Last Words

by Kevin McClung

A mother, her two daughters, and their doctor were huddled together around Grandma Gwythrwn’s bed. It was past midnight in Coastland in the middle of January. The small hut was mostly dark except for the glow of the Northern Lights from outside. The grandmother’s breathing was labored. Several moments later, she managed to say her last words: “Ist doka alltaf gu veev u iggony gu joyess. Na vorgettigui aldry na ur kallallist na ur perinto.” After that, her life was over. A cloud cast a shadow over the bedroom.

Dr. Tnuthtlaqx felt for a pulse. Then, she confirmed what they already knew. “I’m sorry. She is gone now.” Just like everyone the doctor knew back home, so long ago.

Lippikka sighed, not so much from sorrow as out of resignation. “I only wish I understood what she was saying.” As Grandma Gwythrwn’s only child, she had just become the matriarch of the Nic Nora clan as the oldest surviving member.

Like all the other Coastlanders, she knew only English. Her mother had been bilingual, but the use of Coastlandic was becoming obsolete when she was born. Her mother would speak only English to her family until the last few days of her life, when dementia complications caused her to revert to Coastlandic.

All the television broadcasts and smartphone interfaces used to be in English, as were the instruction manuals and labels on the 99% of goods that were imported from overseas. Ten years ago, one could have used a translation app, but no longer. Coastland, along with all the other countries of the world, had ratified the Big Ban of 2066. Apparently, it was the only way to prevent climate change from turning the planet into a second Venus.

Whatever the case, the new law dragged the whole world’s technology back by centuries. For the last decade, Coastland had been isolated from the outside world. Tragically, English was no longer necessary, but with the passing of the last native speaker, the island’s indigenous tongue was now dead.

Margaid, aged twelve, started to cry. She really loved her grandmother and could not imagine a long life without her. Her six-year old sibling, Iltuden, by contrast, was more pragmatic than sentimental. She whined, “Did you know that her secret barbecue cookie recipe is written only in Coastlandic? What will we have for dessert now?”

“Perhaps I can help,” offered Dr. Tnuthtlaqx. “Back in my homeland, I once studied Coastlandic at university. Regretfully, it was quite useless by the time I came here as a refugee from the war.”

“But you can at least translate her last words, right?” asked Lippikka.

“And her secret recipe?” added Iltuden.

“I could, but that would spoil the point. Are you willing to do the hard work of relearning your mother tongue?”

Iltuden started to grumble, but Lippikka cut her off. “Where do we start?”

Dr. Tnuthtlaqx led the family across the sleepy, snow-covered village to the library. The building was surrounded by a geothermal moat full of jellyfish that illuminated the night. On the inside, bioluminescent mushrooms served as lanterns. They provided enough light to read by, but not enough to keep out the polar night.

Except for the librarian, the library was completely empty. Even a decade after the Big Ban brought the Internet Age crashing down, few people ever got used to reading hardcopy books again. Now that digital books were no longer an option, the majority of the population fell back on the more ancient hobby of gossip.

Dr. Tnuthtlaqx brought them up to the third floor, pulled four books from the shelf, and gestured for them to sit down at the conference table. “These are copies of Introduction to Modern Coastlandic. Do not let the word ‘introduction’ fool you. You will be quite fluent after I teach you all the material in this book.”

“Can we start by learning the words from Grandma Gwythrwn’s secret recipe?” demanded Iltuden.

“Or perhaps we can begin with the last words she spoke to us just an hour ago,” suggested Margaid more gently.

“Patience,” urged Dr. Tnuthtlaqx. “You don’t run before you can walk, let alone before you learn to crawl. Everything must come at its proper time.”

“The doctor is right,” agreed Lippikka. “Now, let us begin.”

* * *

It was a warm, sunny day in late June. Lippikka, Margaid, Iltuden, and Dr. Tnuthtlaqx gathered on top of the tallest hill overlooking the North Atlantic. A garden was beginning to sprout up at the site of Grandma Gwythrwn’s green burial site. The ever-vigilant lighthouse loomed overhead. All four of them were grilling cookies over the barbecue pit and chatting to each other in Coastlandic.

Beaming, Margaid said, “It feels like Grandma Gwythrwn is still with us.”

Iltuden said, “I don’t know about that, but at least I can smell her cookies. I can’t wait to taste them again!”

“Thank you for teaching us,” said Lippikka.

Dr. Tnuthtlaqx replied, “You have nothing to thank me for. Thanks to your own efforts, you have saved Coastland’s heritage. You aren’t completely fluent yet, and no one else can speak a word of the language, but it’s a start.”

“We are grateful to you all the same,” said Lippikka. “Perhaps we can learn your mother tongue next. After all, you went through the trouble of learning English and Coastlandic.”

“I would like that,” said Dr. Tnuthtlaqx with a smile. “For now, at least, you finally understand your grandmother’s last words.”

“Yes,” said Lippikka. “In honor of her last wish, we will always live joyfully. We will never forget our language or our heritage.”

The four turned around to admire the giant sign above the lighthouse. “Boorsbotin gu Kohsland,” it read. “Welcome to Coastland.”