Scots terms
Yeeted – Not a Scottish term, but just in case you don’t know. Means thrown.
Glen – a mainly Scottish word for a valley through hills and mountains. There’s quite a few places with this in the name in Scotland.
Bairn – child
Script
I finally managed to find that book. The one I was flipping through before Chronos and I got yeeted to the Bronze age to visit the original Madam Anora. It’d disappeared by the time I got back, even though I’d put it in my reading spot before falling through time. Outlander made it look a lot more fun, by the way.
I’ve been casually looking for it ever since, but as I said before, books are never where they’re supposed to be in the shop. This time it was on top of a hatbox which was on top of one of the larger wardrobes. No hat in the box either, just odd gloves and socks that took great pleasure in snowing down on me when I lost my grip on the edge.
After picking up someone else’s laundry, I squirreled away with the book again. I was half-expecting to open the first page and find something completely different to before. For the temple to have transformed into another foreign landscape. I think I was almost disappointed that it hadn’t. The girl wasn’t in the temple though, the one from the cover with the red hair and tendency to move about.
The temple remained the same, with colourful frescoes of heroes of legend, epic battles, and beautiful romances. If I looked hard enough at the shrines to the various deities of this land, I could’ve sworn there were more offerings at the foot of the carved bust’s than there had been the last time I’d looked. Over the page was the city encircled by a river. The lanterns still lit and twinkling against the backdrop of a night sky, reflecting from the tiled rooves of red and purple. The girl wasn’t on top of the waterfall or on the bridge or in the cobbled streets. Had I imagined her?
I flipped back to the cover. She was still on that, at least. Maybe I’d just imagined her on the paper itself, in the 3-D world that climbed from the book. I flipped a few pages on until I found the place where I’d been before. Only this time there was a story box in the corner. I turned back to the previous page to confirm I’d not just missed them before. I hadn’t.
The page where the text began was of a forest, each paper tree cut and coloured to show the scarlet red and warm amber of the leaves as they shimmered in an imaginary autumnal breeze. This wasn’t a forest like you think, all green and brown and mud. This was colourful and vibrant, fantastical, and impossible to see on this earth. The trunks of the trees were silver or pure white, like perfectly clean silver birch. Some were tall and thin, swaying into each other, branches around branches, close enough for the squirrel-like creatures to walk between them rather than jump. Leaves weren’t the green of spring and summer, or even the yellow of autumn, but bright crimson, the colour of sunrise or sunset. Occasionally, amongst the sea of red, there’s a burst of ochre or orange, vibrant and shocking, like an ink smudge on paper. The ground isn’t covered in moss, or mulch, or mud, but the discarded leaves that flutter down, dislodged by the wind to fall and create a blanket of red.
Amongst the trees, the fluttering leaves, and strange forest creatures, was the red-haired lassie from the cover. One moment she peeked from behind one of the larger silver trunks, the next her legs were dangling from a branch, her hand about to catch one of the falling leaves. My eyes danced over to the story, neatly printed in a fancy box at the 2D edges of the three-dimensional forest.
I’m trapped in this forest, the text reads, help me.
I look at the lassie, now sitting cross-legged on the forest floor amongst the red and yellow leaves, holding one in her hand by its delicate stem. She’s small amongst the trees, but for a fleeting moment I think her eyes look up at me, into me, through me. There’s no other text on this page, no story, no reason.
I continue, turning over the page. I’m near the end of this book now, not many scenes to go. This one is of a snowy glen, a frozen river winding through sloping white hills. In the distance there’s mountains, steep and craggy, their white tops piercing through clouds that try to blanket their peaks. Everything is covered in white, the fir trees in the valley, the hills at either side of the frozen river. If I ran my fingers across the paper cutouts I felt as though they’d come back wet from where the snow had melted on my fingertips. I didn’t know how someone could get a 2D image to look so real.
On one of the hills, one of the shallower slopes, was a shock of red, sketched into the shape of a person. The lassie was the only thing that wasn’t white or grey. She had a red coat on, crimson, clashing with the orange of her hair. I could see the tops of her green wellies poking out from the snow, which held her up to her ankles. Her path is carved through the snow, winding up from the river. She’s not looking at me this time, but straight up the hill, towards a peak that I can’t see. There’s a text box on this page.
I didn’t deserve this fate, it continues, help me.
When I look back to where the lassie should be, she’s gone. No red against a white background, no footsteps through the snow. I would’ve thought I’d imagined her if I hadn’t seen her red jacket hanging from a branch of a nearby tree.
I turn the page. The last page. It sprawls out in front of me, and rather than the moat, the drawbridge, the ramparts, and turrets, I’m looking for this red-haired lassie. I look along the walls of this fortress, cast in grey stone, flags of every colour streaming like ribbons in the wind. You can fold down the wall to see inside the grand courtyard, the horses in the stables, the carriages, carts in the midst of being unloaded, yet the place is empty. There’s not a soul in sight, just like every other page.
I scour the courtyard, in every glass window of the castle behind, at the top of every turret and rampart. I eventually find her on the stairs up to the main door of the keep. The door behind her is painted in royal blue, a foreign and unknown coat of arms carefully drawn. She looks small in comparison to the rest, a drop in the ocean. She’s been the only constant, the only thread joining all these wonderful scenes. She’s never mentioned. There’s been no story, no background, no setup. All these strange places, and nothing about them, nothing about who she is, how she skips from page to page, scene to scene, except for vague text boxes.
There’s one on this page as well, just like the ones before.
Sign your name and you can help me, it reads.
I look for the place it means, the blank line that usually beckons for a signature. I didn’t find one. I then turned over to the last page, the one where the credits would be or an advert for another book. The inside of the back cover. There’s none of what you’d expect on this page. There’s no advert, no about the author section with their best modelling face at the top, or personal information no reader really gives a shite about.
On the final page of this book there’s a text box, bigger than the previous, that says:
This book belongs to…
And the blank line where a name should go, where a bairn would scribble in crayon a word that looks like their name should. I didn’t have a crayon.
Now, I know what you must be thinking. No sane person signs their name not knowing what’s going to happen. For all I knew, this lassie could be a demon and by signing my name I was agreeing to be tortured for the rest of eternity. Or if I put my name in this book I might swap places with her, trapped in this 2D world of wonder.
It’s strange, though, how none of those thoughts really crossed my mind at the time. I just wanted to see what happened. I didn’t need to find a pen. Absently I was tracing my hand across the line when an “M” appeared in red ink. I inspected my finger and saw no pinprick, no wound that would indicate it was my blood. I kept going, tracing the rest of the letters, curling the “y” to join the “a” at the end.
And then I waited.
I don’t know how long it took, but it wasn’t instant like I’d been imagining. The book began to get cold, freezing almost, like you’ve held ice cream in your hands for too long. My hands began to get sore, almost like an ice burn, and eventually I had to throw it on the ground a few feet away, inspecting my hands for damage.
The pages began to flip open and closed, flitting between red and orange forests, to snowy landscapes, to spectacular waterfalls. Back and forth, jumping around until I felt like the pieces of paper that made up this wonderful world would collapse in on themselves.
Eventually it closed, snapped shut with an angry click, as though locking away the contents. I saw a pair of wellies behind the book, standing in the aisle of the shop, flanked by the typewriter box and carved coffee table. I dragged my eyes up, past the green wellies, the black tights, and the velvet green dress, to the shocking mop of orange hair sprouting from her head.
She was smiling at me and began to stretch like Chronos did after he’d had a nap. I was frozen. I mean what else are you supposed to do when the person you’ve been following page after page suddenly jumps out of their own book?
After she was finished, she pinned me with a stare. She said I was smaller than she’d imagined. Her forest green gaze began to roam around the shop, just like any other customer, except she wasn’t any other customer. She looked human. She smelled like pine. As to anything else, that was anyone’s guess.
Mystery lassie thanked me for releasing her from her prison. The book, she informed me, was made by a tricky person many decades ago who’d sought to punish her by trapping her inside, where she could do no more harm. She claimed said harm wasn’t her fault.
I asked for her name. She refused to give it to me.
That’s what got her in trouble in the first place, she claimed. If I knew her name, I could trap her in the book once again, because I was the owner of it now. I’d signed my name. Thanks to me, she had her freedom once again. I began to think that wasn’t a good thing.
Why does anyone go to so much trouble to put someone in prison? Because they’re dangerous. And I’d just let that dangerous someone out.
Shite.
I could tell by the way her mouth twisted into a grin, showing all her teeth in a predatory way, that she sensed I knew my mistake. Happily, she reminded me that without her name, I couldn’t do anything. And to prevent me from cheating I wasn’t allowed to ask anyone about the book. I got the sense she knew about the shop, where she was, and who was in charge. Madam Norna knows about everything, she would know about the book.
And I couldn’t ask.
I didn’t realise this at the time, but that ginger bitch had cast some kind of spell on me. I physically can’t tell anyone about the book. Whenever I go to mention it, even in passing, I say something else entirely. No one in the shop knows. I’m surprised I’ve got through this diary entry.
She didn’t stick around for long after she cursed me to never mention the book or her. And there was nothing I could do to stop her. After she was gone, I scrambled over to the book that lay discarded on the floor. The cover was still intact, the waterfall overlooking the multicoloured rooved city. Except there was something missing. The lassie on the front cover, the one with the ginger hair, was gone.
The book wouldn’t open, no matter how hard I tried to pry the pages apart. Perhaps the prison only opened when someone was inside.
I’ve tried to show anyone the book, but whenever I’m about to hold it up, the cover changes. Illustrated Shakespeare, a Workwoman’s Guide to Clothing, a dictionary of dead languages.
So, I’m not feeling great about this one. That lassie has me nervous, but don’t think I’ve given up. Somehow, I’ll find her name, and I’ll put her straight back in that book. I just hope she doesn’t do too much damage whilst I’m trying to figure this out.
Script – Scots
I finally managed tae find that book. Ye know the one I was flippin’ through before Chronos and I got yeeted tae the bronze age tae visit the original Madam Anora. It’d disappeared by the time I got back, even though I’d put it in my reading spot before fallin’ through time. Outlander made it look a lot more fun, by the way.
I’ve been casually lookin’ fae it ever since, but as I said before, books are never where they’re supposed tae be in the shop. This time it was on top ae a hatbox which was on top ae one of the larger wardrobes. No hat in the box either, just odd gloves and socks that took great pleasure in snowin’ doon on me when I lost ma grip on the edge.
After pickin’ up someone else’s laundry, I squirreled away wi’ the book again. I was half-expectin’ tae open the first page and find somethin’ completely different tae before. Fae the temple tae have transformed intae another foreign landscape. I think I was almost disappointed that it hadnae. The girl wasnae in the temple though, the one frae the cover wi’ the red hair and tendency tae move aboot.
The temple remained the same, wi colourful frescoes ae heroes ae legend, epic battles, and beautiful romances. If I looked hard enough at the shrines tae the various deities ae this land, I couldae sworn there were more offerins at the foot ae the carved bust’s than there had been the last time I’d looked. Over the page was the city encircled by a river. The lanterns still lit and twinkling against the backdrop ae a night sky, reflectin’ frae the tiled rooves ae red and purple. The girl wasnae on top ae the waterfall, or on the bridge, or in the cobbled streets. Had I imagined her?
I flipped back tae the cover. She was still on that, at least. Maybe I’d just imagined her on the paper itself, in the 3-D world that climbed frae the book. I flipped a few pages on until I found the place where I’d been before. Only this time there was a story box in the corner. I turned back tae the previous page tae confirm I’d no just missed them before. I hadnae.
The page where the text began was ae a forest, each paper tree cut and coloured tae show the scarlet red and warm amber ae the leaves as they shimmered in an imaginary autumnal breeze. This wasnae a forest like ye think, all green and brown and mud. This was colourful and vibrant, fantastical and impossible tae see on this earth. The trunks ae the trees were silver or pure white, like perfectly clean silver birch. Some were tall and thin, swayin’ intae each other, branches aroond branches, close enough fae the squirrel like creatures tae walk between them rather than jump. Leaves werenae the green ae spring and summer, or even the yellow ae autumn, but bright crimson, the colour ae sunrise or sunset. Occasionally, amongst the sea ae red, there’s a burst ae yellow or orange, vibrant and shocking, like an ink smudge on paper. The ground isnae covered in moss, or mulch, or mud, but the discarded leaves that flutter doon, dislodged by the wind tae fall and create a blanket ae red.
Amongst the trees, the fluttering leaves, and strange forest creatures, was the red-haired lassie frae the cover. One moment she peeked frae behind one ae the larger silver trunks, the next her legs were dangling frae a branch, her hand aboot tae catch one ae the fallin’ leaves. Ma eyes danced over tae the story, neatly printed in a fancy box at the 2D edges ae the three-dimensional forest.
I’m trapped in this forest, the text reads, help me.
I look at the lassie, noo sitting cross legged on the forest floor amongst the red and yellow leaves, holding one in her hand by its delicate stem. She’s small amongst the trees, but fae a fleeting moment I think her eyes look up at me, intae me, through me. There’s no other text on this page, no story, no reason.
I continue, turnin’ over the page. I’m near the end ae this book noo, no many scenes tae go. This one is ae a snowy glen, a frozen river winding through sloping white hills. In the distance there’s mountains, steep and craggy, their white tops piercing through clouds that try tae blanket their peaks. Everythin’ is covered in white, the fir trees in the valley, the hills at either side ae the frozen river. If I ran ma fingers across the paper cutouts I felt as though they’d come back wet frae where the snow had melted on ma fingertips. I didnae know how someone could get a 2D image tae look so real.
On one ae the hills, one ae the shallower slopes, was a shock ae red, sketched intae the shape ae a person. The lassie was the only ‘hing that wasnae white or grey. She had a red coat on, crimson, clashin’ wi the orange ae her hair. I could see the tops ae her green wellies pokin’ oot frae the snow, which held her up tae her ankles. Her path is carved through the snow, windin’ up frae the river. She’s no lookin’ at me this time, but straight up the hill, towards a peak that I cannae see. There’s a text box on this page.
I didn’t deserve this fate, it continues, help me.
When I look back tae where the lassie should be, she’s gone. No red against a white background, no footsteps through the snow. I wouldae thought I’d imagined her if I hadnae seen her red jacket hangin’ frae a branch ae a nearby tree.
I turn the page. The last page. It sprawls oot in front ae me, and rather than the moat, the drawbridge, the ramparts, and turrets, I’m lookin’ fae this red-haired lassie. I look along the walls ae this fortress, cast in grey stone, flags ae every colour streamin’ like ribbons in the wind. Ye can fold doon’ the wall tae see inside the grand courtyard, the horses in the stables, the carriages and carts in the midst ae bein unloaded, yet the place is empty. There’s no a soul in sight, just like every other page.
I scour the courtyard, in every glass windae ae the castle behind, at the top ae every turret and rampart. I eventually find her on the stairs up tae the main door ae the keep. The door behind her is painted in royal blue, a foreign and unknown coat ae arms carefully drawn. She looks small in comparison tae the rest, a drop in the ocean. She’s been the only constant, the only thread joinin’ all ae these wonderful scenes. She’s never mentioned. There’s been no story, no background, no setup. All ae these strange places, and nothin’ aboot them, nothin’ aboot who she is, how she skips frae page tae page, scene tae scene, except fae vague text boxes.
There’s one on this page as well, just like the ones before.
Sign your name, and you can help me, it reads.
I look fae the place it means, the blank line that usually beckons fae a signature. I didnae find one. I then turned over tae the last page, the one where the credits would be, or an advert fae another book. The inside ae the back cover. There’s none ae what you’d expect on this page. There’s no advert, no aboot the author section wi’ their best modelling face at the top, or personal information no reader really gees’ a shite aboot.
On the final page ae this book there’s a text box, bigger than the previous, that says:
This book belongs to…
And the blank line where a name should go, where a bairn would scribble in crayon a word that looks like their name should. I didnae have a crayon.
Noo, I know whit ye must be ‘hinkin. No sane person signs their name no knowin’ whit’s gonnae happen. Fae all I knew, this lassie could be a demon, and by signin’ ma name I was agreein’ tae be tortured fae the rest ae eternity. Or if I put ma name in this book I might swap places wi her, trapped in this 2D world ae wonder.
It’s strange, though, how none ae those thoughts really crossed ma mind at the time. I just wanted tae see whit happened. I didnae need tae find a pen. Absently I was tracin’ ma hand across the line when an “M” appeared in red ink. I inspected ma finger and saw no pinprick, no wound that would indicate it was ma blood. I kept goin’, tracin the rest ae the letters, curlin’ the “y” tae join the “a” at the end.
And then I waited.
I dinnae know how long it took, but it wasnae instant like I’d been imagining. The book began tae get cold, freezin’ almost, like you’ve held ice cream in your hands fae too long. Ma hands began tae get sore, almost like an ice burn, and eventually I had tae throw it on the ground a few feet away, inspectin’ ma hands fae damage.
The pages began tae flip open and closed, flittin’ between red and orange forests, tae snowy landscapes, tae spectacular waterfalls. Back and forth, jumpin’ roond until I felt like the pieces ae paper that made up this wonderful world would collapse in on themselves.
Eventually it closed, snapped shut wi’ an angry click, as though lockin’ away the contents. I saw a pair ae wellies behind the book, standin’ in the aisle ae the shop, flanked by the typewriter box and carved coffee table. I dragged ma eyes up, past the green wellies, the black tights, and the velvet green dress, tae the shocking mop ae orange hair sproutin’ frae her heid.
She was smilin’ at me, and began tae stretch like Chronos did after he’d had a nap. I was frozen. I mean whit else are ye supposed tae do when the person you’ve been followin’ page after page suddenly jumps oot their own book?
After she was finished, she pinned me wi a stare. She said I was smaller than she’d imagined. Her forest green gaze began tae roam roond the shop, just like any other customer, except she wasnae any other customer. She looked human. She smelled like pine. As tae anythin’ else, that was anyone’s guess.
Mystery lassie thanked me fae releasin’ her frae her prison. The book, she informed me, was made by a tricky person many decades ago who’d sought tae punish her by trappin’ her inside, where she could do no more harm. She claimed said harm wasnae her fault.
I asked fae her name. She refused tae gee it tae me.
That’s what got her in trouble in the first place, she claimed. If I knew her name, I could trap her in the book once again, because I was the owner ae it noo. I’d signed ma name. Thanks tae me, she had her freedom once again. I began tae ‘hink that wasnae a good ‘hing.
Why does anyone go tae so much trouble tae put someone in prison? Because they’re dangerous. And I’d just let that dangerous someone oot.
Shite.
I could tell by the way her mouth twisted intae a grin, showin’ all ae her teeth in a predatory way, that she sensed I knew ma mistake. Happily, she reminded me that withoot her name, I couldnae do anythin’. And tae prevent me frae cheatin’ I wasnae allowed tae ask anyone aboot the book. I got the sense she knew aboot the shop, where she was, and who was in charge. Madam Norna knows aboot everythin’, she would know aboot the book.
And I couldnae ask.
I didnae realise this at the time, but that ginger bitch had cast some kind ae spell on me. I physically cannae tell anyone aboot the book. Whenever I go tae mention it, even in passin, I say somethin’ else entirely. No one in the shop knows. I’m surprised I’ve got through this diary entry.
She didnae stick roond fae long after she cursed me tae never mention the book, or her. And there was nothin’ I could do tae stop her. After she was gone I scrambled over tae the book that lay discarded on the floor. The cover was still intact, the waterfall overlooking the multicoloured rooved city. Except there was somethin’ missin. The lassie on the front cover, the one wi’ the ginger hair, was gone.
The book wouldnae open, no matter how hard I tried tae pry the pages apart. Perhaps the prison only opened when someone was inside.
I’ve tried tae show anyone the book, but whenever I’m aboot tae hold it up, the cover changes. Illustrated Shakespeare, a workwoman’s guide tae clothin’, a dictionary ae deid languages.
So I’m no feelin’ great aboot this one. That lassie has me nervous, but dinnae ‘hink I’ve geein’ up. Somehow, I’ll find her name, and I’ll put her straight back in that book. I just hope she doesnae do too much damage whilst I’m tryin’ tae figure this oot.