New Scriptorium: Anthology

N E W S C R I P T O R I U M

A N T H O L O G Y

U n i v e r s i t y o f D u n d e e C r e a t i v e W r i t i n g

Title: New Scriptorium: Anthology

Author(s): Johanna Linsley (editor), Roshni Baillie, James Cano, Flora Colton, Abby Grub, Chelsey Hahmann, Aly Reed Jamieson, Lara Luyts, James McLeish,

Catriona Pritchard

School: Humanities, Social Sciences and Law

Publication date: 29 May, 2024

Document version: Final published version

DOI: https://doi.org/10.20933/100001308

International Attribution (CC BY-NC-ND). To view license, visit: License: Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 4.0

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Citation for this version: Linsley, J. (Ed.) (2024). New Scriptorium: anthology. University of Dundee. https://doi.org/10.20933/100001308

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Acknowledgments

This Anthology is a project of the Creative Writing programme at the University of Dundee in partnership with the New Scriptorium, an artist-designed and -built structure on the grounds of Arbroath Abbey. The New Scriptorium came about to celebrate the 700th anniversary of the declaration of Arbroath and was organised by partners in Arbroath, including the Arbroath 2020 community committee and Hospitalfield House. It imagines the Abbey when it was a busy working environment with a library or scriptorium at its heart.

This Anthology was produced with the support of the Division of Humanities at the University of Dundee.

Special thanks to Cicely Farrer (Hospitalfield), Blythe Stockdale (Arbroath 2020) and the wonderful visitor services staff at Arbroath Abbey.

Cover image: Bobby Niven, 2023

Introduction

For two weeks in November 2023, a group of nine Creative Writing students from the University of Dundee had the opportunity to be writers-in-residence at the New Scriptorium on the grounds of Arbroath Abbey. Taking on the role of creative researchers, the students were asked to consider the relationship between site and writing, which could include (but was not limited to) a relationship to community, environment, architecture, historical narrative or speculative futures. The responses that emerged – in prose, poetry and dramatic writing –prove the inventive potential of this approach. Within the Anthology, we find the cramped hand of an unnamed medieval monk copying out manuscripts, an imagined conversation between Samuel Johnson and James Boswell on visiting the Arbroath in the 18th century, traces of the Abbey’s red stones that can be seen throughout the built environment of Arbroath today, and reflections on the New Scriptorium itself. These writers celebrate a profound intertwining of language and location – we invite you to join them!

-- Johanna Linsley, Programme Lead for English, Creative Writing and Film, University of Dundee

Holy Roshni Baillie

Genesis 3:22

“The man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil”

red brick toes stretch, stained glass yawns, comfortably nestled on the lush green below.

His place is firm, overpowering, home to those lucky enough to taste the flesh of the fruit of knowledge.

Matthew 14:17

“’We have here only five loaves of bread and two fish,’ they answered”

ravenous waves lick the boats, fast, rough, wet, desperate, they tear at their intruders.

nettle-hemp lowers as a head bows towards the water. a poor day for fish, but a child can go hungry knowing that their plot has been bought in heaven.

the refectory buzzed with life.

Job 36:22

“God is exalted in his power ” matchbox houses quake

under the eye of the lancet windows.

inhabitants move quietly, barefooted on cold ground, efforts in vain.

they were told that He sees all. they were told to repent. they were told what would happen if they did not.

Job 1:21

“The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away; may the name of the Lord be praised”

praise Him who you do not know (or see or hear), praise Him who you do not feel when you clutch your child to your breast and you cry and bargain and beg and you think about what you did wrong, what you did, what action you took to deserve this punishment.

drop to your tender knees, belong to Him, and leave your tithe, sticky with blood, at the altar.

praise Him trust Him love Him for the chance of a peaceful death.

“’I don’t know’, he replied. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’”

the people cannot eat.

the people are cold and hungry and dirty and sick. what shall we do, my Lord?

2 Chronicles 7:5

“So the king and all the people dedicated the temple of God” in snowstorms of psalms, they worked as no others could. the bells sounded at two, the chapel opening in a father’s embrace, His blood alive in each finely tracing finger, in each utterance.

majesty and solitude, safety and isolation, welcomed by those who took care of their God; whose Lord cared for them in return. long may the gatehouse stand amen.

Genesis 13:16

“I will make your offspring like the dust of the earth, so that if anyone could count the dust, then your offspring could be counted”

peeled red paint frames dorothy perkins. zippo promises to perform a miracle.

the sea kisses the sky, who ignites with passion.

Deus in Terra James Cano

Two generations passed. It wasn’t until the lion led his final assault on the red earth that our Father came to rest in His own house, no longer a guest lurking in lancets or rolling underfoot with the mist. His presence became our daily bread, His steady voice our heartbeat. For centuries, He coaxed golden melodies from the dawn, conducting the clouds in harmonies and moulding their shapes into powder puff arpeggios. Even on mornings when the sea swallowed the sun, our Father sang with the rain and the wind and the roar of the tide, bellowing baritone promises to white-sailed ships in the harbour. In those days, our Father’s house was a castle, a temple, a pantheon. But as the sun set, crimson trailing after the descent of that golden globe, our Father left His house, fleeing from his fortress, flitting between the roofs of the people beyond the gate. Without Him, His castle crumbled, picked apart by His many sons. The body decayed as all flesh does, leaving a skeleton’s cage, several ribs missing, all of them given to Man in his pursuit of progress.

My brothers do not agree on where our Father dwells, now that His golden mansion has become a threadbare mausoleum. Some say He rests in the littlest bits of gold, the flecks of the iris, the drip of honeycomb.

Others say He rests in the grandest houses, content only with ornate tabernacles, kept alive by the weight of golden tongues. They bicker back and forth, my brothers, quarrelling about our Father as if He cannot hear them. ‘Where has He gone? Why does He hide? My Father, not yours, it is He whom we seek!’

I know it hardly matters. I know Our Father is wherever you never look to find Him, in the dusty corners between all those golden spaces, floating on the sea foam. He offers my brothers and I a drink with the same hands that shaved our heads; He queues up for pies in the afternoon, framed in the wide window by white and black linoleum. He exists much as He always did, in dewdrops and birdsong, in the brushing of fingers on cloth and the crunch of leaves underfoot. We just do not think to see Him until He has already gone.

Perhaps it was easier, in our Father’s house. We used to cower before Him when He spoke to us with rod and fire, anointing us with oil and blood. We were smaller, simpler creatures then, and we could not read the word until it was made flesh, carved and burned into us, into our walls, into the ground. Our Father spoke to us in the language of craftsmen and kings, called for us through stone and water, in impossible ways, but I always understood Him best when He spoke with the voice of my brothers. He revealed himself to me in a series of secret whispers, bouncing between soul and body like divine firefly light. I knew our Father best in the stillness

of those quiet, careful breaths, passed from man to man like well-worn scripture. We never thought to write those moments down, but how could we? There would not have been enough paper and ink to transcribe such sacred exchanges.

I know it hardly matters. Once proud, resolute, impenetrable, my Father’s house now stands at attention like a crippled soldier, jaw set against the coastal wind, decorated in medals that do little to replace its stolen limbs. Like a Host dissolved in wine, the golden hour has long since faded, and my brother’s voices sound less like words and more like the crying of circling gulls.

I am alone, listening to rain and wind in their endless conversation, betting to see who can better batter the roof and shake the walls. Despite their torrential squabble, the regal ‘O’ stands proud against a chalky skyline, a portal both open and shut. Rabbits dart between red and green, happy to burrow beneath graves, as they do in every city. The small window, the golden one, faces southeast, looking past the low hedge to watch the taillights of cars blur between raindrops. Our Father may yet reside in the ochre of the frame, or perhaps in the desk lamp that matches, but he cares not for the collage of old and new, of abbey and town, of gasoline and garish green. I wonder if the hum of modernity speaks the language of ancients, underneath all that chugging and muttering. I wonder if

anyone else thinks of salvation when they look at the ruins of savage men.

Eremite Flora Colton

Writer’s Statement

At 10am, the door opens. A kind staff member smiles, greets me, and asks if I’ve visited Arbroath Abbey before. I grew up over one hundred miles away, in the Scottish Borders, so my ignorance of the local history makes me nervous, but my curiosity to learn is what drives me. I smile and say this is my first time ever having visited Arbroath, let alone the abbey. I’m handed the key to The New Scriptorium. I jumped at the chance to apply for the residency, and for an introverted extrovert (depending on the company), I couldn’t have thought of anything better than spending the day to myself writing and reading on Arbroath’s history. While one part of me brims with curiosity in a new environment, another part of me understands that loneliness and isolation is great for creativity. But I can’t help but feel a lump in my throat as I walk through the ivy-embraced iron gates –isolation and loneliness is a bit too familiar for me. And before my little brain can absorb so much of the rich history of the abbey, writerly imagination takes over and memory creeps in. Observations of history and fact melt into fiction. By the end of the day, I am inspired, I’m fascinated and I’ve come away with fresh perspective. My views towards isolation and time alone are no longer

the grey areas and complexities faced in relation towards places and spaces seem more apparent than ever. Some aspects of the Abbey’s history exude fun, community spirit, musicality and a wholesome community. Other parts bring about empathy and sadness. This has inspired me to begin to develop a ficitional piece on these very complexities: what happens when we are faced with a dilemma or potential consequence?

Eremite: Chapter 1

One peaceful Eremite. One lonely Apparition. Both lingering as they had for centuries. While the Eremite remained comfortable within his duty-bound solitary silence, the lonely Apparition (once a twelfth-century king) grew tired of his fellow occupant’s silence. The king had observed other apparitions conversing in other areas of the grounds and had become tired. Rebellious apparitions obliviously encased in their laughter as it echoed throughout the grounds at eerie hour of the day climbed the gates and fences in unison with the jackdaws dancing from gravestone to gravestone with the utmost elegance. In the eyes of the King (once known as the Lion) such occurrences seemed unjust. Alone and longing to immerse himself within the camaraderie of the birds or the chaotic joy of the handholding hedonists who surrounded him, the King would pleaded for a two-man spiritual gathering. In his isolated desperation, this lonely Apparition could no l

longer shout. Instead, he sighed.

‘Eremite, please! Renounce your faith in your solitude!’

Alas, such faithless cries went unacknowledged in the name of the Eremite’s vow. As his cold hands clung to his crucifix, the Eremite closed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the Apparition King’s expansive lilting cry:

Eremite, let us unite!

Renounce your faith in the solitary. The rain cannot cleanse those who have sinned. Eremite, let us unite! For we are alone with our thoughts in this town of love at rest. Observe that crucifix pinned to the iron gate, observe that crucifix clutched in your trembling hands for he who lacks the skill or expertise to light the fire shall be left with empty hands

The Eremite was now gripped unwillingly with an urge to turn around, to watch the show from across the inglenook. Questions began to race through his mindwas this mere curiosity or a sense of Catholic guilt overpowering him?

The Eremite turned slightly to the right of him where the lonely crying man sat, still wailing. The Eremite momentarily glanced from beneath the hood of his cowl. His thoughts continued to churn. He thought to himself: ‘Stay silent, brother. Stay faithful and compliant. Listen passively, seek refuge from speaking’.

The Eremite clutched the crucifix tighter and tighter as he dwelled further and further on his thoughts. The temptation to turn to the desperate Apparition burned through him. In his heart, a spiritual kindness urged him to unleash a personal sense of comfort. Such an attempt proved hollow, as the eremite continued to listen passively, merely solitary in his silence, his nonexpressive eyes gave answer to the question lingering upon the --

The Eremite’s thoughts were interrupted by the chiming of the bells. He counted to himself quietly. Loneliness and twelve more hours. Twelve more hours until the Eremite’s perpetual vow of solitude and silence would come to an end. Centuries had passed, since the Eremite’s demise in these very grounds, falling asleep a mortal on the grounds, waking to the coldness of the afterlife. The Eremite had not only pledged a vow in the name of his faith as a mortal. In the afterlife, he vowed to continue the silence for nine centuries.

the Eremite knew the end of his vow approached and it was a bittersweet feeling, for he had become accustomed to centuries of silence. As the Eremite’s curiosity about the Lonely Apparition heightened, he opened one eye, glancing from beneath the hooded cloak before the passive curiosity within his eyes turned into realisation. His eye locked with the King’s pleading tear-stained gaze, and at the diminuendo of the distant bells, the lonely Apparition remained aghast at the silence. But the Eremite remained peacefully, knowing this very bewilderment would pass with the last chime of the bell. As the chiming of the bells ended, the Eremite smiled to himself, knowing in twelve hours that the lonely Apparition, in all his regal finery, would learn to have been careful to wish for the word of The Eremite…

Strands of Time Abby Grubb

Writer’s Statement

This project is about a modern-day historian who is doing research for a book she is writing about Arbroath Abbey and its most historical events. The following extracts represent aspects of each timeline the main character travels back in time to. In the first part, the main character is having a conversation with King William the Lion about the soon-to-be murdered Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Becket. In the second part, the main character is having a conversation with Bernard, the Abbot of Arbroath, who is drafting the famous Declaration of Arbroath. In the third part, the main character is having a conversation with Robert Stevenson, the grandfather of Robert Louis Stevenson, who is fixing the round O window of the Abbey. Finally, in the fourth part, a group of teenagers are carrying out a ‘heist’ to return the Stone of Destiny to its rightful place in Scotland.

Part I: Before the Abbey

Chapter 3: The King and the Archbishop

‘How did you meet the archbishop?’

*** Flashback ***

Prince William is a child and is attending his brother King Malcolm’s court.

‘This is boring’.

A man approaches and smiles. ‘Your Highness, are you bored?’

‘I want to play with my toys’.

‘You have to attend court, your Highness. One day you will be king, not your brother. You must listen and learn from him’.

‘Who are you to tell me what to do?’

‘I am Thomas Becket, a religious man ’ .

‘Mr Becket, can you please tell my brother that I want to leave now?’

‘I am afraid I cannot do that, your Highness’.

‘Well, do not complain if I fall asleep while they drone on ’ .

‘Your Highness, I suggest that you do not fall asleep and instead pay attention’.

End of Flashback ***

‘I see, so you knew him before you were king’.

‘That is correct’.

‘When did you become friends with him?’

‘He attended my court after I was crowned. I remembered how kind he had been to me when I was a child. He never belittled me for misbehaving like most of the adults in my brother’s court did. He was gentle’.

‘Interesting’.

‘Is there anything else you wish to know, Miss Brown?’

‘No, that is all. Thank you for your time, your Majesty’.

‘You are most welcome. Please send me a copy when it has been written’.

‘I will be sure to deliver it myself, your Majesty. Good day to you ’ .

‘Good day, Miss Brown’.

Part II: The Declaration

Chapter 15 :The Abbot of Arbroath

The historian said, ‘I know about the “apologia” you are drafting for King Robert. I want to know what you can tell me about the document that I can’t read in textbooks from my time’.

The Abbot replied, ‘You already seem to be knowledgeable about the “apologia”. I’m not sure what I can tell you that you don’t know’.

‘How long have you been drafting it?’

‘It has been in the making for a long time. It was only a few months ago that King Robert told me I was the one he trusted to draft the letter’.

‘That’s a privilege to be trusted with an important task from the king himself’.

‘I have always been a close supporter and friend to the king. All of us want the war with the English to come to an end’.

‘This letter isn’t directly about the war. It’s a formal written defence setting out Scotland’s case that it’s an independent and sovereign country’.

‘That’s correct, but it’s so much more than that’.

‘Can you elaborate?’

‘The letter has been signed by 50 Scottish nobles, barons, and freemen. It’s a direct response to the renewed excommunication of King Robert. He is Scotland’s rightful king, not King Edward’.

‘How do you think the Pope will react to the letter?’

‘I cannot say for sure, but I hope he will realise that Scotland is serious about our independence as a country’.

‘Have you finished the letter?’

‘It should be ready to be sent by tomorrow’.

Part III: The Round “O” Window

Chapter 24 – The Abbey’s Window

‘Can you tell me what you know about the Abbey and the window?’

‘It has always been a welcome sight for mariners’.

‘In what way?’

‘When it’s lit it warns ships that land is close by’.

‘I imagine this is useful during storms or foggy weather’.

‘Exactly. When mariners are lost at sea and need to find respite during a storm, the brilliantly lit round “O” window of this Abbey is a lifesaver’.

‘So, it acts as a lighthouse of sorts?’

‘I suppose you could say that, yes ’ .

‘I know you ’ re a civil engineer, but have you ever experienced this first-hand?’

‘Not personally, I’m not a sailor or mariner myself’.

‘Have you heard others talking about their experiences?’

‘Yes, I have. I’ve heard many tales about mariners who

have been able to safely guide their ships ashore during ferocious weather, largely thanks to the lit window of this Abbey. Many aboard those ships have called it a beacon of hope’.

‘What are your thoughts on these stories?’

‘As a lighthouse engineer, I know how vital it is for wayward ships during storms to have something to help guide them ashore. Usually, this would be in the form of a large, rotating light. In this case, it’s a huge, grand and impressive window which is brilliantly lit up by candles’.

‘Do you know why you were asked to fix the window?’

‘I was simply asked. I couldn’t refuse such an offer as I’m aware of how important it is for mariners’.

Part

IV: The Stone of Destiny

Chapter 33 – Christmas Day Raid

It’s Christmas day in 1950. A gang of students are about to break into Westminster to steal the Stone of Destiny under the cover of darkness. The soon-to-be thieves’ names are Ian Hamilton, Kay Matheson, Gavin Vernon, and Alan Stuart.

‘I’ll jemmy the lock’.

‘Gav, that’s my job’.

‘You’ve never jemmied a lock in your life, Alan’.

‘I’ve been practising’.

‘Stop arguing. Jemmy the lock, Gav’.

After jemmying the side door open, the group crept into Westminster. They set to work on removing the stone from under the chair. It crashed to the floor and split into two pieces.

‘Nice going. You broke the bloody stone’.

‘Worry about that later. We have to get it out of here. Quickly!’

The three men used Ian’s coat and dragged the larger

piece of the stone down the High Altar steps. Ian took the smaller fragment of the stone to their Ford Anglia outside. Kay soon joined him.

‘Are the lads managing alright?’

‘Yeah, they’ll be out with the other piece shortly’.

A police officer was passing and noticed them standing suspiciously by the car.

‘I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do, mate’.

Before Kay could reply, Ian started kissing him.

The police offer came closer and coughed to get their attention.

‘Lads, what are you doing out so late on Christmas day?’

‘Getting fresh air. It’s been a busy day, officer’.

The officer had a smoke while he chatted with the ‘lovers’ and was soon on his way.

The Abbey of Aberbrothick Chelsey Hahmann

Writer’s Statement

This project aims to bring the rich history of the Abbey to younger generations through theatre. In this reimagining, the ghosts of Abbot Bernard and St Thomas, two key historical figures, will navigate through time from the Abbey’s founding in 1178 until the return of the Stone of Scone in 1951. The final scene will address the myth surrounding the Stone of Scone, or as it’s better known, The Westminster Stone Theory: the culprits will be revealed as the two ghosts and a few others, coming together to protect that which belongs to Scotland, and Scotland itself.

Scene One

August, 1773. JAMES BOSWELL and DR JOHNSON enter, watching their step, progressing slowly to centre stage. They are observing their surroundings carefully, BOSWELL looking contemplative, JOHNSON with a look of admiration. They face the south transept and sacristy

and stop. The Abbey is covered in weeds, the only wellpreserved area being the Abbot’s House.

BOSWELL

This is…

JOHNSON

Not quite what it used to be, eh? (Pause. He looks around in awe.) But still, quite marvellous.

BOSWELL

Indeed. Shame it’s not still in use really. (He walks up to a broken window at the edge of the stage, and climbs in, which leads him offstage.)

JOHNSON

James, for heavens sake.

BOSWELL

(Shouting, offstage) Are you not curious yourself, Samuel?

JOHNSON

(Walking over to the window and peering in) You’ve got me there.

(He starts to follow BOSWELL but sighs, walks back, and counts his steps. He approaches the threshold carefully and goes to cross it with his right foot when BOSWELL reappears before him.)

BOSWELL

(As JOHNSON steps back, allowing BOSWELL to exit) Alas, time has had no mercy on the stairs. I could not ascend past the first few.

JOHNSON

Ah, well. This place is astounding nonetheless. The ruins themselves testify to its resilience.

BOSWELL

Agreed. But we should really be heading onwards, Montrose awaits!

(BOSWELL turns to leave, and JOHNSON, after a second, follows him. He stops, turns for a final look, and starts. The ghostly figure of ABBOT BERNARD is pacing around the remains of the cloister, contemplative. JOHNSON watches him in astonishment. BOSWELL notices that his friend is no longer following him out and walks over to him.)

BOSWELL

Samuel?

JOHNSON

I…

(The ghostly figure of ABBOT BERNARD seems to have an epiphany, and leaves the cloister, disappearing into the remains of the Abbot’s House.)

(Recovering) Never mind James, I’m ready, let’s go.

(BOSWELL and JOHNSON exit. The lights dim, and when they return, the Abbey is restored to its former glory.)

Scene Two

1178. KING WILLIAM is walking beside ABBOT REGINALD in the cloister. They are conversing quietly. The ghostly figures of ABBOT BERNARD and ST THOMAS appear on opposite ends of the stage and walk towards one another, meeting centre stage.

ST THOMAS

He dedicated it to me, you know.

ABBOT BERNARD

Indeed he did.

ST THOMAS

(Gruffly) I’m certain that ruffled some feathers.

ABBOT BERNARD

Undoubtedly. (He glances at KING WILLIAM and then resettles his gaze on ST THOMAS. Imitating King Henry II and gesturing towards ST THOMAS) Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?

ST THOMAS

That’s me I suppose. Well, his knights seemed eager to finish the job! (ABBOT BERNARD taking him by the arm, the pair begin to follow KING WILLIAM and ABBOT REGINALD as they walk around the cloister, still in quiet conversation) All because I excommunicated a few people, for good reason, might I add. Henry was livid, kept demanding I explain myself. Unfortunately for the fellow, I owe him no further justification.

ABBOT BERNARD

You refused.

ST THOMAS

Of course. (He taps KING WILLIAM on the shoulder. KING WILLIAM glances back, sees nothing, and turns back to his conversation with ABBOT REGINALD.) Well, the others tried to lock themselves in, cowardly as they were.

ABBOT BERNARD

You set them right, nonetheless.

ST THOMAS

(Sternly) Oh, it’s not right to make a fortress out of a house of prayer.

ABBOT BERNARD

So you said.

ST THOMAS

So I said. I had made my peace by the time they found me anyway.

ABBOT BERNARD

(Again, imitating, this time one of the knights) Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the King and country?

ST THOMAS

(Going along with it) I am no traitor, and I am ready to die. (He bows his head, and ABBOT BERNARD imitates striking his head. ST THOMAS gesticulates, indicating the blood spattering from his head. The pair smile at each other.) But still, my name lives on!

ABBOT BERNARD

It- (The voices of KING WILLIAM and ABBOT REGINALD increase in volume, interrupting)

KING WILLIAM

-And in Falaise, such a humiliating treaty. Scotland inferior to England? Henry has some arrogance! He does not know the stuff we are made of! (Pause) But he wouldn’t release me without an accord. I confess Abbot Reginald, the dedication to Thomas seems rather fitting.

ABBOT REGINALD

He was a good man.

KING WILLIAM

He was. I’m considering the possibility of depicting his murder on the official seal of the Abbey.

ABBOT REGINALD

If you should think it a good idea, who am I to object?

KING WILLIAM

So it’s decided then. (The voices of the pair fade back into a mumble as they continue walking)

ABBOT BERNARD

How thoughtful.

ST THOMAS

Or petty.

ABBOT BERNARD

Ah it’s not just for Henry’s benefit.

ST THOMAS

Certainly not. (Lights fade as the four characters continue walking, contemplating, discussing.)

Scene Three

A Saturday in March, 1306. The ghostly figures of ABBOT BERNARD and ST THOMAS are standing in the middle

of a market, surrounded by monks selling manuscripts, agricultural products, handicrafts, and religious artifacts. The townsfolk are gossiping excitedly.

TOWNSPERSON 1

Crowned king he wis!

TOWNSPERSON 2

Robert the Bruce? When?

TOWNSPERSON 1

On Palm Sunday!

TOWNSPERSON 3

I heard they had to dae it again the next day; the Countess of Buchanan missed it, claimed it was her right tae put that crown on his heid! (They all laugh.)

TOWNSPERSON 2

Well here’s tae hopin’ Scotland finally gets oot the grasp ae England’s grubby fingers! (They all nod in agreement.)

ST THOMAS

(Walking past the chattering townsfolk) Fat chance.

ABBOT BERNARD

Give it another few years, he’ll be on the run again.

ST THOMAS

Well, you would know that. Poor souls are still stuck in 1306.

ABBOT BERNARD

A rather predictable plot though, is it not? Scottish monarchs are always on the run to some extent.

ST THOMAS

And it is England’s grubby fingers after all.

A Sandstone Ode

Aly Reed Jamieson

My arches slowly crumble and my grand halls now lie empty.

I look down at the streets around me, see my children and reminisce.

No melancholy to be found here, the sun shines on my weathered flesh.

A shell of once was, left to watch over my quarry.

You are a free and noble people, laughter echoing down cobbled streets.

Tamed both sea and sky while I’ve stayed rooted in the grass.

Times have changed and still I stand, a vanguard from ages past.

I watch you change with passing day. Your kindness always speaks.

My blood flows through every alleyway, my bones borrowed for your homes.

Your faith may be lessened, but our love still grows. You’re enamoured with the old, with etchings on my soul

I look upon you and know you ’ re free, just like our days before.

I gaze at you, my red little town And I wonder where we’d be had we not met. Would you stand without me? Without you I’d surely crumple.

But if I were gone there would still be a heart that remains

Writing with Ghosts Lara Luyts

A guest book lies on the windowsill of the New Scriptorium, inviting residents to document their stay. Tucked between its pages I find scraps of paper, wrinkled and grey but somehow more beautiful for it. An entry in the guest book explains that the scraps were made from the papers of locals, pressed together to form brand new ‘Arbroath paper ’ . Holding it between my fingers, the paper is thick, almost warm to the touch. I try to imagine what it must be like to be so close to others that you become one, to go from an ‘I’ to a ‘ we ’ .

The New Scriptorium feels like one of those scraps. From the outside, the structure appears solitary, achromatic, its strong grey standing out against the bright grass. But stepping inside uncovers a whole different story, reveals bright colours and a homely atmosphere, a room in harmony with its surroundings. I can hear the birds chirping, the cars driving by. Visitors walk by the windows, their voices low, words unclear. When I tilt my head up, I’m greeted by a blue sky with only the faintest wisps of white. I wonder if, were I to look up for long enough, I would see one of those singing birds fly by.

The space enchants me, but what really draws my attention are the details, the traces left behind by previous residents. A plastic bottle of water, only a quarter full. A net filled with clementines, soft and bruised, their bright colour clashing with the yellow of the window frame. Footprints in front of the stove, the ghost of someone trying to stay warm in the Scottish Autumn. I place my feet on that same spot, as if by doing so I may inhabit the other writer’s mind, even for just a moment, sensing the words that flooded through them. How many more have stood exactly where I am now, footprints long faded? Some of them writers, others not, but each with important stories to tell. All of these elements come together to create a living environment – and if I’m quiet enough, I think I might hear its pulse.

As I look around, I can see this space filled with writers, ideas flowing like oxygen between us, all different yet enticing. I suspect we could restore walls with our imagination, revive monks with our words, create our own religion with sheer passion.

Teal, blue, red arms curl and bend and reach, their long fingers pointing you in the right direction. They’re easily the most remarkable feature of this space, protruding from the dark brown walls, adding motion to their stillness. They point to the windows, the door – not

chasing you out, but inviting you to witness the beauty of your surroundings. Sunlight falls through that yellow framed window, and the church it looks out on stands proudly, the metal cross on its tower shining under the attention of the sun. Closer to the Scriptorium stands a bare tree, its branches too numerous to count, reaching up to the sky, like a man speaking to his God, as if it’s hoping to dissolve in the wind.

One of the Scriptorium’s arms stands out against the others, red between shades of blue. It points to the largest window, which spans from the floor to the top of the wall, drawing anyone inside towards it. It ensures that no matter where you decide to sit, Arbroath Abbey is always within view, its red-brown bricks speaking of histories never to be forgotten. So little of the Abbey’s past grandeur is left, but there’s elegance in its decay, allure in its crumbling stone. Rather than signs of weakness, it seems like a showcase of strength, to carry the scars of the storms it weathered with pride.

But only when you stand right in front of that window can you see the centre of it all, the hollow eye watching over the town, gazing at the sea. At least the Abbey was granted that one constant through the centuries, even when its walls fell and Arbroath shifted into something unrecognisable. I hope the far-away sound of waves crashing against stone is a comfort when us temporary people, us living ghosts, fail to be. How small we must seem; how short the lives we value so in the

face of all that time gone by. Yet the eye does not watch us with disdain, and arms continue to embrace us.

How wonderful, to be held in history’s palm and be deemed worthwhile.

The Red Body Lays Still

James McLeish

Spires of soft, rounded bricks, scrawled with moss and lichen, stand melting beneath millennia of rain. Red walls and red towers, red as the fallen leaves piled and heaped about their feet. Cold winds cut, carrying splattering leaves across barren trees and plush grass. Piling about stone foundations, thin, neat tell-tale signs of what once stood.

The abbey is a nest. Black grates and gates lock away unseen corners. Bars seal the well, still filling with water. Scarred-over wounds, ragged bricks and stone, aluminium bandages wrap and fence, keeping crowds behind wires and glass, their prying fingers away, cleanly. But the walls aren’t barren: the abbey’s worn, grand bulk remains a hub of action, in termite-moundscaffolding where fluorescent figures pick and scrape and fill and drill. They chatter all the while, laughing beneath the abbey’s shadow, in the ribs and spine of its empty skeleton.

The body sits a relic. Its flesh, pried away, can be spied in the towns red streaks and spires. Churches, saplings

to the monastery’s old growth, sit on red foundations. Bricks of that rough hue pick out in the blue afternoon, dusky brown igniting in the piercing sun ’ s light. The town burns in the morning rays, homes, shops, squares aflame with the abbeys strewn flesh and bones.

Those stones: what have they heard? The soft rumbling, rattling of cars filter over the town, shaking into the brimming red bricks. Laid and re-laid over a millennia ago, within them, in the cracks and crevices, the scars of years, the fingerprint of time. Sound resonates, bouncing and alive, of all that humanity, of all those years, who sat beneath the shadows of the abbey.

When wool and linen were hand spun, what sounds stuck into the stones? The cries of gulls, swirling above, the talking of the labourers, the chipping of stone – the laying of mortar? For sixty years it was erected, before new voices; French monks, passing through fresh doors and into its blazing interior, flush, red, untouched bricks. For how long did their voices, their sermons, resonate through the halls? Their hands working the soil, scratching away with quills – did they too leave their mark, sound digging into stone?

Outside its walls, a hamlet grew. Then, it was a town, a hub. Beyond the sermons, new echoes would cement themselves into the rocks. The chattering of folks and the braying of animals, conjoining with chanting, hushed voices. Piety and the press of life; did they seep into the

stones that today droop and dribble?

The centuries pass in a flash; how many lived and died around it? Within it? When conflicts, duels and battles raged, did the abbey stand above like a tree, as people fell at its feet, crumpling red as autumn leaves?

What was the sound of that day, when a King and his barons sat as a document was scribed. It was nothing new, yet nothing like anything before. Quill scratched, ink ran, wax pressed. When it was done, did they sigh in relief – hesitation?

That letter is gone, but a replica, incomplete, aged, and rotting like the abbey, sits within a glass box, thundering silence at those who would view it. The glass box sits within another, a limpet, filled with fragments and pieces and monuments to everything that has been. People, lithe spirits drifting through a moment of time, pass around the abbey, their footfalls and voices dripping into the stones.

That moment passes, and life continues. When the town grew around the mouth of the river, the abbey did too. A hub of trade and business, for even the spiritual marches to the sound of coins. The abbey would see itself through centuries of success, as the town would slowly swell around in its abundance.

Then, a change, a shift, and the old would fall to the

new. Where had been royal prestige, now lay a body, picked apart to be reused for churches, new buildings. Material for slaughter, chopped apart to feed hungry ambition and change. But even then, dead and dissected, it sits and watches, looking over the town where its threads lay.

It would watch the town double and double again. Another defiance sneaks ashore, trading with allies, old friends, in that French tongue that still resounds in the abbey’s bones. An age later, four figures slinking, carrying a cleaved stone between them. Setting it down where a document was once signed. Another blip beneath its shadow, beneath its ribs where lichen grew in smears of split paint.

Walking around, amidst old and young comingling buildings, time’s odd sense re-emerges. None are quite so ancient as the abbey, even if a red stone peeks out. But, moss and lichen grow, adding the textures of age to a town still with that soft press of life. The kind that filters from a café, that laughter and giggling, like the gulls swirling above, as they’ve always done.

People wander wrapped in jackets and woollen scarves, fighting against biting cold. The leaves are heaped up, sludgy, as the people run around, regardless of the growing chill. Perhaps, when the summer returns, a tension, an energy will arise. For now, though, the town remains in an autumnal state, with broken branches and

fallen trees, and the abbey, laying still in the cold and the quiet.

Perhaps, too, those autumn-red stones will re-emerge in the unforeseeable springs that are, forever, oncoming.

The Temporality of the Scribe Catriona

Pritchard

To enter the nave of Arbroath Abbey is to cross the threshold between regular time and the place where timelines converge. On Abbey Street, cars scoot by and the twenty-first century continues as normal. Inside the Abbey’s walls, the rumble of contemporary engines is distorted. I am entrapped by bricks which boast their history from above my head. Swooping archways and enclosed spaces shelter me from the external universe.

The beauty of the Abbey produces both an awe for what remains and an ache for what once was. Diagrams do not do this place justice. I have to feel it. I have to let my mind picture it. My eyes thirst for it. My ears taste the whispers on the wind. Echoes of the past speak in tongues. They know why I’m here. They latch onto me and bid me forth to the New Scriptorium. The birds watch, a knowing look in their beady eyes. My feet propel themselves towards the Scriptorium, its modern architecture a shock amongst this centuries old stonework. My mind nearly bursts, overburdened with

inspiration. It’s a wonder that the sky isn’t filled with the colour of my descriptions.

When I finally sit down to write, the words drop from my pen. ., ;...

Silent reflection is not silent at all. The mind wanders, the smallest sounds bounce off the walls, your own breathing rings in your ears. Concentrating on the task at hand is not simple, nor is it designed to be. The purpose is for the participant to prove dedication to their faith and their work by resisting the temptation of distraction.

My task is to copy the psalms. At every turn, I am thwarted by disturbances. The sound of the pen scratching the paper is a nuisance. My breath roars. Each drop of ink sounds like a pin clattering to the floor. My fingers bristle with pain. My back is ruined by the chair. My legs have stopped feeling and my eyes hurt.

My body is the sacrifice for the learning of the mind.

Many before me have become embittered with the harshness of this labour. They call this mood acedia. Part of my job is to avoid slipping into such a feeling. I must maintain my faith. It is my duty to remind myself of

the importance of dedicating my life to this work.

When I find myself obstructed by the notion that these are not the correct conditions in which I should be working, I envision the thought disappearing. It is my responsibility to bear my suffering for the good of others. And so, I dip my pen in ink. .,

Writing can be painful for me. My wrists tire easily and my fingers do not coil naturally round a pen. I do it, however, because not writing hurts more. When I speak my thoughts, they do not feel as articulate as when I write them into a story. Characters arrive in my head and refuse to leave. Whole worlds rest at my fingertips and profess, if I leave them alone, that they will turn stagnant.

But at least, in the Scriptorium, I have an electric heater and a comfortable chair to sit in.

While I was drawn to the building by the inspiring atmosphere at Arbroath Abbey, the monks would have been guided by the Round ‘O’ window, which I can just about see from the Scriptorium. In today’s low November sun, I can only imagine how powerful it would

have looked with the light shining through it, how it would have invaded and illuminated Arbroath’s skyline. I am reminded of how much things change.

When the printing press arrived, it didn’t take long before copying became a thing of the past. What will it look like when AI begins to write stories better than we can? If we let our creations create for us, how far away will we be from those poor Benedictine monks?

Let me ask: Are we supposed to suffer for our craft?