Cruinneachadh sgeulachdan làidir, brìoghmhor eile bho ùghdar Tocasaid ’Ain Tuirc. Coltach ri sgeulachdan na Tocasaid, a tha a’ togail ceann sa chruinneachadh seo cuideachd, ach lem blas is lem beatha fhèin. Tha feadhainn dhiubh suidhichte ann an Leòdhas san linn a chaidh, agus feadhainn suidhichte ann an àiteachan eile. Ach ge bith càite, eadar Nis agus Nèamh, tha iad uile air an innse ann an guth tarraingeach, dealbhach a tha a’ cur diomb leanaibh an cèill a cheart cho soilleir, fìor ’s a bheir e thugainn aithreachas boireannaich, no fiamh bodaich.
A new bilingual collection of short stories from the author of Tocasaid ’Ain Tuirc, bringing the same sharp wit and observational skill to this evocation of Lewis life and people from last century intertwined with stories situated elsewhere, and giving as authentic a voice to an angry child’s resentment, a woman’s regret or an old man’s fears.
’S ann às a’ Chnoc Àrd ann an Nis a tha Donnchadh MacGillÌosa, an ceann-a-tuath Leòdhais. Seo an ceathramh cruinneachadh de sgeulachdan goirid aige air fhoillseachadh, agus a’ chiad leabhar leis far a bheil a’ Ghàidhlig is a’ Bheurla còmhla, taobh ri taobh.
Duncan Gillies is from Knockaird, in Ness, the northern tip of the Isle of Lewis. Fig Tree is his fourth published collection of short stories and the first book of his in which Gaelic and English appear together, side by side.
You can read a short extract from the book below
Extract from Crann-Fìge/ Fig Tree
The following excerpt is published with permission from Duncan Gillies and Acair Books and should not be downloaded, distributed, or reproduced in any way.
LOCHLANNAICH
A’ dìreadh na bruthaich a bha sinn, bho bhith air a’ chreagach air Èistean-a-Muigh, mi fhìn is Seonaidh bràthair m’ athar. Bhithinn seachd bliadhna deug aig an àm.
Bha ’n oidhch’ a’ tighinn oirnn, ach bha beagan de sholas an latha againn fhathast, chitheadh sinn ar slighe romhainn glè mhath, ’s ar sùilean air cleachdadh air an eadar-sholas. Cha robh dad a chòmhradh a’ tighinn eadarainn, ’s bha clab na mara gu ar cùlaibh, ’s gu ar taobh, agus samh làidir na mara, mar a bha sinn a’ cuairteachadh, le tomhas de dh’fhaiceall, mu Bhlianaisgia, geodha dhorch, dhomhainn. Sinn a-nis a’ coiseachd tarsainn tro na feannagan- taomaidh trom, tomadach a bhiodh ar daoine ag àiteach uaireigin. Am muir mòr gu ar cùlaibh, a’ briseadh mun chreig, a’ bualadh ’s a’ traoghadh, agus corra fhaoileag a’ glaodhaich, a bha fhathast gun an ceann a chur fo a sgiath agus gabhail mu thàmh.
Bha a’ ghrian air a dhol sìos dhan fhairge, agus na dathan fuilteach, dearg a dh’fhàg i air a cùl sgaoilte a-null bho Rubha Robhanais. ’S bha taigh-solais a’ Bhuta Leòdhasaich a’ sadadh a sholais mun cuairt, ’s e ri sguabadh a-steach air feadh ceann-a-tuath Leòdhais, agus an sin a’ triall, agus h-abair triall siùbhlach, cumhachdach, a-mach mu uachdar na mara.
Bha feadhainn dhe na rionnagan air beothachadh ’s iad a’ priobadaich os ar cionn, mar a bha sinn a’ cur cùl ri Èistean. Slat chuilc fhada a’ buiceil nam làimh, ceum bho cheum, a bàrr caol, fada a’ sìneadh a-mach gum chùlaibh, ’s a bun romham. Agus gad math chudaig agam ’s an làimh eile. Esan le a shlait fhèin, ’s le a ghad èisg, mar a bha mi fhìn.
Chithinn baile Chnuic Àird shuas bhuainn, ’s feadhainn dhe na solais am follais, ’s bha sinne nar dà Lochlannach, bhuail sin thugam gu làidir, agus sinn sàmhach a’ coiseachd faisg dha chèile. Mar gun robh sinn air a bhith ann an seo bho riamh. Mar nach robh athadh oirnn ro dhuine. Fios againn nach robh duine coltach ruinn, ’s nach toirte seo bhuainn gu bràth, an seòrsa gnè a bh’ annainn.
’S bha Seonaidh bràthair m’ athar air a bhith ceithir bliadhna na phrìosanach sa Ghearmailt. A’ fannachadh ’s a’ fanntaigeadh leis na bh’ orra dhen acras rè làithean fuara, neimheil, agus aca ri bhith buain mhònach, goile caol ac’, ’s gun tròcair a’ dol len anail o mhadainn gu fheasgar. A’ mhòinteach chùbhraidh aca fhèin na mìltean mòr’ air falbh.
’S bha mise fhathast nam bhalach-sgoile, ’s bha ar saors’ againn, nar dithis, agus làn shaorsainn, ’s bha ’n dàrna duine cho math ris an duin’ eile.
Bha ar dachaighean romhainn, agus an t-iasg a thog sinn às a’ chuan ag iarraidh sgoltadh. ’S na h-adhaichean gu bhith cho milis. A thàl sinn a-steach thugainn chun na creig le bhith a’ sadadh a-mach làn ar cròig a sgrum thuca. Na feusgain bheaga, dhubh-ghorm a tharmaich air a’ chreig, agus sinne gam pronnadh le cloich, ’s gan tilgeil a-mach nam fras.
Bha cladach Ghreòdaibhic tuath oirnn.
Agus Sanntaigia deas oirnn, olbhagan mòr’ sa chladach sin, is mol, agus, nas fhaide a-mach, grunnd soilleir gainmhich fon t-sàl.
Agus Sìoltaigia deas oirnn, geodha chaol dhomhainn, sgor fhada, sgor chumhang. Agus am muir, nuair a bhios an lìonadh ann, a’ dol às a chiall a’ feuchainn ri faighinn a-steach innte gu a fìor cheann-a-staigh.
B’ ao-coltach sin ruinne, an oidhch’ ud, agus sinn a’ gabhail suas romhainn air ar socair.
NORSEMEN
We made our way up the rise, my uncle John and I, a steep climb from the fishing-ledge of Èistean-a-muigh, ‘the outer Èistean’. I’d have been seventeen at the time.
Night was almost upon us, we had just enough daylight, we could see our way forward, our eyes having accustomed to the twilight. We hardly talked at all, and the thump of the sea was behind us and to the side of us, and the strong smell of the sea as we made our way with some care around Blianaisgia, a deep, dark inlet.
Then we were traversing the old lazy-bed cultivations, heavy undulations in the land, which our people had once worked. The sea at our back, breaking against the cliffs, bashing against the rocks and pouring off them. Now and again a seagull calling, that had yet to tuck its head under its wing and settle into sleep.
The sun had sunk into the ocean, leaving behind a blood-red sky spread out across Rubha Robhanais. And the Butt of Lewis lighthouse was throwing its light all around, sweeping across the north of Lewis, then travelling out powerfully across the surface of the sea.
Some of the stars had quickened into life, and they glittered above us as we left Èistean behind us. A long bamboo rod bouncing in my grasp at every step, its long tapering end stretching behind me, and a string of young coalfish in my other hand. And he had his rod and his catch of fish, just like myself.
I could see the village of Knockaird up ahead, some of its lights visible. And we were two Norsemen, I felt that strongly as we walked side by side, without talking. As if we’d been here forever and always. As if we feared no-one. Feeling ourselves to be just where we were, and that it could never be taken from us.
My uncle John had been for four years a prisoner of war in Germany. Collapsing and fainting from hunger. On bitterly cold days cutting peat out of the bog, on an empty stomach, next to no sustenance passing their lips from morning till evening. Their own beloved moorland a long, long way off.
I was still a schoolboy, and we were free, both of us, and at our ease, and neither man was better than the other.
Our homes awaited us, the fish which we’d plucked out of the sea would need gutting. The livers so sweet, the fish themselves so sweet. Which we’d enticed in close to the rock by throwing out handfuls of crushed mussels. Small dark-blue mussels that had grown in close clusters on the rock beside us. We’d bash them with a stone and throw them out in little showers.
The cove Greodaibhic was just north of us.
And Sanndaigia was south of us, great boulders in that shore and foreshore, and shingle, and, further out, a luminous stretch of sand underwater.
And Sìoltaigia south of us, a deep, narrow geo, a long fissure, a rift. The sea, at flow-tide, in a turmoil as it strives madly to enter it all the way into its innermost end.
Unlike us, this particular night, as we walked homeward at a steady pace.