The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

I had kept him safe as long as I could, then he had taken his path and I mine. Now he was dead and I was not. There had been a point in his dying. I rode on. Turriff was soon behind me, and then Old Meldrum. I passed close by Straloch in the mid-afternoon, my hand going instinctively to my saddlebag where the map was hidden. I traversed the barren lands to the north and west of Aberdeen, only the horse sparing me complete isolation. Then I turned the beast’s head towards the Don and followed the river’s course as it made its last few miles towards the sea, until at last I saw the twin spires of St Machar’s Cathedral on their sturdy towers, challenging the godless to approach Aberdeen. Godless or not, my heart warmed to the sight. The Irish saint’s seat, rising above the great river where it curved in the shape of a bishop’s crook, had always been for me the gateway to a place that was home. It was not long before the hooves of my mount were clattering over the cobbles of the Brig o’ Balgownie, and I was nodding to carters and other country people on horseback or foot, making for home after their business in the two towns. The road swept out past the Bishop’s Ward and over the marshland towards the sea, the east coast, looking out towards Norway, Denmark and then the Baltic, unseen, but full of possibilities, and then it turned back towards the town. I passed the port to the Bishop’s Green and the Chaplain’s Court. The Machar kirk was behind me now, to my right, and, for the first time in almost a year, I was back in Old Aberdeen.

I headed down Don Street towards the Market Cross, where the Chanonry met the High Street. I could not see beyond the frontages, but I knew that behind the houses blossom would be forming on the trees in the orchards and gardens of College Bounds. The market was finished now, and the stallholders had cleared away their booths and gone home. Dogs and gulls occupied themselves with clearing whatever unwanted wares and produce might have fallen to the ground. The pigeons of the bishop’s old dovecote always fed well on market days. As I passed the majestic crown tower of the college chapel, my heart nearly gave within me. I was a part of those stones, a century old and more; I belonged to that place, with all the others who had gone before me and with those still to come. Yet at this moment, this hour and day of my life, I had no place there.

I passed out of College Bounds and made my way up the Spittal hill, past the ruins of the Snow kirk to my left and then the Spittal kirk to my right. What a desecration of churches there had been these past sixty years, all in the name of God. Further down, as the road descended towards the town of New Aberdeen, I passed the old Leper House. Unwelcome as they were within the burgh, there had been here a place of some compassion where they might rest. A light breeze stirred the arms of the windmill on Windmill Hill, overlooking the cornfields where they bordered the town. It was not long before I reached the Calsey Port, emblazoned with the royal arms to give weight to its authority, and, having answered for my name, place of origin, business in the burgh and lodgings when staying there, was riding down the Gallowgate towards the heart of New Aberdeen.