Life in a blog

A red, red rose.

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 22:24:12 +0200

This was meant to be an assignement for a course I'm taking at university, but due to my inability to shut up and limit myself to 300 words (which - let's face it - is nearly impossible) it turned into something I spent far too much time on and I love too much to just click the "delete" button.

I am mentally and physically exhausted.

Sarah looked around before rushing up the stairs that led to Calton Hill, making sure no one had followed her. Not being able to resist she decided to run up the hill. The mere thought of that beautiful view pushed her to sprint the last bit, as if someone was chasing her.
“Three, two, one…”
And there it was.
The wind blew violently in her face, making her eyes tear up immediately, causing her vision to blur. She stood there for a few minutes, not quite knowing where to go or what to do next. It never occurred to her to think about it. When she left home her first instinct was to go to Calton Hill. Now it seems like it might not have been the smartest idea, rushing up Calton Hill alone, in the middle of the night. She didn’t even bring a jumper.
But despite the strong wind and the light drizzle, Sarah didn’t feel cold. Maybe it was the magic of that place, the way she felt safe up here that put an imaginary blanket around her. Maybe it was just the haste of her departure, the shock still sitting so deep in her bones that she couldn’t think quite clearly.
She looked up the Nelson monument, still not knowing where to go. She looked to her right; maybe a quick walk down Regent Walk would calm her down? But Calton Hill was deserted and the Walk looked creepier than ever.
Better not risk it, she thought.
She stumbled towards the National Monument; the darkness made it even more difficult to walk on the uneven grass. She climbed up, like she had seen oh so many tourists do, and stood up.
The view was simply breathtaking. The ocean to the left and Arthur’s Seat to her right; like a queen reigning over the pretty dame that was Edinburgh, always reminding every citizen that this is not just another posh city in Europe, that this had not been built to please tourists. No, this is Edinburgh, this is Scotland.
She decided to sit down, after all she hadn’t eaten all day and her legs started to feel a bit wobbly. She stretched one arm towards the cold stone, not looking where exactly she was placing it and suddenly she found herself with a red rose in her left hand.
How odd, she thought, and looked at the rose.
How odd that just at the moment that she thought of –

A silent giggle came and went with the wind.

Sarah looked around, instantly alarmed. Had she been followed? Is someone watching her? Just as she was about to dismiss the thought she heard it again. It was almost as if… the wind was ridiculing her! But clearly, that can’t be, right? It was probably just some strange bird or a fox or something…

She looked at the rose again.
She tried to listen more carefully for any more strange noises.
But nothing happened.
“Strange” She said to herself.
“What, if ye dae mind me askin, is so strange? An why on earth is a wee lassie like yersel oot here at this late oor?”
Sarah froze on the spot. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t speak but most of all she couldn’t take her eyes off the image in front of her.
“You…”
The ghost looked at her, a big grin on his face.
“You…”
“Ach go on then, ah ken thit ye ken ma name!”
She looked at the rose again.
“My love is like a red, red rose…”
“…That’s newly sprung in June; o my luve’s like a melody that’s sweetly play’d in tune. So the red rose wisna a bad idea then?”
“Robert Burns!”
“Aye, that’s the name I famously go by. Rabbie Burns, Caledonia’s own bard. They always used tae say “Poetry for the smaw fowk? A fermer writin aboot a moose? Incredible!” But leuk at me nou, ma bonnie lass, who’s lauchin nou? I juist wish thae bastarts wis alive tae see it!”
Sarah was still completely startled.
“So… what, do you do this every night? Just appear out of nowhere and scare people?”
“Heivens no! But it wis rather funny, yir face.” Robert sat next to her on the stone, a cheeky smile on his face. He knew that Sarah was still trying to figure out what was going on.
“So… I take it ye want tae become a writer?”
“How do you know that?”
“Ah, Robert Burns has got his means”
She fell dead silent.
“I allou masel tae take that as a yes. May I ask why ye chuise sicna paith?”
“I don’t know… It just always felt natural to me.” She still couldn’t believe that she was talking to a ghost. Robert Burns’s ghost!
“Aye… But I maun wairn ye, ma wee lass, the life of a writer is a dour, if not even a dramatic ane” He looked to Arthur’s Seat. It never failed to remind him of his beautiful land.
“Ye ken… mony a time hiv I looked oot the windae, desperately trying tae feenish a poem and mony a time I sat thare for oors and oors, till the sun disappeared ahint the hills an the caunles went oot. Writing isna just a job, it’s not just whit ye do, it’s whit ye are! If ye’re not certain o it, dinna go intae it.” He fell silent again.
For a while they just sat there, looking out into the dark. Having a ghost sit next to her wasn’t what made this situation surreal for Sarah. It was the scenery.
Far off the city noise, this seemed like a whole different world.
Sarah hesitated before speaking again.
“How… can I be sure?”
“Well…” He moved a bit closer to her.
“Dae ye see thit hill?” He pointed at Arthur’s Seat.
“Yeah?”
“When I look at it, I feel prood tae be Scots, ah feel inspired, ah feel like thare is nae ither sicht I would want tae wake up tae more. When I look at it, it mynds me o the hielands, o the borders an awthing atween. When I look at it, wirds stairt tae form in ma heid, ma haund seeks ah pen, ma fingers stairt tae muive aboot.”
She looked at Arthur’s Seat again, scanning it from top to bottom. That’s the first time she realised how huge it actually is.
“So… An ah say this wi aw my hert: When ye look at it, what do ye feel? If ye feel naething then aey, this isna the place for you. But if ye feel something…”

The next morning Sarah woke up in her own bed, window half open and curtains shut. Had this really just been a dream?
But there it was, right next to her.
Pen, paper, and that red, red rose.

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