A friend of a friend, speaking with great affection, once mentioned that she knew George Mackay Brown. Living on Orkney, she published a small journal, and on occasion George would tread a wayward path from his home to her office, neglecting none of the public houses in between, incurring local opprobrium en route. I often imagined that journey, then came across this story. Serendipity…
An old man leaves his house on a dark winter night. Snow is starting. He is somewhat bemused to find himself doing this. As the weather thickens, he is joined by another, known to him by long acquaintance. They walk arm in arm with no light to guide them. They make conversation, they share memories, somewhat baffled by the situation in which they find themselves. As the snow deepens and the sky turns to a blizzard, they encounter a third old man, out with his fiddle. He knows not why. He takes an arm, joins them, and they stumble together, amiable and seemingly directionless. For a moment the sky clears and is lit by a single star. Then darkness engulfs them again and they shamble on in snow become too deep for footprints, bumping into fences and posts they were unable to apprehend, until they recognise the sound of their local inn. A youngster appears and seems to be leading them towards it, but as they draw near they find themselves instead being taken to the stable behind, where they perceive a tiny glimmer of light.
And that’s all – I’ve almost given it away. Except that this is a story of the most luminous beauty, impossible to recreate in language other than its own. Please find your way to it. Imagine you’re amongst the Magi.
Published in The Tablet, 1991, then in the collection George Mackay Brown, Winter Tales, London: John Murray Ltd, 1995, subsequently in The Penguin Book of the British Short Story, Penguin Random House UK, 2015
A Personal Anthology 