's cottage was built of whalebone and dark whale hide.

The gunpowder progressed slowly. The old man worked with deliberate, almost deliberate slowness. Thomas burned with impatience—beyond the ocean, in a small town on the mainland, the girl's illness was worsening each day.

"What's the hurry?" The old man pointed at the sky. "The first quarter moon is days away. Without it, there's no way up."

Three days later, the gunpowder was ready—a great whaleskin sack full.

Next came the rockets. Each rocket body was a complete whale tooth, straight and thick as a man's thigh. They found five of them inside great whale skulls. The old man polished them until they shone white and carved fifteen tail fins from thin whalebone, each sharp as a knife.

He cut shallow grooves in the tooth tips, glued in the fins, and poured the gunpowder into the hollow centers. Five rockets, ready.

Thomas asked if they should test one. The old man was certain. "No test needed. It will work."

The old man's real work took most of his energy—mining coal, hunting whales, rendering whale oil. Thomas helped and found the labor exhausting. Every day left him spent. There was a time each night when Thomas slept heavily, and the old man was gone—once or twice he half-woke to see the old man's small sailboat heading out to sea in the deepest hour before dawn, returning when the sun stood high.

The rockets done, they went whale hunting. Thomas saw the whale flute for the first time—a great curved bone, twice his height, like a harp with no strings. They carried it to the beach and waded into waist-deep water.

"You must learn to play this if you're to take my place." The old man put the flute to his lips and blew.

"I hear nothing."

"The whale flute makes sound only whales can hear. It's a whale's mating song."

He played all morning with no result. Just before they turned back, he played one final time. Thomas saw a bulge at the horizon—a whale's black back, then a great tail rising and falling, sending a wave across the calm sea.

"Run!"

The whale grounded itself in the shallows, a mountain of flesh rolling in agony. Blood dyed the beach red. When it stilled, the old man took axe and saw to the thick blubber, cutting blocks the size of pigs. Thomas felt as though they were mining a mountain of bone and flesh.

They boiled the blubber in the great iron pot until amber whale oil gathered at the bottom. Then they dragged out a great coil of rope made from braided whale hide—thin as a finger but strong enough to hold a ship. The old man poured whale oil over it as lubricant. This was the final preparation.

Night fell. The first quarter moon appeared—a silver smile of curved crescent between two bright stars.

They carried five rockets and the rope coil to the beach, along with two sails and two masts from the small boat. On the crescent moon, the sails would serve as oars.

The last thing brought was a great book—thick, with a sheepskin cover adorned with ancient emblems and brass corners. The old man called it the Moon Anchor.

When the crescent reached the right position, they began.

The first rocket missed. The second exploded against the moon, scattering sparks like fireworks. The third passed over the crescent's far edge and dropped the rope like a hook across the sky.

They secured the rope to the great iron anchor on the beach. The rope tightened, whale oil squeezing from the knots, the anchor dragging a foot before biting into the sand. The moon stopped moving. It was held.

The old man bound sail and mast and the great book to one end of the rope. He wrapped whale hide straps around his own chest and shoulders, then did the same for Thomas. He attached them to the main rope and cut the anchor knot with his axe.

The moon, now held by only one strand, began to drift. The old man and the cargo rose immediately, pulled upward by the moon's movement. Thomas watched until they were a black dot, then a point, then gone into the silver light.

The moon stopped again. Thomas could see it now—a great silver kite held by a single thread.

He bound himself to the rope, waited, then cut the last knot.

He was dragged instantly—across the beach, into the sea, skimming over waves that felt like solid stone. His face stung. Just as the dragging threatened to break him, he rose. The sea fell away beneath him. He saw the island's complete shape below and felt a cold fear of heights he was glad the night concealed.

He worried the old man might lose his grip and let him fall. But the rope grew less tight against his chest—the old man had told him that in the star-reach, weight diminished. Soon Thomas could pull the rope himself, doubling the ascent.

The moon grew larger—perhaps the size of the sailboat he'd arrived on. He bathed in its silver light, which was cold, giving no heat.

When he could finally touch the moon's surface, he found it was not hard and smooth like jade, but soft. It felt like the skin of the girl he loved. He looked into the moon's interior and felt it was filled with luminous milky liquid.

He reached the concave curve and stepped onto what was like the deck of a silver ship. The moon's edges curved upward into two silver points.

The old man was there, coiling the rope. Against the silver surface, his thin body looked like a great ant.

"What's the full name of your girl?" The old man opened the great book, its pages star maps dense with constellations. He scanned two pages and found their direction.

They searched through a cluster of stars named for the same girl—many people share names, the old man said, but they needed the dim one. He found it—a star so dark it was nearly invisible among its bright silver neighbors.

"She's alive. The star has dust on it. Just wipe it clean."

Thomas took the apple-sized star and saw the old man was right—a layer of grey dust covered its surface.

"How can there be dust in the sky?"

"Usually from a nearby star breaking apart."

"Is that person dead?"

"Yes. An unnatural death."

The old man handed him a soft sponge dampened with clear water. Thomas carefully wiped the star. As the dust fell away, it brightened and began to shimmer. The star made a sound like wind chimes—ethereal, dreamlike. It was hexagonal, symmetrical, like a crystal snowflake.

"It's clean. Put it back."

Thomas released it reluctantly. The star drifted back to its position in the sky, shimmering and singing its faint bell-tone.

"She'll be well by tomorrow," the old man said, taking up the sail-oars. "Time to go. There's work to be done."

The return was faster—the moon drifted with them. They passed through the starfield, and the old man pointed out a dim star, smoked-dark and flickering. "That one is old. Can't be fixed."

"Have you seen your own star?"

The old man shook his head. "Never. What's the point? It looks like that one now."

They watched the river of stars in silence. The old man pointed to an arc of light across the sky—a meteor. "That's how most people die. Their stars burn up before they hit the ground. Some reach the earth as ordinary stones."

They returned above the island. The method of descent was simple: they tied the sails to ropes around their waists and jumped. The sails unfurled like parachutes. The old man landed precisely on the beach. Thomas landed in the sea.

The old man rowed out and pulled him in.

In the days that followed, Thomas worked beside the old man—hunting whales, mining coal, rendering oil. But the old man never once took him to burn the fire.

Forty days passed. A sailing ship stopped. The captain brought a letter—from the girl. Her illness had vanished overnight. She was well, beautiful, full of vitality. She wanted him back.

The old fire-keeper sat on a rust-colored rock and waved a tired hand. "Go back. I knew it would be like this. It always is."

"No. I swore I'd take your place."

The captain pulled Thomas aside. "What madness is this? The old man can't stop you from leaving."

But Thomas stayed. He watched the ship disappear and turned to the old man, who was smiling with a cunning that didn't match his ancient face.

"I know you'd stay," the old man said. "That's why I worked so hard to send you up there."

"I'm a man of my word."

"No. This isn't about word. You understand love."

"Then tonight..."

"Child, tonight I'll take you to burn the fire."

That night, in the faint starlight before dawn, they carried two great barrels of whale oil to the small boat and sailed into darkness. The sea was a black void broken only by white foam.

They stopped when the old man pointed ahead. A great bulge of water rose from the sea, then split open. A black island emerged—so dark it seemed to absorb all light, darker than the sea, darker than the sky. It was a perfect arc, like an inverted great pot.

Thomas understood. This was not an island.

"This is the sun," the old man said. "If we don't light it, it will keep floating here. The fire's heat is what makes it rise—like a hot air balloon, though I don't know why."

They climbed onto the sun's dark, rough surface, which felt like wet reef rock. They poured the two barrels of oil evenly across it.

"Time to burn the fire." They returned to the boat. The old man handed Thomas the burning torch. Thomas threw it onto the black surface. The whale oil ignited into blue flame.

"Move! You want to be burned?"

They rowed hard. The sun caught. A ball of gold erupted from the sea. The surrounding water boiled into steam. The sun rose, each emerging section igniting instantly, the golden arc expanding until the sky turned blue and white clouds became gold-edged dawn.

The old man pointed at the rising sun. "It rises to the high sky and is blown west by strong winds. When it reaches the west, the wind dies and it sinks into the sea, extinguished by water. The underwater current carries it east. It floats at dawn, and we light it. That is the fire-keeper's work. You must be responsible. No mistakes. Every morning before dawn, if we don't burn the fire, night doesn't end."

The world revived from darkness. Fish leaped. Seagulls flew east toward the rising sun.

Thomas, young fire-keeper, reached up and touched the sunlight.

Most comforting of all, the sunlight contained a share of her.

Years passed. The old man died in the first winter. Thomas alone continued the burning. On his wall hung a portrait of Eleanor, and in the constant fog of the Shetland islands, her face gradually blurred until he could no longer remember the exact shape of her eyes.

He lit the lamp on the cliff every night. The sea fog swallowed the light within minutes, but he lit it anyway. He was the last keeper. The last man who kept the flame.

Far out at sea, through the fog, a ship's lantern appeared—small, distant, approaching. Thomas did not move from the cliff. He watched it come, then turned back to his cottage, where Eleanor's blurred portrait waited in the dark.