This story is by Joanne Guillemette and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
One stormy evening in a small Scottish fishing village, two drunk fishermen, Brody and Gus, stumbled out of a pub. Drinking had replaced the seas as Brody’s passion. A calloused hand hugged a bottle of whiskey tucked under his corduroy jacket. The other pulled down his wool baker-boy hat. His best mate, Gus’ slim frame struggled to walk against the blustering wind.
The drunken duo headed to the docks and tumbled into an abandoned fishing boat. A stormy gust slammed turbulent waves onto the nearby rocks.
“That wind, she ‘as a bite!” exclaimed Brody.
Gus pulled his cap and jacket tight, and hugged himself for warmth. “Why d’ ya be bringin’ us outside when the pub be warm and full o’ drink!”
Brody raised the bottle of whiskey. “Me frien’ Jesse slipped me this beauty. A single malt t’ soothe a restless soul! I dinna want to share it with them scavengers in there!” Brody kissed the bottle. “Gus me frien’, here’s to us bein’ here and not taken by the sea!” He swigged and passed the whiskey.
“Here! Here! I drink to ya bein’ here!” cried Gus. He took a nip and wiped his mouth on his jacket. “I never been out inta tha deep sea, but I sure like bein’ ’round the boats. As a wee lad, I’d watch ‘em cast off in the mornin’ and back in the evenin’ with their catch.” Smiling, he downed a dram before returning the bottle.
Brody grabbed it. “I couldn’a live without the sea! ‘Tis like breathin’.”
Gus looked around. “Who’s boat we be sittin’ in?” he asked.
“Methinks ‘tis Bobbie Gilbert’s. He called it the ODIN. Said it used to bring ‘im luck. Never missed a catch!” Brody guzzled and burped.
“He be gettin’ fishin’ tips from a one-eyed Viking god!” snickered Gus.
Drinking, they were oblivious to the fog that slowly enveloped them.
“Old Ellis McGreary caught ‘imself a leg once. Army boot still on. Dunno what he done with it,” said Brody.
Gus grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “’Tis not a sight I wish to behold. Me fragile constitution.”
“But ya can take the smell o’ fish guts all day?” retorted Brody.
“I dinna smell much anymore. Save for when I’m standin’ over Avery’s fried fish at the pub.” Gus laughed, passing the bottle.
“Back when I was but a wee lad, me pa took me fishin’ with me Uncle Bruce. I can still remember the sweet aroma of me pa’s Seven Seas pipe tobacco.” Brody closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if sniffing it still. He smiled, then searched his pocket, pulling out three old photos.
High above, a black raven circled the boat.
“This is me as a lad with one o’ me catches! This is me pa, and this be Uncle Bruce. He left for England to become a priest. Years later, ‘tis said he boarded a boat for passage back home, but they were lost at sea. Me pa never talked o’ him again. Methinks, he died around this time of year,” recalled Brody.
“’Tis a sad story. Many a good lad be lost out there.” The fog engulfed them, water lapping up the sides of the boat. “’Tis gettin’ misty, I canna see much. It feels like we be floatin’,” said Gus.
Brody reached over the side and was shocked at the cold water. “Ye be right!” he cried.
The raven landed on the bow.
Gus leaned in for a closer look. “D’ya be seein’ that? Is’t a raven perched there?”
Brody patted his empty shirt pocket. He squinted, trying to focus. “Must o’ left me glasses in the pub. Canna see much without ‘em. A black bird, ya say?”
“Aye! A raven, black as night,” said Gus.
“Methinks all ‘em pints and damn fine whiskey’s got ya seein’ things! Why are ya knockin’ on the boat?” asked Brody.
“Ain’t me. That be the bird peckin’ the wood,” said Gus.
A ragged sailor appeared before them.
“Ah! Are ya seein’ that ghostly sailor?” Brody exclaimed.
“’Tis no man. ‘Tis a bird I tell ya… a raven!” shouted Gus.
“No, ‘tis a man. At least, what be left of ‘im that hath not yet rotted. Methinks he be weepin’,” replied Brody.
The ghost of his dead uncle sat across from them with his face in his hands, then looked to the heavens, lamenting, “Maria, sweet Maria! Where thou be’st?” He arose. “My love! I bein’ searchin’ for thee seems on forever!”
Brody looked at the bottle, shook his head and muttered, “Damn fine whiskey!”
The raven pecked at the wood again. It sounded like knocking.
“That there raven be tryin’ to say somethin’,” said Gus.
“’Tis the ghost of a man! Methinks ’tis me Uncle Bruce, pinin’ over some Maria lass. Me thoughts ‘e was a priest.” Brody passed the bottle to Gus, listening attentively.
The ghost turned to the raven. “Ghastly creature! Have ye come to torment me? All I have is this eternal night and that infernal knocking!”
The raven cawed three times, whispering “N-e-v-e-r-m-o-r-e.”
Gus took a long swig. “I dunno if this whiskey be fine or if I be losin’ me mind. Birds and ghosts don’t speak. But by Odin’s will, a lost sailor be tellin’ his tale of woe.”
“Could we both be goin’ mad?” asked Brody.
“I dinna want to leave you, dearest. One last trip home to tell me family our news. But pirates overtook us, stealin’ and burnin’. For days only the drivin’ rain and ravagin’ winds. In the end, the sea wouldn’a let us leave. We sank deep within her cold dark belly, never to see the dawn again. Never to see ya warm smile. And now, even rememberin’, slowly fadin’!” moaned the ghost.
The raven cawed three times, pecking and whispering, “N-e-v-e-r-m-o-r-e.”
“D’ya hear the bird speak?” asked Gus.
“Aye! And d’ya see and hear the ghost?” Brody questioned.
“Aye! I canna be sure if they be real. But methinks we should get back to the pub,” urged Gus.
“Bit if he be me uncle, maybe I should speak with him?” Brody wondered.
“What d’ ya be askin’ a ghost? How’s the weather?” chortled Gus.
Odin observed the scene through his raven Munnin’s eyes. Amused, he would let Brody speak to his dead uncle.
“Uncle Bruce! That be you?”
The ghost turned and said, “Who’s there? Do you know my Maria?”
“’Tis your nephew, Brody. Your brother Roger’s lad.”
“Brody! Can it be you? You’ve grown… old!” replied the ghost.
“Well, ya be dead for 40 years!” snorted Brody.
“It canna be! Lost in this infernal void for 40 years! What of the family?”
“Well, me pa passed last year. ‘E always said e’d live to be 80 and nearly made it, less a day. We buried ‘im at sea, just like ’e wanted. Could ‘ya be tellin’ ‘im halo for me,” replied Brody.
“There be no others with me! Methinks God hath cursed me for abandonin’ my callin’,” sighed the ghost.
The raven cawed as Odin laughed to himself.
“Who ‘ya be callin’ Maria?” asked Brody.
The ghost smiled. “She was a new sister at the parish. A beauty. We tended to the sick and in our spare time, she read me poetry. One night she fell ill. I prayed for her but her condition worsened. I then prayed to any god that would save her. The next mornin’, a raven appeared on me windowsill. And Maria sat up as if nothin’ had happened.”
Odin clapped his hands, smiling. His raven cawed.
“I dinna care who or what saved her. I knew only that I must ask her to marry me,” the ghost replied.
Gus slapped Brody’s arm. “D’ya uncle, a priest, just say that he asked a nun ta marry ‘im?”
“Ya! That be a sad tale. I dunno if I can take much more. Is it me or has this
drink gone bad?” Brody pondered.
“Methinks this be all in our drunken heads. Or maybe, we be not drunk enough?” contemplated Gus.
“Methinks ya be right! We need somethin’ stronger to clear our minds!”
Brody and Gus nodded to each other and jumped overboard. The cold water sobered them up enough to swim back to shore. They stumbled back to the pub.
The raven cawed. Thunder broke as Odin roared with laughter. Feeling generous, he waved his hand.
“By the gods, what be this?” The ghost picked up the bottle the fishermen had left. “Ye’ve given me drink to help me forget!” He took a long swig. “’Tis as dry as my mouth be parched.”
The raven cawed three times, pecked at the boat and whispered, “N-e-v-e-r-m-o-r-e.”
“Begone, vile creature! Let me drown my sorrows in peace!” The ghost took a long drink and tossed the bottle overboard. He slowly vanished amidst a flash of lightning and rolling thunder.
Leave a Reply