[Nine Fragments bi Sandy Fleemin] (In Scots)

IX

anna cross the spaces atween the stars, but the undeid is perfit adapt.”

I noddit my heid at this, “Thay leeve forever, thrives in the mirk, thay’r no feared fae the cauld.”

“Ye’r on the richt road thare,” qo she, “we dinna even hae tae breathe, as lang’s we lie at paece. It’s a kin o suspendit animâtion. An Suphy’s mention o airtifícial bluid, is that no a thocht? But in the vast gowlins whaur the’r nae galaxies, whaur michty craturs flees, that feeds on naething but the energy that bleeds in fae the disjyned cosmos that thay cam fae, thare, the’r nae need for bluid. The’r little licht, an nae warmth, an abuin aa, nae Cranmore haudin a body back. Thae auld anes, thay canna see’d, that vampirism is the salvâtion o humankind an mony anither intelligent species, for that the leevin’ll never win the stars, but in a million year, a thoozand million year, even efter the sun itsel haes passed awa, ther’ll aye be something left o humanity, for that ther’ll aye be the undeid, an the things humankind an aa ither kind haes lairned’ll be keppit tae the end o time, wi the wey vampires, the true vampires that gaes whaur I’m gaun, never chainges.”

I thocht aa this throu, leukin intae her een, a orra cauldness in them richt eneuch despite o the warmth fae the steidy caunle-lowes. “Soonds like ye’r no the same as ither vampires than?”

“I’m a scientist amang vampires,” she sayed. “Suphy wisna a richt biochemist, she controlled biochemistry students; Cranmore wisna a technologist, he gart technologists lowp here an thare like on a dambrod. But I’m a richt astronomer, I can dae my ain thinkin an lift ane or twa new things afore my hairns at last faas tae undeid. We shoud be durkin mair scientists. Write that doun in yer scrieve, for ither vampires tae tak tent.”

I set aa this aby in my thochts, it soondit sic redd. “What’s yer fùll name, bi the wey?” I tried tae soond juist aff-the-luif spierin this, an we’d see wis her name in the Student Directory or no, gin I coud juist git her fùll name afore she thocht tae lee aboot it.

But she kent what I wis aboot, “I can see ye dinna credit my story.”

“I’ll credit it if thon that ye says turns oot richt whan I check up on’t,” sayed I, “that’s whan I’ll credit it.”

“Ye dinna hae tae credit it,” she sayed, “ye juist haes tae write it. But I hae tae awa nou, it’s time I wis awa.”

“What wey can ye no juist pit it aa doun yersel?” this is me.

“It’s like Cranmore lairned me,” qo she, “the leevin’s oor tools.” An at that she up an ran oot the door, the caunles aa blinterin ahint her, syne aa scomfished, sae’s I wis left scrubblin for the doorhaunle in the mirk. The war nae sign o her in the corridors whan I got ootside, nor ootby the front door o the Haa. The sky wis gittin licht an I coud see the war naebody aa up Queens Gairdens, but I ran onywey, I ran aa the road alang Sooth Street an keekit up at St Rules Touer, I ran doun throu the Pends tae the herbor an on up tae the St Mary Kirkheuch, an stuid thare pechin, an leukin aa aboot me for ony sign o her. I keekit up at St Rules Touer again, ower at the castle, an doun at the herbor: an thare, oot on the sea ayont the pier, cam the first bricht keek o the sun.

An that’s aa, juist the sun, an the sea, an the cathedral ruins, an up, faur up in the lift, a straik o white vapour, vainishin awa tae the wast like fae a jet fechter ‘plane oot aerly fae Leuchars airfield.