After the Storm

by Chrissy Munder

  “Next, yer a slob, man. Yeh’d never make it aboard my ship. Can’t yeh pick up after yerself just a bit, help keep things ship shape around here? All that paint and papers and such strewn around here is a distraction.” Vincent watched amazed as his unwelcome visitor actually shuddered.

  “Finally, no carousing or fornicating with strange women. Having been rid of me own wife for many a year, I cannot abide women and their chatter, and I absolutely won’t have them around the station.” At this point, the arms crossed decisively across the broad chest.

  “Does that mean familiar women are fine?” Vincent finally found his voice.

  “Eh?” There was that fierce glance again.

  Vincent cleared his throat. “You said ‘strange women.’ Does that mean familiar women are fine?”

  “Are yeh daft?” The captain looked Vincent up and down carefully. “Is that why yer here? Are yeh a harm to yerself and others?”

  “Would it matter if I were?” Vincent couldn’t help but ask. He didn’t know whether or not to be insulted. The man was asking him the same question Vincent was thinking.

  The captain just shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time the village sent an idiot up here to live. The last one was rather an engaging fellow, even if he didn’t bathe regularly. Do yeh bathe?”

  That was it.

  “Look,” Vincent began distractedly, “I’m sure you’re a nice enough guy, whoever you really are. And I’m sure you’d be fine company. But I came up here to be by myself and since I’m paying the rent you’ll have to just go… away… somewhere.”

  There was that pipe stem again, gesturing in his direction for emphasis. “Why should I go? This is my home; yer the one intruding.”

  “And another thing: that damn pipe! How can you complain about me making a mess when you’re dropping ash everywhere? Don’t you know smoking will kill you? Besides, how can a ghost smoke when they’re dead?” Vincent’s voice rose louder as he listened to his own faulty logic.

  “What difference does my blasted smoking make when I’m already dead?” the captain just thundered back as he slammed his fist down on the kitchen table.

  “Right.” What was it about this man that made his vocabulary totally disappear? Vincent wondered as he blinked and stared back into those green eyes.

  “Been dead for years.” The captain’s voice lowered to Vincent’s level as he questioned, “Are yeh always this irritating? It’ll make yeh hard to live with.”

  “Yeah, yeah, talk to my ex.” Vincent waved his hand in disregard of the man’s words. “You’re a cursed haunt. I think I remember that part. You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t… shit.”

  Vincent sat in stunned amazement as the man sitting across from him disappeared and the only reminder of his presence was the pipe floating in mid-air. Just as suddenly the man reappeared and Vincent could only look at him in silence.

  “No matter how many times I do that, it’s still a pleasure to see yer faces.” The blond grinned again at Vincent.

  “So you’re a ghost,” Vincent said slowly.

  “Aye.”

  “And you haunt this place.”

  “Aye.”

  “And you haunt this place because…?”

  The captain looked at him reproachfully. “That’s a bit personal, yeh ken?”

  Vincent looked back steadily.

  “Because this was my last earthly abode and I died right out there on yon beach.” The captain rattled off the words quickly.

  “Just how did you die?” Vincent asked with sudden curiosity.

  “Ah no, enough about me. What’s yer story, eh?”

  “What?” Vincent was caught off guard by the sudden change of subject.

  “Yeh heard me plain enough. What are yeh doing here by yerself?”

  “I’ve been sick,” Vincent said slowly, not sure how much he wanted to reveal. “I came here to get away from everything.”

  “From looks of things, seems like yeh brought everything with yeh.” The green eyes had softened a bit with sympathy and Vincent just shook his head at the apparent contradiction.

  “I’m dying.” Vincent said the words softly, barely audible even to himself as he acknowledged the truth out loud for the first time outside the offices of his doctor.

  Chapter Seven

  “WHAT’S that mess there supposed to be?” the rich voice boomed into the quiet space.

  Vincent finished the sweeping stroke before he put the brush down, wiping his hands on a cloth before turning to face his interruption, no longer startled by the captain’s comings and goings.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  There was an audible snort. “Daft.”

  “That’s hardly polite.” Vincent looked around for his glass of water only to find he’d stuck his brushes into it earlier. With a sigh, he started down toward the kitchen, knowing he’d be followed.

  “A painting is supposed to represent something, isn’t it? What’s the bloody use of painting if yeh don’t know what it is yer representing?”

  “That’s the whole point.” Vincent smiled. They’d had this argument before. Actually, they’d had several arguments since the captain had revealed himself to Vincent.

  “Daft,” the spirit seated at the kitchen table repeated as he tapped his pipe against the wooden surface, knocking the ash out on to the floor.

  “Don’t make a mess. Isn’t that one of your rules?” Vincent reproved, grabbing a towel to wipe it up. How was it he was cursed with a messy ghost? Vincent still hadn’t figured out all the rules for the tangible/intangible aspects of being haunted or exactly what the captain could and couldn’t do. And for all the complaints the ghost had about Vincent and his habits, the being still managed to add to the clutter.

  “It’s my bloody kitchen.” The green eyes flashed at Vincent. “And my bloody table. I’ll make a mess if I bloody well please.”

  “Technically, it’s not your kitchen anymore, it’s mine. And I’ll thank you to not dump your ashes all over.”

  Vincent found it amusing the way they had settled into a companionable truce after their slightly rocky beginning. The fierce captain hadn’t tried very hard to scare Vincent off, and Vincent privately wondered just which one of them enjoyed the novelty of company more.

  Also amusing was the fact that Vincent hadn’t talked to anyone so much in years. Their conversations covered each and every topic that crossed either of their minds; it was obvious that the captain enjoyed the stimulating battle of wits and, to his surprise, Vincent found he did as well.

  The days took on a simple routine. Vincent would paint or walk the beaches, accompanied by the surprisingly verbose captain who pointed out the local flora with a discerning eye. Sometimes in the evening, Vincent would fall asleep in the middle of a discussion, the combination of lack of sleep and medication overcoming him more easily now, only to wake and find his companion quietly waiting, the ever present pipe at hand, and they would continue as if the flow of words never stopped.

  Perhaps this apparition was merely the sounding board for this last period of his life, Vincent thought as he shared parts of himself that he hadn’t thought of in years. A way to clarify things at the end. It was interesting to reflect back on the sum of his life experiences and thoughts, to turn them over in his mind once again and come to terms with the man he’d been.

  Which made more sense: that he was spaced out on morphine and the other drugs, or that he was telling the story of his life to a nosey old ghost?

  He supposed it didn’t make any difference. As had been his way, Vincent tried to never label his thoughts as “good” or “bad”, he simply accepted what rose to the surface and let the stream of consciousness find its own way. It was enough that in return the captain shared with him firsthand accounts of a life lived full and rough.

  Some of the tales recounted were simply astounding. Vincent enjoyed the gentle mix of romance and poetry that were woven into the captain’s tales. As much as the old sailor tried to de
ny it, Vincent knew they were a reflection of the same qualities inherent in the man the ghost had once been. Qualities the captain tried, but failed, to hide from Vincent under his crusty exterior.

  The stories of men, places, and times at sea when it seemed all hope was lost were a glimpse into another world for Vincent. He found himself sketching the images as he tried to envision the harsh realities behind the fanciful tales, and wondered at the strength that allowed the captain to keep his caring soul despite the hardships endured.

  Only once had Vincent seen his haunting spirit angry, but perhaps angry wasn’t the right word. He’d been wondering and finally, unable to hold back, he took advantage of a quiet time, a time when the captain had just finished a fantastical tale of shipwreck and rescue and was looking out at the lake in quiet contemplation. Into this moment of stillness, Vincent blurted out his question.

  “All of your stories are from before you came to the lighthouse,” Vincent prodded. “What was it like here?” His words tumbled out in his eagerness. “I’ve seen the pictures, who’s the dark-haired man beside you?”

  The pain that gnawed almost continuously at Vincent’s guts now was nothing compared to the look of utter anguish that crossed the captain’s face at the rush of words. He scowled at Vincent, eyes bright with emotion as he snarled savagely before disappearing.

  “Nowt that yeh need to know.”

  It was a full day before he showed himself to Vincent again, gruff and secure once again in his ship captain’s persona. Vincent tried to apologize for touching on the obviously painful subject and was gruffly told to simply let it be. But his curiosity grew.

  He picked up the biography of the captain from the shelf, trying to fill in the blanks of the life that so fascinated him, but couldn’t find the answers he sought. The dark haired man wasn’t even noted in the small book—odd, as he was so noticeable in the pictures. Vincent began to search the lighthouse for clues to his identity.

  As time shortened, it became more and more imperative that Vincent find the answers to this puzzle. He painted less and wandered more. There was a parallel somehow in his mind, a link between the identity of the captain’s companion and the remaining time allotted to him.

  It was a rainy day that found him down in the station’s cellar, opening boxes and trunks shut and sealed a lifetime ago, marveling at the items he found. He looked at some of them in puzzlement, holding them up and twisting them around in his hands, not even sure what they were. At the bottom of one of the trunks was a wooden box covered with strange and wondrous carvings.

  Vincent settled himself to the floor, letting his artist’s fingers caress and appreciate the workmanship before him. The wood was soft and cool, seeming to caress him back, happy to see the light of day once again. He opened the latch and looked inside.

  “Oh,” he breathed in wonder at the objects before him. Vincent poked one finger into the box and gently lifted out what he thought was a necklace, a bit of bone carved and knotted onto a strand of leather that had rotted with the passage of time.

  The rest of the contents were just as interesting; a feather, a stone, a shell that gleamed with the richness of a stained glass window. There was a harder object beneath and he set the box on the floor as he eagerly fumbled to bring it to the surface.

  “Careful with that!”

  The captain’s voice was rough and wistful. Vincent looked up in surprise.

  “Do you know what it is?”

  It seemed to be a tube of glass, jagged in some parts and coated with sand on others. The coloring was a varied mix of dark green and brown and some other color that Vincent, with his artist’s knowledge, struggled to name.

  “’Tis a fulgurite.” The captain settled himself on the lid of the trunk and looked sadly at the other objects in the wooden box, reaching in and touching the carved bone necklace gently. “Caleb was forever bringing them home.”

  Vincent paused, trying to decide which question to ask. “A fulgurite? What’s that?”

  The captain looked up with a tired smile, appreciating Vincent’s restraint. “Captured lightning. As rare and hard to find as true love.” With a sigh, the blond began to pace the small cellar. “If yer feeling up to it, we should go look after the next storm. I was never any good at finding them, but Caleb, well, he had the touch. Maybe yeh do as well.”

  Vincent could see the faraway look in the captain’s eyes and didn’t dare move or breathe, afraid the wrong word would close this door that had barely begun to open.

  The captain continued to pace about the small cellar, too restless to sit. “During a storm, lightning will strike the dunes, and if the conditions are right, the heat will fuse the sand into glass. Yeh can dig into the dunes after a storm and find the bolt, trapped forever beneath the earth.”

  Vincent ran his fingers delicately over the surface once again. “It’s beautiful.” After a further moment of self-debate, he continued. “Who’s Caleb?”

  He looked up when there was no answer, but the captain had already gone.

  Chapter Eight

  THE jagged teeth of pain had grown sharper and came more often. It wasn’t a good morning. Vincent lay sweating in his bed, unable to drag himself down to the kitchen just yet. There was no rhyme and little reason to the mosaic of pain. Some days were simply better than others now. The days he was trapped, held captive by the gnawing inside him, were increasing.

  He didn’t know if he could call what he felt fear anymore. On the bad days, the very bad days, he just wished it were all over. On the better days, he longed for time to extend, to stretch out before him in the same unceasing road he’d glimpsed in his youth but hadn’t known how to appreciate.

  “Going to be sluggard today, are yeh lad?” The captain’s rough voice was a welcome distraction and Vincent looked up in surprise.

  “Fuck you.” Vincent groaned his welcome.

  Amused, the captain snorted. “A century or so ago, I might have taken yeh up on yer offer. I’ve been alone here a long time.”

  Vincent could only manage a small smile at the jest before the pain grabbed him again. “Talk to me,” he demanded, as petulant as any small child. “Tell me a story.”

  The captain settled down on the end of the bed, pulling out his pipe and inspecting the stem. “What do yeh want to hear about?”

  “Something, anything to distract me.”

  Jabbing. Stabbing. The pain was growing in strength. He was really going to have to give it a name, Vincent thought as he clenched his teeth again. But at least he wasn’t alone. Fleetingly, he wondered just why it was that he found more comfort from this departed spirit than from any of his living friends.

  “Tell me about Caleb.”

  The captain sighed. “’Tis a one track mind yeh have. What do yeh want to know?”

  “How you met. Who was he?” Even in his current state of mind, Vincent sensed the captain wanted to tell his story almost as much, if not more, than Vincent wanted to hear it.

  “Well, now.” The captain settled back against the metal footboard. “That were a long time ago. 1840 it was. I was a passenger on the Aurora. A fine vessel; bound for New Zealand, a wild country I’d only heard about, a place I’d never been. I was to bring another ship back to England; her captain had died of a fever or been killed. Who knew for sure?

  “I just thought it to be a fine adventure. My wife was against it, but we’d had our differences out long before and made some manner of peace with it. In the end, our lives were so separate she was happier when I was gone at sea, as was I.”

  Vincent watched as a dreamy look came over the craggy face before him. “I’d never seen the like in all my travels. The land was spectacular; the closer we got, the more it called to me.”

  Here he looked sheepishly at Vincent, as if daring him to comment. But Vincent was caught in the emotion behind the words and gestured for more.

  “We came to land at Port Nicholson. Well, they call it Wellington Harbor now. But then it was Port Nicholson.
The local population rowed out to meet us in these amazingly crafted boats. All fierce they were, half-naked and skin marked with strange designs; none of us had known what to expect.

  “Caleb was there in one of the boats. They’d brought him along to translate. That were the first time I saw him, there on the water. It were January 22, 1840.”

  The captain paused to take a breath, lost in his memories.

  “But he doesn’t look….”

  “Maori, they’re called. No, he wasn’t. His parents were missionary folk. Come a few years before to save the heathens. They died.” The captain shrugged. “The Maori let Caleb live, adopted him. Gave him whakapapa.”

  Vincent was fascinated. He could picture in his mind the dark-haired man, Caleb, rising half-naked from the turquoise waters, skin glowing like honey, beguiling the blond man beside him. He could only imagine how the image had taken hold of the romantic and poetic soul of the captain.

  “What’s that?”

  “Eh, well it’s basically genealogy, or family, or history, I was never sure how it all worked. Don’t know who ever thought the Maori were simple creatures. Damn complex way of life they had if yeh ask me.”

  “So you saw each other and….” Vincent prodded.

  “And what?” The captain’s voice grew rough. “What do yeh think?”

  Vincent ignored the harshness, finally having some understanding of how different this experience must have been to a man of that time. How difficult the realization must have been. “How did he end up here, at the light house with you? What’s that mark on his face in the pictures?”

  The captain sighed. “I’d never… I’d… well, I’d never met another like him. He touched my arm in greeting and I kept looking at it all that night, looking for the scorch, the burn marks I knew he’d left behind on my flesh.”

  There was wonder still evident in the captain’s voice, and Vincent felt tears prick his eyes at the thought of being the recipient of such deep emotion, even after all these years.