Dante's Heart
Caitlyn Paxson
The Fiddler
Enthusiasts refer to Aberdeen as the “Sparkling City.” The granite
buildings that populate the city may well sparkle in the sunlight, but if there’s
one thing Scotland is not known for, it’s bright sunny days. And the one
thing greyer than Scotland wrapped up in November fog is granite.
Most of Scotland can take a person’s breath away with its beauty, and I
have never known warmer welcomes than those that received me on the
shores of Loch Ness and the mountains of Skye. But something dark
hangs over Aberdeen. People have since told me that it is the heroin capitol
of the United Kingdom, and I believe them. Above all else it is an oil town,
full of quick burning money, whiskey, and lonely men. My classmates at the
university looked older than their years, haggard from nights of drinking
away the gloom. In short, it was not what I’d crossed an ocean searching for.
And my thwarted longing for romantic adventures was exactly what got me
into trouble.
When I first saw the fiddler turning onto Black Wynde, I followed him. He
carried a bright red fiddle case in his left hand, and the color drew me like a
lure. I don’t know what I expected to accomplish by following him. Perhaps I
hoped he would lead me to a quaint little pub tucked back in some alley
where the poetic youth of Aberdeen met to make music and tell stories.
It didn’t hurt that he was extremely good looking, in a Byronic sort of way.
He passed the bakery and the crumbling stone wall that separates St.
Nicholas Kirk from the road, and walked up some stone steps and into the
graveyard. I considered letting it go and heading home, but all I had waiting
for me was a paper on the Roman occupation of Britain and some instant
noodles, so I trailed after him into the graveyard.
The St. Nicholas Kirk was so old that the gravestones overlapped each
other, and it was impossible to cross the yard without stepping on the dead.
The fiddler stopped at a table tomb that was cracked down the middle and
covered in bright moss. It reminded me the Stone Table from the Narnia
books, but this guy was a far cry from the son of the Lord on High. In fact,
the more I looked at him, the dodgier he looked, with his long scraggly hair
and mismatched buttons.
I was about to go when he opened up his case. Inside was a very beat up
looking fiddle made out of dark, streaky wood. He took it out and began
plucking the strings lightly and turning the tuning pegs. I wondered if it was
proper etiquette to play the fiddle in a graveyard, but they play the
bagpipes at funerals, and the fiddle certainly isn’t any more offensive. I
lingered at a safe distance, pretending to study the gravestones at my feet.
Page 2
The Fiddler
Enthusiasts refer to Aberdeen as the “Sparkling City.” The granite
buildings that populate the city may well sparkle in the sunlight, but if there’s
one thing Scotland is not known for, it’s bright sunny days. And the one
thing greyer than Scotland wrapped up in November fog is granite.
Most of Scotland can take a person’s breath away with its beauty, and I
have never known warmer welcomes than those that received me on the
shores of Loch Ness and the mountains of Skye. But something dark
hangs over Aberdeen. People have since told me that it is the heroin capitol
of the United Kingdom, and I believe them. Above all else it is an oil town,
full of quick burning money, whiskey, and lonely men. My classmates at the
university looked older than their years, haggard from nights of drinking
away the gloom. In short, it was not what I’d crossed an ocean searching for.
And my thwarted longing for romantic adventures was exactly what got me
into trouble.
When I first saw the fiddler turning onto Black Wynde, I followed him. He
carried a bright red fiddle case in his left hand, and the color drew me like a
lure. I don’t know what I expected to accomplish by following him. Perhaps I
hoped he would lead me to a quaint little pub tucked back in some alley
where the poetic youth of Aberdeen met to make music and tell stories.
It didn’t hurt that he was extremely good looking, in a Byronic sort of way.
He passed the bakery and the crumbling stone wall that separates St.
Nicholas Kirk from the road, and walked up some stone steps and into the
graveyard. I considered letting it go and heading home, but all I had waiting
for me was a paper on the Roman occupation of Britain and some instant
noodles, so I trailed after him into the graveyard.
The St. Nicholas Kirk was so old that the gravestones overlapped each
other, and it was impossible to cross the yard without stepping on the dead.
The fiddler stopped at a table tomb that was cracked down the middle and
covered in bright moss. It reminded me the Stone Table from the Narnia
books, but this guy was a far cry from the son of the Lord on High. In fact,
the more I looked at him, the dodgier he looked, with his long scraggly hair
and mismatched buttons.
I was about to go when he opened up his case. Inside was a very beat up
looking fiddle made out of dark, streaky wood. He took it out and began
plucking the strings lightly and turning the tuning pegs. I wondered if it was
proper etiquette to play the fiddle in a graveyard, but they play the
bagpipes at funerals, and the fiddle certainly isn’t any more offensive. I
lingered at a safe distance, pretending to study the gravestones at my feet.
Page 2
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