Tinneas nan Gall

Bha fear a’ cluich òran nach b’ aithne dhi, air ionnsramaid air choreigin - giotàr, dh’fhaodte, fear dealain. Rudeigin analogue, ‘s e a’ dùrdail ‘s a’ srannail tro bhrùchd a’ bhaile mhòir, agus an stèisean, orains-loisgte agus buidhe, fon t-solas thiugh. Bu mhath leatha stad, gus an cluinneadh i na b’ fheàrr e. Gus am faiceadh i mar a bha e a’ seinn nam pungan iomchaidh. Ach bha ataireachd an t-sluaigh na bu treasa. Miann a bhith a’ gluasad agus, thar a h-uile nì eile, a bhith a’ coimeasgachadh leis a’ chòrr. Bu luath muinntir an àite, agus bodhar, a dh’aona-gnothach. Dh’fhàs an ceòl na bu tana ‘s i a’ coiseachd air falbh bhuaithe; cha bu chòir fios a bhith aca cho dlùth ‘s a bha i ag èisteachd, air no nach robh i buileach cinnteach dè an t-slighe a bha roimhpe. Gu tuath, mar bu dual dhi? Doirbh ri ràdh.

Air falbh bhon t-sèisean bha an t-sràid na bu dorcha ‘s an oidhche ga caolachadh, an t-adhar fuar ri casan ach ro thana dha sgamhain - cha b’ urrainn dhi ràdh carson. Rudeigin ceangailte ris an itealan no ris an aimsir, ged a bha an t-aodach samhraidh aice freagarrach gu leòr don gheamhradh acasan. Briogais-ghoirid a cheannaich i gu sònraichte air a shon. A-rèir coltais, bha aodach an sgioba ball-coise aca rudeigin coltach rithe. Chaidh buidheann seachad oirre ‘s dathan air an aodach aca mar a bh’ air an stèisean fhèin; luchd-leantainn le stiallan Sràid Flinders a bha àillidh, aighearach. Bu mhiann leatha gun robh iad air a taobh-se. Dh’fhaodte gun robh, agus gum b’ ise a bha air an t-slighe cheàrr. Bun os cionn. Air an iomall. Cha robh i air nì sam bith aithneachadh fad greis a-nist.

Bha solasan trama a’ tighinn ga h-ionnsaigh, o linn eile, leth-chruinne eile - stad i gus coimhead air ‘s e a’ dol seachad oirre: St. Kilda. Chaidh cùl a’ chàr à sealladh, agus a h-uile rud air fhàgail na bu duirche. Seach ise, fada ro bhàn fhathast; ’s i a’ meòrachadh a-rithist carson a thàinig i a-nall a’ seo, agus ag iarraidh falbh dhachaigh agus fuireach an seo aig an aon àm. ‘S ann nuair a dh’fhalbh a fòn-làimhe a bhuaill an uair oirre. A ghuth-san air an loidhne; rudeigin mu dheidhinn dìnnear - cha robh thu air dìochuimhneachadh, an robh?

“Gu dearbh, cha robh.” Bha i cairteal chun na h-uarach. “Am b’ urrainn dhut mo thogail?”

“Àidh, b’ urrainn, cà bheil thu?” A ghuth blàth ‘s buidhe.

Bha i na lasadh. Ghabh i anail. Rinn i fiamh-ghàire. “Chan eil càil a dh’fhios ‘am.”

[Dealbh/image: Katie Harris-MacLeod]

Stranger Sickness

There was a man playing a song she didn’t know, on an instrument that might have been a guitar – an electric one.  Something analogue, that hummed and buzzed through the commuter rush, and the thick light falling across the burnt orange and yellow station.  She wanted to stop, to hear it better.  To see how he made the night into notes.  But the swell of the crowd was stronger. An urge to move and above all blend in.  The locals were quick and wilfully deaf.  The music thinned as she walked away from it; they needn’t know how well she had listened, or that she wasn’t quite sure which way to go.  North by instinct?  It was hard to tell.  

Away from the station the street greyed into a narrower dusk where the air felt cool against her legs, but too thin in her lungs – she couldn’t have said why.  Something to do with the plane or the weather, though her summer wardrobe suited their winter fine.  Short shorts that she’d bought especially.  It turned out their football teams wore something similar.  A group passed by sporting the colours of the station; fans in Flinders Street stripes that were bright, verging on jolly.  She wished they were going her way.  Maybe they were and it was her who was all wrong.  Upside down.  Out on a limb.  She hadn’t recognised anything for a while now.  

The lights of a tram approached, from another century, another hemisphere – she stood still to stare at the sign as it passed: St Kilda. Its rear end slid away, leaving everything darker. Except her, still too pale by half; wondering again why she had come to this place, and wanting, and not wanting, to go back home again.  It wasn’t until her phone rang that she realised the time.  His voice vibrating down the line; something about dinner – you hadn’t forgotten, had you?

“Of course not.”  It was quarter to.  “Can you come and get me?”

“Yeah, where are you?”  His warm orange and yellow voice.

She burned.  Felt herself breathe.  Smiled.  “I’ve no idea.”