Seamus McAlister Eamon Ellery of Dublin was always a peculiar man. Often the townsfolk would say, if any unusual happenings occurred, it was because (Smee as they called him) was the one doing them. He was illiterate and lacked education but owned several books, from Burney to Xueqin; insisting he felt smarter when he held one. His favorites being The Vicar of Wakefeild by Olivar Goldsmith and The Nun by Denis Diderot. In truth, if ignorance were bliss, he was the happiest of men.
Smee was a fisherman by trade. He owned very little; a fair-weather boat and the clothes on his back. A small and lanky, timid man, covered in dull orange curly locks that used to be a fiery red. He reached no higher than a Roman pace. He had small blue, beady eyes and wore thick bifocals that sat just at the tip of his nose. His frayed cotton shirt barely had sleeves and over time progressed from many shades of white into a permanent olive color.
When he was a boy, a nun gifted him with a pair of brown leather soft shoes. They were always a bit snug and to this day, his only pair. His toes now poked out in odd directions, and he would wiggle them in the water to attract fish. His navy trousers were no more than a schoolboy's short pants and the only thing he wore that seemed to fit properly.
He was the only man to stare at his feet when he walked, and he'd reason if he did not, he'd never know where he was going. The only man outsmarted by school children and the only man to be bullied by a church mouse. Smee enjoyed retelling tale of him stealing moldy cheese from the mouse traps at Christmas. The locals didn't take much liking to him since. He also told anyone who would listen, when his mother abandoned him in Saint Francis Cathedral; she did so in hopes they would exercise him from demonic possession. He would also say that
it was merely a fit of bad gas.
Despite all his oddities, Smee grew into a moral and devout catholic who spent more time in his boat praying for more fish then he did in a chapel for his salvation. He'd cross himself before he is entered the pub, and apologize to the man stepping on his foot. He ate his meals in the sweatshop and slept in the orphanage. Though he was a man of 50 years, he never gave up hope that one day someone would give him a good home. No one had the heart to tell him the Orphanage had been closed for years and that the Nuns looked after him as an act of Charity.
On this particular day, a Sunday - he knew it was a Sunday because he'd just finished picking the pebbles from his knobby knees. His Hail Marys were still fresh in his head and after all, he had quite a bit to confess today. Forgetting to pay alms, being late to mass and existing to name a few. This morning was different then any other Sunday. This Sunday, Smee had a feeling. He had not yet decided it was a good feeling, but present in his mind all the same.
Immediately after mass at precisely ten...