Story #9: Mr. Kealey, Illuminated

Mr. Kealey, Illuminated

     The windshield wipers danced across the glass of the Plymouth as it carried its

silent passengers down the highway. The hum of the engine was the only sound to be

heard apart from the occasional mutterings of Mr. Kealey, a hardened old man of Irish

origin, wearing a heavy black coat with deep pockets. Tan and callused from decades

of the relentless sun and pounding sea, his tired gray eyes and short gray beard

perfectly reflected the unvarying color of the overcast sky. Across from him sat Mrs.

Kealey, a tall, dignified woman, difficult to deter, and at this moment, despite the

warnings of friends and family, sat defiantly at the wheel, her reddened eyes never

straying from the expanse of highway ahead. She, too, wore black, in the form of a

long dress and thin veil which covered her face. Outside, a weak breeze carried the

final, withered leaves of Autumn to the pavement of the road. A cluster of houses,

warmly lit from the inside and wisps of smoke emanating from the chimneys, was

revealed through a gap in the trees as the little car continued on, into the center of the

village.

     The Plymouth emerged from behind a corner revealing a traffic light, suspended

only by a thin wire, and shining bright red. Unprepared for the sudden stop, Mrs.

Kealey quickly applied the brakes.

     “You’re going to kill us,” Mr. Kealey’s gruff voice muttered nearly imperceptibly. His

wife remained silent. “Did you hear me? I told you to watch where...”

     “He was my son too, Morgan,” Mrs. Kealey retaliated. Mr. Kealey began to say

something but thought better of it and with a short burst of mumbling sat back and

stared at the traffic light.

     A single, solitary car, patiently waiting at the intersection was the only sign of life,

and it soon puttered away leaving the unsociable couple alone once again. The light

swayed in the pathetic wind before finally relenting, and allowing the Plymouth to

continue its journey.

     Mile after mile of leafless trees and interminable rain swept by. Not a word was

spoken and after hours of uncomfortable silence the car rolled gently onto the driveway

of Mr. and Mrs. Kealey. Hundreds of leaves from a nearby oak tree covered the

normally immaculate lawn. Empty flowerbeds lined the side of the little white house

and the furniture that usually occupied the porch had been stored in the attic in

preparation for a snow that never came.

     Mr. Kealey climbed out of the car and trudged down the driveway to retrieve the mail

while his wife scurried inside. The mailbox, cold to the touch, shrieked loudly as he

opened it, piercing the heavy silence that had enveloped the neighborhood. His hand

searched for any loose pieces of paper that had found their way into his mailbox and,

feeling nothing, he peeked inside for affirmation. A cold wind bit at Mr. Kealey’s face

carrying with it the sound of waves lapping against the shore. He had not checked on

his boat since the couple had left for Arlington, yesterday morning. He turned towards

the house. A light was on in the upstairs bedroom. Mrs. Kealey did not want to be

disturbed. He forced the mailbox shut and, facing the wind again, began walking

towards the sound of the waves.

     A dense blanket of fog was rolling in and the occasional sound of a fog horn could

be heard in the distance. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black coat, Mr.

Kealey walked slowly down the gently sloping sidewalk that led to the wharf. Silent

houses gave way to empty shops as he approached the sea. In bright contrast, a

tavern across the street was alive with the sound of drunken songs and clanking

glasses. Mr. Kealey quickened his pace, eager to resume his isolation.

     Unknown to the sleepy little town the sun was beginning its descent, and with every

passing minute the fog displayed a darker shade of gray. The spinning beacon of a

lighthouse could be seen guiding ships, lost in the impenetrable fog, to the safety of

the harbor. Mr. Kealey crossed the street and, turning towards the light, walked lazily

along the edge of the road, watching the boulders of the seawall submerge and

reappear with the motion of the waves. He was cold and tired but continued on and

eventually, not knowing how long he had been walking, he found himself at the pier

where his vessel was moored.

     The pier extended eighty yards into the harbor. Sixty of them were occupied by a

row of dilapidated buildings running along the left side, all silent and empty. Along the

right side of the pier, the tops of three small boats could be seen bobbing up and down.

Mr. Kealey stepped onto the pier, the wooden planks creaking beneath his feet. The

harbor was silent save for the clanging bell of an unseen buoy, and the gentle waves

lapping at the wharf. A faded, hand painted sign advertised a store selling fishing

equipment. A rowboat and oars leaned against the wall, next to a door, swinging on

rusty hinges. A small gap, stuffed with fishing rods, nets, and coils of rope, separated

the little shop from a tavern in similar condition. A small apartment sat above the

tavern, its windows dark and shades drawn. Next to this stood nothing but an empty

shack, nearly collapsing under its own weight, and finally, the harbormaster’s office,

the only building of the four with a fresh coat of white paint and a legible sign. This too,

however, was locked and empty. The end of the pier was barely visible through the fog,

but soon came into focus as the old man came nearer.

     Hidden behind the harbormaster’s office was a boat, its mast peeking above the

wooden shack. It was a modest trawler measuring thirty four feet in length. The small

cabin was painted a dark green and its twelve square windows offered uninterrupted

views of the sea ahead and to the sides. Behind the cabin a skiff could be seen,

positioned upside-down to prevent crashing waves from filling the small craft with

water. Directly above, a boom, normally used to pull in a net of flailing fish, now hung

dormant, for Mr. Kealey preferred to use a rod and reel.

     The tide was low and Mr. Kealey required a small ladder, which he found leaning

against the side of the harbormasters office, to reach the teak deck of the boat five feet

below. He clambered down and stepped on board the gently rocking vessel. The cabin

door opened noiselessly revealing a mass of nautical charts, dials and gauges. A

wooden wheel sat in the center of the chaos, its eight spokes polished to perfection.

     With a single sweeping glance Mr. Kealey took in the disarray and, seeing

everything as he had left it, began to leave the cabin but stopped when something

caught his eye. On a clear day the front windows looked out on the various ships

entering and leaving the harbor. Now, all that was visible was gray water and gray sky,

save for a slightly darker patch of fog, hovering on the surface of the water. He moved

to the helm, squinting at the silhouette that was now beginning to resemble a sailing

ship. The shadow approached agonizingly slow despite the unusual westerly winds,

but the vessel’s details soon began to reveal themselves to Mr. Kealey.

     It was a massive clipper, measuring 250 feet from bow to aft, the largest the old man

had ever seen. Three wooden masts projected from the deck, each more than 100 feet

tall. The pure white sails, rippling in the gentle wind, glowed against the dark gray mist.

She plowed, resolutely, through the gentle waters of the harbor, directly toward the pier,

next to which Mr. Kealey was docked. Beneath the bowsprit was the carved image of a

sprinting stallion, its nostrils flaring. The massive vessel turned to port allowing Mr.

Kealey to see the name Curroigneo painted in flamboyant gold and white letters along

the hull of the majestic ship. The Curroigneo began to slow until it finally came to a halt,

her starboard side flush with the end of the pier. Anchor was dropped and the sails

were lowered by unseen hands.

     Mr. Kealey stood awestruck, gazing at the enormous intruder, which dwarfed every

other vessel in the harbor, before coming to his senses. He left the cabin and quickly

climbed up the rickety ladder. Stepping onto the pier, he froze. A gangplank had been

lowered. At the top stood a man, similar in age to Mr. Kealey, in a white captain’s

uniform. His slightly wrinkled, clean shaven face was smiling warmly. His hat sat

squarely on his head and two rows of polished brass buttons ran down the front of his

jacket, leading to his white pants, and polished white shoes. Mr. Kealey stared at the

unexpected visitor for a moment before slowly approaching the gangplank, both men

never taking their eyes off of each other. He stopped at the bottom, unsure of what to

do. He stared at the man, hoping for a sign of instruction, but none came. The captain

patiently waited for him to make up his mind.

     The staring continued.

     Mr. Kealey looked around him, bit his lip and stepped hesitantly onto the solid

gangplank. The captain’s face never changed as he watched him ascend. At the top,

the captain held out his hand.

     “Welcome aboard, Mr. Kealey,” he said in a strong but friendly voice. The

distinguished-looking man shook his limp hand vigorously. Mr. Kealey’s silence did not

seem to bother the captain as he strolled towards the quarterdeck, motioning for him to

follow. Mr. Kealey complied and climbed the solid wooden steps to meet the captain. “I

don’t suppose you what kind of vessel this is, Mr. Kealey,” said the captain with a hint

of sarcasm in his voice.

     “Why of course I do,” replied the old man, insulted. “This is a three masted clipper,

250 feet long, if I’m not mistake, constructed in the mid-eighteen hundreds, I should

think. It is, at least, the largest I’ve seen for quite some time.”

     The captain smiled broadly. “You are absolutely correct, Mr. Kealey!” he boomed.

“She is a magnificent ship, isn’t she.” His eyebrows rose and he smiled mischievously

at Mr. Kealey. “You wouldn’t like to pilot her, would you?” Mr. Kealey looked at the

captain suspiciously, and, taking a moment to ponder the sudden offer, saw no reason

to decline and strode to the helm, beaming with delight. “Well in that case,” said the

captain, glancing at a gold pocket watch, “Let us be off!”

     And with that, dozens of men, all clad in white, sailors uniforms, rushed onto the

main deck and set to work. The anchor was raised, the gangplank pulled on board, the

massive sails unfurled, filling with the now favorable winds, and the ship, turning to port,

majestically sailed through the fog and into open sea with Mr. Kealey standing proudly

at the wheel.

     Mr. Kealey turned back, taking one last look at his little trawler, still docked at the

pier. “Mr. Kealey!” came the captain’s voice from the main deck, “eyes ahead please! It

would be a shame to end our journey before it has even begun!” Mr. Kealey obeyed

and turned his back to the quickly disappearing wharf, his attention now focused on

piloting the Curroigneo. The clipper’s bow split the waves as it charged forward at full

speed. The harbor was soon lost in the fog behind them.

     After an hour of smooth sailing the fog began to dissipate and Mr. Kealey’s smile

faded. Storm clouds lined the horizon before him, illuminated by the quickly

disappearing sun. Flashes of lightning could be seen filling the gap between sky and

sea as the wind picked up and the waves began to grow. The ship rolled in the

churning water. The captain was nowhere to be seen and Mr. Kealey didn’t dare leave

the helm while the boat rocked at such precarious angles. The ship plowed on, pushed

by the wind, into the tempest.

     The waves mercilessly battered the Curroigneo, who pitched and rolled dangerously.

The rain came in sheets as the vessel drove further into the storm. Slivers of lightning

were never absent from the darkening sky. The moonsails were lowered and loose

objects were lashed onto the deck by the ship’s crew. It was madness! Mr. Kealey

expertly maneuvered the ship through the murderous waves, salty spray attacking his

face. The wind howled beneath the black clouds. The rain fell sideways and the waves

tumbled onto the deck of the ship. And then a light. Not the fleeting blue flash of a

lightning strike but the soft, golden glow of a small village at night. With a flood of hope,

Mr. Kealey turned the magnificent ship to port and set his course for the beckoning

light.

     The silhouettes of buildings and people were absent as the Curroigneo neared. All

that could be seen was the steady golden light, seemingly hovering above the sea.

Waves crashed over the port side as they tried to push the ship from its course. The

light grew and intensified, as the vessel approached and yet not a building, nor a ship

nor a person could be seen. The entire ship was illuminated now and Mr. Kealey could

see the crew on the main deck.

     The Curroigneo was within a mile of the mysterious light. Every crew member had

stopped and now, despite the motions of the ship, stood perfectly still, staring in awe at

the brilliant spectacle. The white uniforms of the crew seemed to glow as the light

intensified even further. Mr. Kealey’s eyes watered and he turned away. It was no

longer the soft glow of a seaside town but the blinding illumination of a sun. The boat

continued to speed forward, now only yards away.

     The captain took Mr. Kealey by surprise as he came up from behind him, holding in

his hand a perfectly polished, golden trumpet, shimmering in the dazzling light.

     “Who are you?” Mr. Kealey yelled at the captain, trying to be heard through the

sounds of the storm.

     The captain calmly turned to him, smiled and said, “You can call me Gabriel.” He put

the trumpet to his lips and, closing his eyes, pierced the air with a single majestic note.

Wind howled, waves crashed, thunder boomed and the note continued, never

quavering. Mr. Kealey stared at the man before him with realization as a final gust of

wind filled the billowing sails of the Curroigneo. The clouds above let down streaks of

prismatic light. The ship dipped into the trough of a passing wave, and crashed into the

next wall of water. A wave of liquid gold momentarily veiled the illumination, rays of

which still found their way through the mass of sparkling foam, before falling back into

the radiant sea. The ship itself was awash with dazzling shades of gold and white, the

sails unable to cast any shadow. Mr. Kealey placed his hands firmly on the wheel and,

facing forward, took in the brilliant spectacle. He closed his eyes as he too was

enveloped in the light.