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.I went to help him, and togetherwe pushed up the cobwebbed old sash.Cool, sweet air swept in, rich with seasalt and gorse and the heady-scented thyme that was beginning to spread itscushions on the cliff-top turf.Harry leaned his elbows on the sill.He said, slowly, as if to himself,  Bidh ambeithe deagh-bholtrach,urail, dosrach nan càrn.I picked up a tea towel.If Cam was washing up, I would dry and vice versa,a quiet routine we d wordlessly established from his first day here.The oldman s words sang in my head.My memory reached out for their sequel, thoughsurely I d forgotten it.Twenty years or more since Harry had stood me betweenhis knees and read mac Mhaighstir s poetry to me.But something remained.It was as deep in me as the urge to join in withCameron s dance.It was something to do with red-gold light from the west, thepromise it held of longer days, island waters brightening from grey to teal andseal-blue yes, of an t-samhraidh, Gaelic summer, distilled and held safe in apoem like a song.I smiled, took the glass Cam handed me and said,  Ri maoth-bhlàs driùchdCèitein. Wow.What s that?94 www.samhainpublishing.comScrap Metal A poem of Alasdair mac Mhaighstir Alasdair s.Òran an t-Samhraidh, the Song of Summer.He lived on the mainland northwest of here, up atArdnamurchan.I didn t know I remembered.Harry turned a little in the window. You do, though, don t you? Mar ricaoin-dheàrrsadh grèine&  Brùchdadh barraich roi gheugaibh. Aye. Nodding, Harry limped over to a seldom-touched bookshelf in thecorner.He took down a slim blue volume, its cover worn with age and use.Asusual when I d pleased him he was acting like I wasn t there, gesturing with thebook towards Cam. He sucked it up like a wee sponge, laddie that and anyother Gàidhlig I taught to him.Not like his fidgety brother.Nothing stuck in thatlad s head unless it had wheels or wool.Nichol, now he spoke it better thanEnglish by the time he was seven.Well, this beat being the focus of burning scrutiny for my sins.To Cam I wasstill visible, anyway he was watching me intently. Could you? Yes, I think so.But I ve lost it all since.Harry banged the book down onto the table. If ye have, it s for want ofpractice.And running away to stuff your head full of every language but yourown, as if there s any call for one man to know so many tongues.As if there s any call for bloody Gaelic.I bit it back didn t want to lob that handgrenade but other protests rose, resentments I d thought I d set aside. Granda,I d had a job offer from the UN as an interpreter.He stared at me.I d never spelled out for him never intended to the priceI d paid for leaving Edinburgh.What was the point? There d been no choice.Asilence fell, the more dreadful for the sounds of spring twilight drifting throughthe open window.In a calm frame of mind, I d have done anything rather thanwound him, because to my plunging dismay he did look hurt, his weather-www.samhainpublishing.com 95Harper Foxbeaten all-year tan washing to an unhealthy grey.I didn t know how to backdown.Cameron slid the dish he d been rinsing into the rack.He dried his hands ona tea towel, calm and casual, as if the air in the room hadn t been about to catchfire.He came to lean on the sink unit beside me. Really? Which languages?I shrugged.I d heard my ability called a gift, but I d never been able to see itthat way.To me it seemed strange that other people lacked it. Oh, you name it.The usual stuff French, Spanish, Italian.I can manage a couple of EasternEuropeans at a push.And Greek.Russian. Bloody hell. It s not a big deal.I& I wouldn t have taken that UN job anyway.I wasstudying linguistics why languages develop, how they fit together.That s whatinterests me. I m not surprised you lost some of your Gaelic.But I haven t.That was what I wanted to say to Harry.I remember every wordyou taught me, in here with the book and out on the moors and the shore where youpointed to dobhar, the otter, iasg-dearg, the salmon, the eagle iolair whose name youpronounced like the upward yearning of wings oh-lia, oh-lia.I couldn t get my mouth open.Instead I went to the table and sat down.Ikept a couple of chairs between me and Harry, and I let the streaming sunlightblock him out too, a dazzling curtain through my eyelashes.I picked up thebook, fingertips easily finding the place for the Òran. It s probably more mislaid than lost, I said to Cam, not to Harry.Retraction and forgiveness weren t how we dealt with one another.We snarledlike wolves then returned stolidly to our pack life. I couldn t forget thesepoems not when I was taught them so young. Can I have a look?96 www.samhainpublishing.comScrap Metal Yeah, of course.He came and sat next to me, close enough that I could feel his warmth butleaving a safe inch clear for Harry s sake. Which part did you just say? These lines here.It s hard to do justice to them in English, but it s somethinglike the fragrant birch tree is branching over the cairn, damp with soft dew,warm in the sunshine, the fresh young buds on its boughs.Cam ran a finger down the page.I wondered if there was something in hisblood, as there had been in mine, which let him find in the strange words theshapes of familiar things.Animals, sunlight, trees, sea and sky.A language bornwhen there had been little but these things to describe, and tightly bound upwith them still. Will you read it again? Cam asked softly. Yes, sure. There was a feather drifting on the table s surface Clover swork, no doubt, and at some point I d find the rest of the poor bird.I picked it upand trailed the tip of it along the lines as I read, so he could see where I was.Finishing, I drew the feather back lightly, as if by accident over the roots ofhis nails. There.Better in the original, isn t it? Lovely [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]