Tae Glesga an the Sters
A gripping short story from our Scots issue exploring an ancient being’s centuries-long quest through Glasgow to reclaim a lost book of power and awaken a cosmic void.
By Seán W. Pieper | Illustration by Rachel Mills
Ah’v waited fir this. Fir so lang.
I spy the auld book in the rear o the junk shop an ah cannae believe it. Ah’ve looked afore, looked so lang, an lang since I’d gied all hope up, like I gied up the drink or the smoke or the drugs, save whit the ceremonies asked o me.
Yet there it wis. Richt there, mocking me efter twa centuries o lookin, wi its black hide spine an the spidered gilt letters creepin up it. The shock hung in my throat, an ah made as to be jist another auld weirdo oot daein his messages. I kennt tho that aw had been transformed in that moment, an that ah wid be transformed forever mair. The lost book o ma Maister.
Yon fool at the counter was only wantin a twinty fir whit he adjudged a mere curio, an ornamental tome tae adorn the shelf o some pretenshus simpleton. He pairted wi it wi a smile, an fir the first time in fifty year a smile shaped ma ain lip in reply.
“Ta son.”
***
The next month flies in as ma preparations, things I’d plannt an practised ayty, nynty, a hunner years hence become urgent an familiar again. I never had much need fir kip, did it ootae boredom, noo ahm never in ma crypt. Stoor is lifted in corners o my tenement that huvnae been disturbed in decades. Ah ayways kept the dirk wi me in a sheath presst tae ma flesh, its blade still dark encrusted fae that nicht in Alloway so lang hence, when I still stood by ma maister’s side. Afore he left me alane, tae thole this tedium masel.
The other pairts fir the ceremony are mair tricky. Some of it ye huvnae been able tae buy in the shoaps fir decades… an some o it ye never could. But things needed can ayways be foond, as the auld book lerrnt me. A break in at the university laboratories an a midnicht trip tae the necropolis, an at last ahm ready, banes an pooders safely stashed away. Ah pass through crowds that buzz roon like midgies; I a great stillness amang them, an emptiness at their core.
The moon perishes an is reborn in fower days time.
Efter centuries ah can wait fower days. An I ken jist the spot…
***
Ah pass the gates, wi a rare shiver passin doon ma spine. Grass an plants are aw frosted an a uncharacteristic deathly still hangs across the park an aw o Govanhill, as tho haudin its breath for whit follows. Each step up the hill brings me closer tae ma goal, my last destination. Its bin sic a long wan, but here ah finally am.
The flagpole is bare. The nicht it will bear witness tae a thing aulder an finer than ony standard. Nae mair waitin. Nae mair wantin, hopin in vain while rottin away an left maukit amang the mayflies o this toon. The banes fall tae the frozen grund. Ah open the book, an bring forth the dirk fae its sheath. Nae Maister noo, only me.
Only me masel, and outwith me the cauld sters punctuatin the deep black o the sky’s midnight faulds.
Here ah come, o cosmos. Here ah come, o sterry hungrin void.
The publisher acknowledges receipt of the Scottish Government’s Scots Language Publication Grant towards this publication.
