George Street Multiple

The Burden and the Book

In which Daftie’s soul gets heavy, his rucksack gets heavier, and divine guidance appears in a greasy wrapper.

Before his great epiphany (possibly due to indigestion) Daftie McChristian’s daily routine in Slothburgh was unremarkable. Drag himself, reluctantly, out of bed, the chippie/cafe for breakfast, a bacon bridie, tea with four sugars, stare at the discoloured patch on the wall where a picture once hung. Then he would walk off to the Auld Complaint (his local boozer) where he would engage in theological discussion with men who had probably never seen the inside of a bible since they were kids in Sunday School – but who were very, very sure about what it said. Daftie wasn't a bad bloke. He was just... beige. He was unsure of what he actually believed, only sure that whatever it was it hadn't worked. Something was eating away at him. Not like a Hollywood film of a crisis or demons – not that kind of thing at all. This was more the quiet kind, the kind of repetitive way in which junk mail keeps piling up, or that sound of a dripping tap that one just can't get fixed.

It all changed late one afternoon. Daftie had decided on a fish supper – salt and sauce, naturally. His local chippie, Ye Greasy Covenant, was seen as a sacred establishment in Slothburgh. This wan't for its food (middling), but for the warmth and fryer haze, along with the way in which the staff asked 'Salt and Sauce?', almost in the form of a benediction. It was here that Daftie discovered 'The Book'. It was tucked away behind a menu and a rolled up, ancient, Daily Record. It was nae exactly a book, more a suspiciously laminated pamphlet entitled

'The Wee Guide tae the Holy Loch'
'For weary souls, sore feet. Free with chips or spiritual crisis.'

In Daftie's heid something about it felt important, weighty, It seemed to be calling, nae – challenging, him. He opened it. The first page read:

'Dinnae fear the journey, ye staggering seeker. Cast aff yer burdens, follow the road, and mind the midges.'

He blinked. Was this some sort of joke? Maybe a prank? Perhaps it was a misplaced tract from some weird cult based in Oban. He turned the page.

'The Holy Loch awaits. Not just a loch, but a state o' mind. A place where burdens are dropped, regrets are rinsed, and even Presbyterians smile (briefly).'

His stomach churned, and not from the fish. He was aware of this strange compulsion forming within. He had to go – no, not to the cludgie. He was now determined tae seek out this Holy Loch. This wasn't some sort of belief. Nor was it about any sort of truth. He just knew it was about getting out. Out of Slothburgh. Out of his head – no, nae with booze. Out of the ever present dreich drizzle of meaninglessness.

So, home Daftie went. He had decided. He began to pack everything he thought he might need – spare socks, a second pamphlet he had torn off the wall (just in case the first got soggy), and a full set of regrets. He stuffed everything into his tartan rucksack and stood before the mirror. Now the burden was real. He felt it. Guilt. Fear. That he still, owed Big Stevie a tenner. All of this was pressing down on him. But more than this he felt moved. Stirred. Inspired. Call it whatever you will. He scribbled a quick note and left it on the table
'Gone lookin' fer  a loch. Be back whenever. Mind the cat
Love Daftie'

He didn't have a cat.

So, Daftie began his quest for the Holy Loch. He reached the roundabout on the edge of town, the one with the cracked statue of Jesus, and the bin that was constantly on fire. There was a crooked wooden sign. It read:

'Road to Holy Loch
(Toll = One Soul or Exact Change)'

He adjusted his rucksack, tightened the straps, took a deep breath, and set off along the road. The sky was spitting rain sideways. In a tree a raven watched, and called out ominously. He whispered to himself
'Ach, well, if it's pish I can always come home.'

He didn’t know it yet, but he wouldn’t.

Not for a long while.