Commissioned Writer

Mairi Macleod, Scotland

Mairi Macleod (b.1996) is a Gaelic writer from Glasgow, Scotland. A graduate of the University of Glasgow, she completed an undergraduate degree in Geography and a master’s degree in Earth Futures. Her creative work echoes her academic interests, critically engaging with humanity’s relationships with space, place, and the complex thing we call ‘nature’. As a young woman writing in a minority language, she wants to contribute not just to the survival of her language, but to its blossoming and evolution in different spaces.

Cur Na Mara

Choisich an dithis aca còmhla air a’ ghainmhich, an seacaidean teann mum bodhaigean. ’S e an t-earrach a bh’ ann, is bha a’ ghrian a’ buannachadh anns a’ chonnspaid le na sgothan. Ach fhathast, bha gaoth na mara fiadhaich is fuar. Bha Ava, a bha dìreach beagan is sia bliadhna a dh’aois, a’ bocadaich mun cuairt. ’S e saor-làithean na Càisg a bh’ ann, is bha i toilichte gun robh fad seachdain aice còmhla ri a seanair.

Bha a’ mhuir ag osnadh gu socair.

“Seall, dè tha siud?!” dh’èigh Ava, a’ leigeil às an t-inneal a bh’ aice airson sgudal a thogail is i a’ ruith a-null gu na creagan.

Lean an seann duine i gu slaodach, pian a’ chruachainn ag obair air. Bha e a’ fàs nas duilghe is nas duilghe dha cumail suas rithe is lùths na h-òige aice.

“O mo chreach, ’s e eun a th’ ann!” dh’èigh Ava.

’S e sùlaire a bh’ ann, is bha e rocta ann an lìon air choireigin.

“Gluais air ais,” thuirt e, làn fhios aige gum biodh na h-eòin a bha seo fiadhaich.

Bha e beò, taing do Dhia, ach bha a sgiathan is a chasan glaiste ri bhodhaig. Bha e follaiseach gun robh e ann an èiginn is a cheann a’ dol bho thaobh gu taobh a’ feuchainn ri faighinn cuidhteas an lìn.

Thug an seann duine greimire às a phòcaid – mar dhuine làmhcharach, bha e an- còmhnaidh deiseil airson suidheachadh sam bith. Thòisich e a’ gearradh an lìn, a’ cumail grèim air gob an eòin gus nach bìdeadh e e. Mu dheireadh thall, thòisich sgiathan an eòin a’ clapadh is thuit an lìon air falbh uile gu lèir. Gu slaodach, leig an duine an t-eun às is dh’èirich e air iteig, a’ dol a-mach à sealladh air aodann na creige.

Rinn Ava grad-ghrèim air an lìon, ga sgrùdadh, is thilg i e dhan phoca mhòr dhubh a bh’ aice.

“A Sheanair, mura biodh sinn air an t-eun sin a lorg, am biodh e air bàsachadh?” dh’fhaighnich i.

“’S dòcha,” fhreagair a seanair. “Nach e a bhios taingeil gun robh thu ann.”

O chionn ceithir bliadhna, chaidh muc-mhara spùtach a lorg air an tràigh aig Seileabost. Thuirt iad gun robh 100kg sgudail am broinn a stamaig. Ball mòr truilleis, dìreach a’ suidhe na bhodhaig. Dh’fhalaich am bodach an deur a thuit sìos aodann nuair a chunnaic e sin air na naidheachdan. ’S ann aig an àm sin a thòisich e a’ cruinneachadh sgudail bhon tràigh faisg orra.

Nuair a bha Ava nas cinntiche air a casan, thoisich e ga toirt còmhla ris. On a rugadh i, bha e air fàs nas maoth-inntinniche. Nuair a bha a’ chlann aige fhèin òg, bha e air a bhith a’ feuchainn ri na riaghailtean ionnsachadh – dè a bu chòir dha a dhèanamh is dè nach bu chòir. Ach bha a bhith na do sheanair eadar-dhealaichte is abair gun robh làithean geala aige fhèin is Ava còmhla. Ach air cùil inntinn bha ceistean aige mun t-seòrsa saoghail anns am fàsadh ise suas, fada an dèidh dha fhèin a dhol dhan talamh.

Nuair a bha na bagannan aca làn, shuidh iad airson picnic air a’ ghainmhich. Dh’ith iad na ceapairean a bh’ aca, iad air an ullachadh le gaol mnà is seanmhair sa mhadainn.

“A sheanair, an innis thu dhomh fear dhe na sgeulachdan agad? Mas e do thoil e!” dh’èigh Ava, ag imlich silidh sùbhaige bho na corragan aice.

“Trobhad ma tha a leididh, is trobhad nas fhaisge orm.”

Rinn Ava sin, a’ gabhail grèim air a seanair is ga socrachadh fhèin na ghàirdeanan. Dhian-amhairc an duine a-mach dhan mhuir, a’ smaoineachadh air na sgeulachdan a bh’ aige ri innse.

“Uaireigin, bha iasgaire òg ann a bha air sgeulachdan a chluinntinn mu mhuinntir nan ròn, na selkies, is mar a thigeadh iad chun a’ chladaich is mar a thilgeadh iad an craicnean dhiubh. Duine nach èisteadh ri stòiridhean sìtheanach, bha e fhèin fada ro ghlic airson na rudan sin a chreidsinn. Sin gus am faca e ise a’ dannsa air an tràigh aon oidhche shamhraidh. Bha i a’ seinn, a h-òran binn agus cumhach. Bha a falt cho dorch ri na h-àitichean as doimhne sa chuan, is a sùilean cho dubh ris an adhar a bha os an cionn. Air creig, bha an craiceann-ròin aice air a phasgadh gu cùramach. Ghabh e greim air, is dh’fhalbh e leis.

Cha bu luaithe a bha e air tilleadh dhachaigh leis a’ chraiceann na nochd am boireannach aig a dhoras.

“Chan urrainn dhomh tilleadh dhan mhuir às aonais mo chraicinn,” dh’èigh i.

Ach cha toireadh e air ais dhi e. An àite sin, thug e tairgse-phòsaidh dhi. Nise, cha robh ise idir ag iarraidh an duine seo a phòsadh. Ach bha tarraing na craicinn cho làidir agus nam b’ e siud an dòigh as fhasa air fhaighinn air ais, dhèanadh i e. Thuirt i gum pòsadh i e, ach bha làn fhios aice gun teicheadh i dhachaigh cho luath ’s a b’ urrainn dhi, ga fhàgail aonranach agus lag.

Chaidh na bliadhnaichean seachad, is cha d’ fhuair a’ mhaighdeann-ròin grèim air a’ chraiceann aice. Choimhead i sa h-uile h-àite, ach cha robh e ann.  Bha pàiste aig a’ chupal – nighean – agus bha am boireannach làn gràidh dhi. Thòisich i fiù ’s a bhith nas measaile air an duine aice. Ach cha robh an gaol riamh cho làidir ’s a bha e airson an teaghlach aice aig muir. Shuidheadh i aig an uinneig a’ sealltainn air a’ mhuir, a’ smaoineachadh mun deidhinn a h-uile latha.

Dh’fhàs an t-iasgair dìombach oir cha robh e a’ glacadh mòran èisg. Thigeadh e dhachaigh gruaimeach agus b’ e ise a dh’fheumadh dèiligeadh leis a chuid searbhadais. Chuir na h-iasgairean barrachd bhàtaichean a-mach gu muir. Thàinig fir bho dheas le innealan is fuaim, a’ bàthadh òrain ciùin nan eun. A-nis bha pailteas èisg ann, sguabta bho ghrunnd na mara, agus pailteas airgid. Thug an t-iasgair seud-muineil òir dha mhnaoi, is e an làn dùil gum b’urrainn dha a dìlseachd is a maitheanas a cheannachd.

Chaidh fichead bliadhna seachad, is bha bròn a’ mhaighdinn-ròin thar smuain. Ach aon oidhche fhoghair, thàinig an nighean aice thuice – i fhèin a-nis na boireannach òg neo-ghealtach. Na gàirdeanan, bha pacaid mhòr suainte ann am fiolm plastaig.

“A mhàthair, tha mi air rudeigin a lorg is tha mi a’ smaointinn gur ann leatsa a tha e.”

Leum am boireannach, làn fhios aice dè bh’ ann. Shraic i am pacaid fosgailte is fhuair i am fàileadh saillte, milis.

Ruith i tron bhaile cas-rùisgte is sìos chun na mara. Bha i deiseil. Mhothaich i gun robh an nighean aice air a leantainn. Thug i pòg dhi is fhad ’s a thuit na deòir sìos a th’ aodann, bha an salainn mar beannachd air lipean a’ mhaighdinn-ròin. Reub i an seuna òir bho a h-amhaich is chuir i ann an làmhan na h-ighne e.

“Reic seo. Is teich às a seo.”

“Chan eil mi ag iarraidh gum falbh thu, a Mham.”

“Slàn leat, a ghràidh. Tha mi a’ tilleadh dhan mhuir far am buin mi.”

Chuir i an craiceann timcheall oirre is choisich i gu slaodach dhan uisge, a’ feitheamh airson an atharrachaidh.

Chan atharraicheadh a bodhaig. Shnàmh i a-mach leis a’ chraiceann trom is fuar air a druim, fios aice gun gaolaicheadh na sruthan-mara i.

Ach a’ mhuir…bha sin air atharrachadh. Bha e nas blàithe, nas fhalaimhe. Cha ghabhadh an craiceann ris a bhodhaig aice. Thòisich e a’ builgneachadh is a’ seacadh, a’ call a shùbailteachd.

Thog tonn mòr i, ga tilgeil gu tìr. Chall i grèim air a’ chraiceann is ghlac na sruthan e, ga shlaodadh air falbh bhuaipe. Choimhead i air, air fleod mar chlosach, is e air fàire a’ dol a-mach à sealladh.

“Dèan tròcair orm! Leig dhomh tilleadh dhachaigh!” dh’èigh a’ mhaighdeann-ròin.

Bha a’ mhuir dìreach a’ beucail air ais gun a bhith gabhail feart dhith.

Is mar sin, fhuair i binn-beatha air tìr. Rinn i àite-fasgaidh dhi fhèin ann an geodha aig a’ chladach far an tigeadh an nighean aice a chèilidh oirre. Ach cha deach i dhachaigh chun duine aice tuilleadh, am fear a ghoid a cuid saorsa bliadhnaichean air ais. Chunnaic i na tràighean a’ lìonadh le sgudal is le sprùilleach, is loibheachas a’ gabhail thairis a’ chuain.

Tha feadhainn ag ràdh gun cluinn thu a h-òrain fhathast air a’ ghaoith, is i ag ionndrainn mùirn na mara.”

Thionndaidh Ava is choimhead i air a seanair le sùilean geur.

“Chan ann mar siud a tha an sgeulachd a’ dol, Seanair. Tha i a’ tilleadh dhan mhuir agus tha i toilichte le na ròin eile agus bidh i a’ toirt tòrr èisg don teaghlach aice air tìr. Dh’ionnsaich sinn mu dheidhinn san sgoil.”

“Uill, m’ eudail, tha sgeulachdan an-còmhnaidh ag atharrachadh,” fhreagair an duine. “Dìreach mar an saoghal mun cuairt ort. Faodaidh tu càil sam bith a dhèanamh leis an sgeulachd. ’S ann leatsa a tha i a-nis.”

“Uill, as fheàrr leamsa an stòiridh a dh’innis Miss NicAmhlaigh dhuinn. Bha an tè agadsa ro bhrònach.”

Leig e a-mach gàire.

“Tha thu ceart, a ghràidh,” a’ toirt pòg dhi air a ceann. “’S i a bha.”

Dh’èirich Ava an uair sin is dhanns’ i thairis air a’ ghainmhich anns na bòtannan aice.

“Trobhad, a Sheanair,” thuirt i. “Feumaidh sinn cumail oirnn.”

Chuir i a làmh a-mach thuige, is le a cuideachadh, sheas an seann duine.

A-muigh aig muir nochd ceann ròin os cionn an uisge, a’ cumail sùil gheur orra.

Seasickness

The pair walked hand in hand along the sand, their anoraks zipped up tightly. It was spring and the sun was battling with the clouds and just about winning, but the wind from the sea was fierce and chilly. Ava, recently turned six years old, was restless and bouncy.  It was the Easter holidays which meant she was more excitable than usual as a week with her grandparents stretched out before her.

The sea sighed in and out, breathing gently.

“Look, what’s that over there?!” Ava shouted, letting go of her grandad’s hand and bounding over to the rock pools.

He followed on slowly, the torment of a dodgy hip hindering him. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep up with her on their escapades, and he tried to push the reality of the inevitable to the back of his mind. These days were too important to him.

“It’s a bird!” Ava shouted back at him, dropping her litter picker to the ground and crouching down.

When he finally caught up with her, his heart dropped. It was a gannet, entangled in netting.

“Stay back Ava,” he said, knowing the birds could be aggressive.

It was alive, thank god, but its wings and webbed feet were pulled tightly to its body stopping it from moving. It was flailing its head around in distress.

A resourceful man, he took the pliers he kept in his jacket pocket and began to snip the netting, holding the bird’s bill shut with one hand to avoid injury. With every snip the bird’s wings began to flap until eventually the netting came completely loose. Slowly the man let go, and the bird took flight, disappearing up into the rock face.

Ava grabbed the netting with her litter picker, examining it closely, then stuffed it into the black bag.

“Seanair, if we didn’t find that bird would it have died?” she asked.

“It may well have,” he responded. “But luckily you and your eagle eyes were on the case.”

Four years earlier, a sperm whale had been found on the beach in Seilebost. They said it had 100kg of litter in its stomach when it died. A big ball of human waste, just sitting inside its body. He’d had to hide the tear that streamed down his face when he saw it on the news for fear his wife would call him an old fool. That was when he’d started doing the beach clean-ups. When Ava was no longer wobbly on her feet, he’d started taking her with him. He didn’t like to get too sentimental, but it was difficult when she came along. Being a parent had been a minefield, learning what to say and what to do. But being a grandparent, it was different. He got to give her the best parts of himself and in return, she gave him hers. But he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of world she’d live in long after he was committed to the ground.

When their bags were full, they laid a picnic rug on the sand and sat side by side, watching as the waves beyond advanced and retreated gently. They wolfed down the well-earned sandwiches, made with the care of a wife and grandmother in the morning.

“Will you tell me one of your stories? Please, please, please!” Ava exclaimed, licking the remnants of homemade raspberry jam from her fingers.

“Okay, okay. Come and sit close to me.”

The man gazed out to the sea and thought of all the stories it had to tell.

“Well, there was once a young fisherman who had heard the tales of the seal folk, the selkies, and how they came ashore and shed their skins. A man of logic, he considered himself too wise to believe such faerie stories. That was until he saw her dancing and singing on the beach one summer’s night, her song wistful and alluring. Her hair was as dark as the deepest corners of the ocean, her eyes as black as the night sky. Her sealskin was neatly folded on the rocks. Enticed by its shine, he swiped it and hurried home with his treasure.

Soon after, the young sealwoman appeared on his doorstep.

“Please, sir, I can’t return to the sea without my skin,” she pleaded.

But he would not give her back her skin. Instead, he asked her to become his wife.

Now, she had no desire to marry this strange man. But with the magnetic pull of her skin so strong, she was bewitched. And so she accepted, knowing she would one day take back what was hers and leave him lonely and feeble.

But the years passed, and she did not get her skin back. She scoured the house longingly, but her attempts were futile. The couple had a child, a girl, and she loved her dearly. But she missed her seal family in the sea. She would sit at the window gazing out at the ocean, thinking of them every day.

The fisherman grew agitated and cruel as his yield of fish depleted and time bounded on. Men came from the south with their innovations and their noise, drowning out the soothing songs of the birds. Then fish came aplenty, dragged on mass from the sea, and so did the money. The seal woman’s husband brought her a solid gold necklace, as though her obedience and love could be bought.

Two decades passed, and the seal woman’s sorrow grew stronger and stronger. one dark autumn night her daughter, herself now a gallus young woman, came to her.

“Mother, I think I found something that belongs to you,” she said, carrying a large package wrapped tightly in plastic.

Knowing exactly what it was, the woman leapt up in joy. She unwrapped the package and the sweet, seaweedy smell of her skin enveloped her.

She ran through the village barefooted in her nightdress and down towards the sea, ready for its welcoming arms. When she reached the sand, she turned back to see her daughter had followed her. She gave her a final kiss as tears fell down her daughter’s cheeks, the saltiness a blessing on the woman’s lips. She ripped the gold necklace from her neck and placed it in her daughter’s hands.

“Sell it, and get away from here,” she said, letting go of her child’s cold fingers.

“Mother, please don’t go.”

“I have to go, my child. I am going to be with the sea where I belong.”

She wrapped her skin around her as she walked slowly into the saltwater, awaiting the familiar metamorphosis.

But her shape wouldn’t change. She swam out with the skin heavy and cold on her back, knowing the currents would soon embrace her.

But the sea… it had changed. It was not as it had been before. It was warmer, emptier. Lifeless. Her skin wouldn’t mould to her body as it had done before. It blistered and began to wither, losing its elasticity.

An angry wave came and lifted her, depositing her at the water’s edge like scrap. She lost her grip on her decaying sealskin, and the currents whisked it away from her. She shivered as she watched it float like a carcass out to the horizon, before disappearing out of view.

“Have mercy on me!” she bellowed to the waves. “Let me return home!”

But the sea just roared back at her, ignoring her pleas. Birds cawed as they circled in the night sky, mocking her. She sang for her seal family, but heard nothing in response. They were gone.

And so, she was sentenced to a life of misery on land, unable to return home. She made a shelter in a cave by the sea where she lived alone, vowing never to return to the man who had stolen her freedom so many moons ago. She watched on as the beaches were littered with debris, and rottenness took hold of the sea.

Some say that on the wind you can still hear her singing her tormented song, longing to return to the sea she once knew.”

Ava turned to her grandad with a look of disapproval, narrowing her eyes.

“That’s not the story goes, Seanair. She gets to go back to the sea and she lives happily ever after with the seals and brings her family on the land lots of fish. We learned about it in school.”

“Well, sweetie, the thing about stories is they are always changing,” the old man said. “Just like the world around you. The story is yours now, and you have the power to change it. And so will your grandchildren after you. ”

“Well I liked the one Miss MacAulay told us better,” she declared matter-of-factly. “Your one was too sad.”

“You’re right,” he said with a laugh. “It was.”

Ava rose to her feet, then danced across the sand in her wellies. She spun round and round, twirling her litter picker like a baton.

“Come on, the beach isn’t going to clean itself!” she said, offering her grandfather her hand to hoist him up.

On the horizon, a seal poked its head above the water, and watched them intently.