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There had
been some discussion of death. But more importantly, there had been more
discussion of what was on the other side once you got there. And Mary liked the
idea of dying and living forever after that in complete bliss. Sure, everyone
likes to imagine what happens to your consciousness after your physical body
dies, but not everyone who likes to imagine it goes and kills himself. Usually
when that happens, the person who jumped ship had given up on the ship, didn’t
want anything to do with the ship, and was pretty sure that ever boarding the
ship was a totally stupid thing to do.
No, Mary cheerfully
and eagerly jumped ship and ended her life. Not that there was anything wrong
with the ship, just that she heard there were beautiful islands and she didn’t
want to wait till her ship reached the original destination. Strangely enough,
her middle name was Celeste: entirely coincidental and had nothing to do with
the Mary Celeste itself, even though
Mary’s ship, like the famed brigantine Mary
Celeste, would reach its
destination unmanned and everyone would find it a mystery. But this is not a
story about the Mary Celeste, or even
about our own dear Mary’s life. This is Mary’s story in the afterlife:
In the
fifteenth year of Mary Celeste Norris’ journey, Mary abandoned the journey and
took off on an unknown path of her own. It began when she found herself
treading water in a great warm ocean with no land in sight, except for some
huge islands floating in the sky with beautiful waterfalls disappearing into a
mist. Mary was confused; this is not what the afterlife was supposed to be like
at all.
“Hello??
Somebody help me!” she called, panicking. She could see people moving about on
the island above.
“Hello!”
somebody yelled back.
“Hello? Yes,
I’m down here! How do I get up there?”
“Ah, yes,
very good! It’s very lovely to meet you!”
“What??” Mary
was beyond confused at this point and in the beginning stages of befuddled.
“No, don’t leave me! Where should I go? What should I do?”
“Well,
frankly, my dear, I don’t give a—“
“Bradley!”
interrupted a woman’s voice. “Honey, if you’re down there without a ship, you
can’t very well climb up here. But there’s some luxurious underwater caverns if
you dive deep. I hear their pubs are the best.”
“Oh,” started
Mary with a bit of an air. “But I don’t drink. It’s bad for your liver and once
you start, you could become an alcoholic.”
A loud guffaw
erupted from above and another voice added:
“Sweetheart,
I don’t know if you know this, but you’re dead. You don’t have a liver to
destroy. And alcoholism is a living world thing. And before you argue that you
might run out of air, you don’t have lungs either. You aren’t breathing, even
right now. Just dive in, grab a rum, and leave us alone.”
“Owww, be
nice to the girl, she’s new to all this. She just came a little too soon is
all,” whined the woman.
“Okay,
thanks!” cried Mary, and she did as she was told. They were right; she didn’t
have to hold her breath underwater. And she noticed that everything was crystal
clear with a dark blue hue. Far below the surface of the water, she saw lights.
She swam downwards until she reached the bottom. She landed on a cobblestone
street with shops and pubs on each side. Lanterns lit the way in both
directions and at first everything seemed deserted. But then two men burst out
of a pub door and wrestled on the pavement squawking about a dancer.
A lady in a
sparkly green leotard and a headdress of conch and oyster shells calmly tiptoed
out of the pub and stood on the side to watch the spectacle. Mary gave her a
questioning look and the lady replied while thumbing her nose,
“The shawt
‘un slapped me bum, an’ the lawge ‘un righ’ smasht ‘is rum bottle on th’ shawt
‘un’s nose.”
Mary blinked
in astonishment. Some afterlife, she thought. She slipped into the pub and was
immediately offered a bottle of rum by a man enthusiastically screaming, “Chug!
Chug! Chug!” at a young child who couldn’t have been any older than three
chugging away at a keg that said, “RUM” on the side. Mary looked on in horror.
“Aw, dinnae
worry yer pretty wee hidd, lass. He died a’ sixty-six but wantit tae look lak a
wee boy sae he could spit profanity an’ people’d get their craic, ya knoo?” a
plump ginger slurred at her.
Mary stared
into her rum and then up at the bartender, who looked like this wasn’t the most
exciting thing he’d seen in all his time bartending.
“Does this
happen all the time?” She asked.
“Nope.
Usually he comes in here, gets as drunk as he can without blacking out, and
then howls the most disgusting, repulsive words he can still think of. He’s getting
pretty good at it. He doesn’t use the new words, though, so don’t expect to get
offended. He uses the old Norse oaths, the ones used to either start a fight or
summon spirits. But now the only spirits to summon down here are the ones right
there in your bottle. Care for some more?” he offered patting the keg of rum on
the wall.
“No, thanks.
But why are they used to summon spirits if they are so awful?” She asked.
“Because the
Church went all goody-two-shoes on the language of the land and all of a sudden,
the old tongue is replaced by their cursed Latin,” and with that he gave the
bar top an angry swipe.
“But don’t
most words come from Latin?” she wondered.
“Most words
are from languages of people whose ancestors soaked the ground with Roman blood
and then happily repopulated the land to the memories of it. The only reason
Latin is still used is because of the mercy and fascination of historians and
linguists, and the inability of some religious nuts to let it go. If Latin is
as high and mighty as you lot were led to believe, how come the so-called
‘barbaric’ languages are considered unutterable? If you can answer me that,
then I’ll kiss the guy next to you full on the mouth.” The guy next to her gave
the bartender a deer-in-the-headlights look. “If you ask me,” he continued,
“Latin is the tongue of the dogs and the ancient tongue of the Germanic tribes
is the glorious legacy of a respectable people.”
“I take it
you’re German?” the guy next to her guessed. His name was Sean, apparently. Or
Linda. Or English Scum. His tattoos weren’t very helpful as to which name was
his.
“Certainly
not! I’m Faroese,” the bartender boasted.
“Is that
Asian?”
“It is no
more Asian than you are English.”
“Tha’s a good
way to get a rum shot in the eye, sailor.”
Mary stared
into her rum again and imagined a great naval battle upon the amber waves. She
looked back up at the bartender and the guy next to her. She was quite sure she
was going to enjoy herself in the afterlife.
“So, tell me more about old Norse.”
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