The Lighthouse (Part 1)

At the end of the 1994 video game Monkey Boy: The Lost Isle, just as you complete the final level and the credits start to roll, something very strange happens.

It is an oddity that I first experienced when I was seven, and from which, to this day - I am now twenty-nine - I am still yet to recover.

Here's how it goes:

For hours you have been platforming your way through pixelated landscapes - forests, hills, caves, mountainsides - all in an attempt, the game tells you, to hunt down the evil Mianju and in so doing restore everyone in the land to their true human form.

At the end of each world you are treated to a brief encounter with Mianju. He imp-walks his way onto the screen, holding the Staff of the Krakoo Tree tantalisingly before you, boasting that without it you will never be able to lift the curse that has turned you into a wizened old monkey. 'You will never be a boy again,' he says at the end of World 3. 'You will never know your human form again,' he says at the end of World 4. 'Soon you will forget what it was ever like to be a boy,' he says at the end of World 6.

Mianju is a man who likes to emphasise a point.

In spite of all the warnings, though, onto the next world you go, and then the next, and then the next, knowing all the while that yes, actually, you will become a boy again, because that is how these things work.

And sure enough, as you defeat Mianju in the final showdown and wrest the Staff of the Krakoo Tree from his cloying hands, your monkey appearance melts away to reveal your true human form.

That's it, you think.

You've leapt over every crevice, you've scaled every wall, you've swept aside every enemy, and the conflict at the heart of the game's narrative has been resolved.
All that is left now is for the credits to roll.

But then it starts to rain.

Little pixels fall from the sky.

The wind blows.

The trees sway gently from side to side.

A lullaby starts up.

You do what anyone would do: you carry on going, left to right.

You reach the bank of a lake, and there a hooded ferryman greets you.

A text box appears above his head.

The words tap out onto the screen: "I do not show my face, and neither should you."

Curious, you think. Perhaps it is Mianju in disguise, come for a second roll of the dice. Come for the *real* final showdown. It is an old trick, but a reliable one.

"You think you have saved the world," the ferryman continues, "but you have not. You think you are a boy again, but I see only a mask. You think you have found your truth, but the truth lies elsewhere."

The rain falls harder. The lullaby does its thing.

"The hour is late, but there is still a chance. So heed these words. You must go to the lighthouse. Seek your truth there. Only once you have found it can I take you with me."

His boat starts to inch off the screen.

"Luck," he says.

And then he is gone.

You watch him for a while. Then - and this is out of your control now, the game is doing it all for you - you go and sit, hunched and dejected, in the roots of the nearest tree.

As the screen fades into a grey haze, the lullaby gets louder.

It is a horrible, crooked sound.

Like the inside of a mad person's head.

Just underneath it, under each jarring note, you wonder if you can hear yourself - the boy - crying.

It is too hard to tell.

Only then do the credits roll.

...

A confession: the first time I witnessed all this, it was not actually me playing the game.

It was my brother.

I was peering over his shoulder, as I often did, back in the attic of the old house.

He always completed these things before me. In fact, sometimes, when I'd watched him complete a game, I didn't bother with it myself. I mean, why would I? He was a master. I got far more out of watching his success than I did out of trying - and failing - to emulate it.

And just because it wasn't me playing the game didn't mean that the character on the screen wasn't me.

I still lived every jump, every turn, every fall.

My brother had names for me, of course.

Parasite.

Leech.

Scrounger.

But the truth was that he loved an audience.

If I made to leave, he would never outright say he wanted me to stay, but he *would* say things like, "Where are you going?" or "You should probably watch this. I'm about to do something amazing."

It was an arrangement that worked.

He played.

I watched.

But there was something different about this game.

As the credits rolled that very first time, I went to speak.

But my brother raised a hand.

He was concentrating.

I knew what he was doing. He was waiting to see if there was more; to see if the final remnant of the story would come after the credits; to see if there were some answers.

But once the credits ended, that was it.

Nothing.

"*What?*" he said, incredulous, at the screen.

The screen said nothing back.

"What? Are you actually joking?"

I leant forward just a tad, like an advisor making a tentative suggestion to the king: "Maybe you need to play it again?"

He turned his "What?" on me this time. Then his eyes were darting, trying to remember it all: "What did it say? At the end?"

"Um."

"Something about a lighthouse. Can you remember?"

"Well I mean, that was pretty much it, wasn't it."

He started to pace. "Something about seeking the truth. And how you're not really a boy after all."

"It's just a mask."

"Yeah, it's just a mask. Whatever that means. And ... and ... *What bloody lighthouse?*"

With all the controlled anger of someone who is very precious about their games console, he threw the controller into the couch. "Sod this. The thing's having a laugh." As he stomped down the attic steps, he muttered something about parasites.

Once I'd heard his last clanking step, and listened out to make sure all trace of him from the upper level of the house was completely gone, I picked up the controller.

I told you I lived every moment, didn't I.

Well.

I knew what lighthouse the ferryman was talking about.

And I was going to find it.