Signs, however, didn’t rely on the existence of the supernatural. History wanted to be remembered. Evidence hated having to live in dark, hidden places and devoted itself to resurfacing. Truth was messy. The natural order of an entropic universe was to tend toward it.
That’s what ghosts really are, Aint Melusine had said, the past refusing to be forgot. She’d been helping Aster scrub down X deck with ammonia and bleach, a failed attempt to rub out the stink of what had happened there. Ghosts is smells, stains, scars. Everything is ruins. Everything is a clue. It wants you to know its story. Ancestors are everywhere if you are looking.
nobhail bheò-ghlacmhor — ge doirbh a leughadh — a th’ ann an An Unkindness of Ghosts, leis an sgrìobhadair neo-bhìnearaidh Dhubh Rivers Solomon. tha an sgeulachd stèidhichte air luing-ghinealachd, Matilda, air a bheil sòisealtas coltach ri sòisealtas ceann a deas nan Stàitean Aonaichte ron a’ Chogadh Shìobhalta, le sgaradh mòr eadar luchd (geal) nan clàr-uachdair as uaisle agus luchd (Dubh) nan clàr-uachdair as ìsle. tha an sgaradh seo ga chur an gnìomh leis an “Uachdaranas” (.i., the Sovereignty), riaghaltas cràbhaidh Matilda, fo stiùir an Uachdarain fhèin. bidh luchd nan clàr-uachdair ìosal ag obair gu cruaidh anns na raointean am meadhan Matilda, a’ cur is a’ buain a’ bhìdh a tha a’ cumail na luinge beò — am measg dhubh-shaothrachaidhean eile.
tha prìomh-charactar na nobhaile, Aster, a’ fuireach air a’ chlàr-uachdair (ìosal) Q. chaidh a màthair à sealladh goirid às dèidh a breithe, a’ fàgail leabhraichean-nòta rùn-dìomhaireach air a cùl, agus tha Aster — na neach-saidheans is na lèigh, chun na h-ìre a tha ceadaichte dhi, co-dhiù — air a bhith a’ feuchainn ri faighinn a-mach dè, gu mionaideach, a thachair rithe, càit’ an deach i, is mar sin. ’s i eachdraidh tè de phrìomh-cheistean an leabhair, ciamar a dh’fhaodar a bhith a’ tuigsinn an ama a chaidh, agus aig an dearbh àm caimar a dh’fhaodar leantainn air adhart gun a bhith ga thuigsinn.
So they said. So they told themselves. So their stories went. This far from the past, no one could ever truly know their history.
air dàrna làimh, mar sin, tha an leabhar ga leantainn fhad ’s a tha i an tòir air taibhse a màthar, a’ gluasad tro fhòirneartan sòisealtas Matilda, tro dàimhean ris an fheadhainn a tha timcheall oirre (gu sònraichte Giselle, boireannach a thogadh còmhla rithe, piuthar ged nach eil fuil gan ceangal; Aint Melusine, a’ chailleach a thog an dithis aca; agus Theo, Lighiche-Seanailear Matilda, cumhachdach ach le chuid dìomhairean fhèin), agus tro atharrachaidhean poileataigeach às dèidh bàs an t-seann Uachdarain. tha a’ phàirt seo dhen sgeulachd làn-riarachail innte fhèin: ghlac an sgeulachd mi is cha robh mi ag iarraidh an leabhar a leigeil mu làr.
air làimh eile, chanainnsa gu bheil ceist eile fa-near do Sholomon: ciamar a tha daoine a’ mairsinn beò anns an t-seòrsa duilgheadais seo — duilgheadas gun stad? tha cuid mhòr — ’s dòcha a’ chuid as motha — dhen leabhar a’ dèiligeadh ri beatha làitheil Aster agus na feadhna eile air na clàran-uachdair ìosal:
Aster knew where this was going, one of those Sovereignty speeches about redemption and justice. How beatings were good. How each strike undid one sin. If Aster’s eyes weren’t forced shut, she’d be rolling them. Why guards quoted this nonsense to justify themselves was beyond her. The whole point of occupying a position of power was that you got to do what you wanted with impunity. It seemed a waste of time to bother with rationalizations.
gheibh sinn seallaidhean air a’ bheatha seo tro shùilean Aster, gu sònraichte — tha inntinn glè litreachail aice (cha toir an leabhar mìneachadh air a’ chùis, ach tha e follaiseach gu bheil i niùr-iomsgarach/neurodivergent), agus inntinn gheur neach-shaidheans, agus tha tuigse fharsaing aice mu na tha a’ tachairt, ged nach eil tùs nan tachartas (ann am faireachdainnean daoine, nach eil i a’ tuigsinn cho math, no anns an eachdraidh, a tha doilleir fiù ’s dhan fheadhainn as àirde air na clàran-uachdair as uaisle) an-còmhnaidh so-thuigsinn dhi. gheibh sinn cuideachd, ge-tà, meanbh-sheallaidhean air Matilda tro shùilean nan trì caractaran a dh’ainmich mi roimhe: Giselle, Melusine, is Theo, agus tha na seallaidhean seo a’ leudachadh ar tuigse chan ann a-mhàin air na caractaran sònraichte seo ach air an t-saoghal aca san fharsaingeachd.
air treas làimh, ’s ann mun a’ chorp a tha an leabhar seo: mu phiantan corporra (piantan na h-èiginne, piantan brùidealachd an Uachdaranais, an dà chuid piantan bhualaidhean is piantan an acrais, na fuachd, is na claoidhteachd fiosaigiche) agus mu fhòirneartan stèidhichte air a’ ghnè is air a’ ghnèitheachd. tha èiginn na pàirt dhen a seo, ach cuideachd fòirneart na gnè bìnearaidhe fhèin, fòirneart a tha an dà chuid Aster agus Theo (agus Melusine agus Giselle) a’ faireachdainn ann an dòighean eadar-dhealaichte. bidh daoine a’ faicinn Aster mar “ro fhireann”, Theo mar “ro bhoireann” — aig a’ char as fheàrr, mura h-eilear ga fhaicinn mar fhear co-sheòrsach. tha gràin cho-sheòrsach agus oillt thar-ghnèitheach gu mòr an gnìomh air Matilda, ach fiù ’s san spàs chumhang seo bidh daoine a’ bruidhinn air rudeigin nas cothromaiche:
“You are an anomaly of a man,” she said.
“Perhaps because I’m not a man at all.” He sat closer now. The sheets wrinkled as he scooted himself toward her.
“Aye. You gender-malcontent. You otherling,” she said, the fog of anesthesia wearing off. She could see him clearly now. The curl of his lashes. The white flecks of skin over his dry lips. “Me too. I am a boy and a girl and a witch all wrapped into one very strange, flimsy, indecisive body. Do you think my body couldn’t decide what it wanted to be?”
“I think it doesn’t matter because we get to decide what our bodies are or are not,” he answered.
Aster sat up, and Theo helped her prop two pillows behind her head. “Is that so? Then I am magic. I say it, therefore it is true,” she said.
“It is true. You are a very rare magic, Aster. Don’t you know that?”
agus air ceathraimh làimh (air an làimh mu dheireadh, ’s dòcha), ’s ann mu rèabhlaid a tha an leabhar seo: mu chrìoch a chur air “the kingdom itself. Any kingdom”.
leabhar uabhasach làidir agus inntinneach a tha seo.
Poor, poor books. Lonely pages bound in lonely leather, their only company the occasional louse. They exist only to be read, and yet with no one there to read them, they might as well not have been bornt at all. I run my fingers along the spines of the books I can reach. I do it to affirm them. To let them know I’m a lover of stories, even stories about alchematics or biology and other true things.
(air ais: prìomh-dhuilleag · lèirmheasan a rèir ùghdair · lèirmheasan a rèir dùthcha · lèirmheasan eile o na Stàitean Aonaichte)