Arkbound has curated a a stunning anthology worthy of immense praise. This collection combines essays, short fiction and poetry, centred on the relationship between people and the Scottish landscape across time. In these excerpts, we visit work from authors Marcas Mac an Tuairneir, Callum Aitken and Moira McPartlin.

The Weight of Quiet Things
By Arkbound
Published by Arkbound

Cruinnaght
Marcas Mac an Tuairneir

Ulaidh
Às dèidh Sophia Morrison

Thog thu do chòta,
a’ cumail bàine a chotain o pholl do bhotannan,
a’ cromadh gus fraoch a’ bhadain a spioladh –
a bhileagan teàrainte nad làimh

Agus a-mach leis, fo sgàil Bheinn Delbee,
gad toirt a mhòinteach tro rathaidean na dùthcha
ach air do shìor-thàladh gu Yn Arbyl, tugh-bhothach
far am bu tàmh dod ulaidh, measg iasgairean
is banntraich a’ bhàigh.

Nan cuideachd, chruinnich thu an rùnagan:
gucag-uighe na gobaige ris an cumadh cluas fungais,
feamainn-bhalgainn, bha fliuch is ruadh
agus lus an ròis ri taobh lìonanaich-duinne.

Bha cabhag nad chorragan,
teannadh tìm mar bhior an droighinn –
mar sin ghlac is chlàraich thu iad uile
gus an dìon o an crìonadh fhèin

Ach am measg gach àilleag, b’ fheàrr leat a’ chuiseag:
innte do thilleadh is glòir an t-saoghail.

My Grandfather’s Boots
Callum Aitken

My spine has brought me here,
along the lines of these boots.
Walk by the wild princes on the moor,
some god breathed out and life inhaled.

Dad and I were driving along the kind of winding, unlit road you find in hilly parts of rural Britain. We were in Scotland for a funeral. Dad’s uncle. But if I’m honest, I wasn’t in Scotland for a funeral; I was there for the hills, and to get out of the city. A whirring cloud sat in the front of my skull, and my eyeballs tried to force themselves apart from one another, to widen my view of oncoming threats. I didn’t know where I needed to go but I needed to get out of here. I worried I was nearing an edge that I couldn’t come back from. Prey being hunted.

We rounded a bend and a deer jumped into the road. Dad planted his foot on the brake pedal, jolting the car to a stop. I locked eyes with the deer – it was a young male. After a pause, he dashed over the barrier and away into darkness. In the hotel bar later, Dad ordered a venison burger; I ordered the vegetable pie. That moment of mutual awareness felt meaningful – the feeling of something massive and dreadful barreling towards you, only to find yourself unscathed, forced to step aside awkwardly.

I am Charles Edward Stuart,
Jacobite leader, hunted,
Shame and fear haunt me
North, across the country

I still wear my grandfather’s boots. They are of sturdy, now supple, leather, and have become accustomed to my feet. The soles are worn and Vibram teeth rounded to nubs, by stone and mud, tarmac and heather. I take my dad’s polishing rags and daub them with wax, rubbing it deep into the pores of the once skin, resealing. The boots protect my feet and bones from the harshest elements, support my own meandering explorations.

Grandad took these boots across Scotland and back several times. He had projects; adventures. Self-described lover of Scotland’s landscape, he visited and photographed all of Scotland’s islands, lochs and hydroelectric schemes. Each project was meticulously researched and compiled, presented and enthusiastically shared. Dark, musty afternoons spent in a stuffy study, accessed through a private staircase from the kitchen, I was immersed in his world and taken by the stories of adventures past. Deep into the ground of control stations, up boggy hills overlooking great bodies of water, we travelled through his memories together.

He followed the footsteps of Bonnie Prince Charlie, recreating his exile by choice, armed not with sword and kilt but camera and Gore-Tex. He pored over maps and tracked the journeys, forming his own mythology of the would-be monarch. He drove, ferried and walked the miles that were walked before him. He met new people, new creatures, new lands. He discovered treasures that had already been discovered and reached places that had been reached before. I asked my dad what had driven grandad on this particular adventure, and he said didn’t know – the reason, like the prince himself, was elusive.

Extra Work
Moira McPartlin

The News

The first time we heard about the extra work was the night of Grant’s ceilidh at Laggan.

Those two fine strapping lads of Murdo McDonald returned from the cattle-drove to Falkirk Fair, exhausted but excited with news. Mairi Grant insisted they be fed broth and bannock before they could settle down to their wondrous tale. Young Alec had brought some fine linen for his mother, and I admit that the tenth commandment was far from my thoughts, green I was. Kenneth, being the elder, was invited to tell the tale.

It seemed a new clan chief called McAlpine had moved into the area bringing with him plans to build a metal road all the way from the Fort to Mallaig. And on this road was to travel an iron steam-ship, but as well as a funnel it had large metal wheels. We had heard of these railways from the newspapers of course but we could not imagine such a thing in our glen. The boys insisted it be true – they had seen these themselves in Stirling Town.

Some of the elders scolded them for telling such lies. ‘Why would they spend money to bring such a thing to this God 35 forgotten place?’ They asked. Some of us laughed at such a grand tale until Kenneth pulled from his jerkin a sheet of paper and passed it round the room. The children juked and elbowed to get first looks. When I eventually saw, I knew it to be true. The writing on the sheet was not our own but the school mistress, Mrs Lyon, who can speak both Gaelic and English, read to us what it said.

They wanted men to work at the excavation – which was another word for digging – and the laying of the metal rails. It would be a grand scheme. The extra work was welcome. Our small crofts, so close together barely feed the families. My Robert clutched my hand.

‘Just think, Alyth, money to buy extra beasts.’

I bit my lip; we might have extra beasts but where was the land to graze them coming from.

Alec, the younger, picked up the story where his brother left off. ‘They say when the railway reaches the sea it will join us to all the big markets. The beasts can travel in style to Falkirk Fair. No more droves.’

No more droves – the words prickled my spine.

The cattle droves to
lowland marts feed hungry bairns
lean pickings soon lost

The Weight of Quiet Things by Arkbound is published by Arkbound is priced at £12.99.