The Scribhneoir

All was silent save for the relentless scratching of graphite on paper and he turned a frustrated gaze on the young woman. She made no sign of stopping and so he let out a loud “ahem” expelling this with a puff of air that shifted her shirt collar. She gave no sign of acknowledgement only gave a gentle sigh and snapped the small black notebook shut.

With that single sharp clap, the silence wrapped around them and the man settled deeply into his seat with a contented humph. The only sign of acknowledgement was the pointed rise of one eyebrow on the young woman’s face.

Suddenly, the bus lurched and swerved sharply to the left throwing people and belongings across the aisle. The silence erupted into a chaotic mewling as passengers cried out trying to right themselves and regain their seating. The young woman flipped the notebook open and started scribbling furiously, her mouth moving silently in tandem with the story line she was creating while all around her the movement slowed as seats were found, belongings returned, and a smoother passage regained by the bus.

She glanced up momentarily noting the blue grey storm clouds that were conspiring to meet and conform into a sizeable storm. She tsked softly and gave a slight shake of her head. The man followed where her gaze had been quietly cursing that he had forgotten to bring his umbrella. The woman continued to scribble frantically in the notebook. Instead of maintaining his frustration the man became curious as to what could be so compelling to occupy this woman despite the near miss they had just encountered.

He watched her face intently noting the way her features moved and changed as if she were experiencing multiple emotions at once. Her lips moved softly, shaping words that never found fullness and her gaze flicked back and forth across the page with a sharp intensity. He leaned over hoping to see the words appearing on the page, but she twisted ever so slightly effectively blocking his view.

He noticed how her hand moved with gentle flourishes that produced exquisitely formed letters in a style of penmanship rarely seen in modern writers. This made him examine the woman more closely. He noticed that she wore a heavy corded jacket of emerald green with a soft lace collar peeking out around her neck. From her wrist dangled a fine silver bracelet adorned with small figurines and objects which danced quietly as her hand moved across the page. The small black notebook rested atop a worn leather satchel on the woman’s lap and she occasionally shifted her legs to reset the impromptu table. She wore a long skirt with a pair of smart shiny green shoes.

He nodded his approval at this impeccably dressed young woman and a small grin settled on his lips. He felt light, as though all his troubles had lifted, and he was grateful for the distraction this curious woman offered. All remnants of his earlier frustration and moodiness were gone and he hummed softly to himself as he let his eyes move to the rhythmic dance of her pencil. He could see the words clearly now although all thought of trying to read them had left and he was content in the mesmerising calm that the soft scratching produced.

He didn’t notice when the small smile crept across the woman’s face. Nor did he see the mischievous sparkle in her eye as she ended a sentence with a sharp stab of the pencil. She folded the notebook over and held it lovingly close as she gazed out of the window at the now clear sky. He looked away and then sharply back – clear skies? He couldn’t believe the earlier clouds had dissipated so quickly leaving behind a bright clear and cloudless horizon.

The bus pulled into the curb and he realised it was his stop. He nodded curtly at the woman and rose to leave. Looking back, he realised she was watching him, an enigmatic smile on her face. Then, to his surprise, she gave him a sly wink as she opened the notebook and began writing again. He stepped off the bus chancing a final glance at the woman through the window but not seeing her. Assuming a trick of the light he simply nodded and headed to his home.

As he settled quietly in his favourite chair with a warm pot of tea and a new book he sighed contentedly. He opened the book, admiring the title page with its fine illustration and flowery script which read Myths and Legends of Auld Caledonia. Excited he thumbed through the pages until one image caught his eye. It was a woman standing on a windswept heath, her long black hair twisting in the apparent breeze. Wearing a long skirt with a heavy green jacket cinched tightly at her waist. A leather satchel was slung across her body and she held aloft a black leather-bound notebook. A shiny silver bracelet was made to glint in the sunlight that streamed from the clouds above her. The image was captivating and stunning in its raw beauty. He let go the breath he had been holding and one word floated free “her”. He read the name on the page “The Scríbhneoir”.

The Scribhneoir (or writer in Gaelic) was a mythical heroine of old Caledonia. The legend holds that the Scribhneoir was responsible for writing the fate of the world and all events therein. He continued to read that, if disturbed in the writing, unusual, fateful and often tragic events occurred. He recalled the bus and the woman he had ridden beside. It was her, the Scribhneoir, and in that moment he visualised the words he had seen in her notebook but not read at the time. They read, for you I write happiness and prosperity. A large sum of money will soon be yours. You will live long and spread the tale of the Scribhneoir lest I fall from mind and story and leave the world barren of words and empty of possibility. Write every day and share the magic that can be found in a little black notebook.