Watchin' Wimmen

The Kirk of Crabbitness

In which Daftie encounters a congregation of the chronically cross, and nearly loses his soul over a hymnbook dispute

After his dramatic rescue from the Moss of Misery Daftie and Rabbie made good progress along a rather indistinct, winding sheep path, which Rabbie swore was spiritual – or at least scenic. The haar began to dissipate to reveal a bleak but striking landscape of rolling moors, scattered gorse bushes, and inhabited by the occasional abandoned shopping trolley. Eventually Rabbie took his leave. He gave Daftie a clap on the back, and left him with a cryptic blessing
'Mind yer spirit, watch yer footing, and never argue with a man named after two prophets and a sausage.'
With these words he just seemed to vanish into the heather covered landscape. Left alone Daftie was just a little unsure whether, or not, that had been divine wisdom, or just some Highland nonsense.

Before long Daftie spotted a stone building in the distance. It was grimly perched on a low hill. It was tall, grey, angular, and had small, suspicious windows. Daftie was unsure whether it was a fortress, a prison, or a particularly unfriendly school. As he approached it became obvious from the weathered sign outside

The Kirk of Crabbitness
'The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But Wrath.'

From the faint droning sound within it was Sunday. He recalled faint memories of pews and biscuits, so Daftie stepped inside.

Inside the Kirk the air was colder than the grave and ten times as judgmental. Overhead were dark wooden beams like the brows of a Victorian schoolmaster. In the pews sat rows of unsmiling faces, with eyes not focused on the pulpit, but inward, silently contemplating their own theological superiority. At the front stood an ancient minister with a beard like a snowdrift, and eyes like windows of condemnation. His fist pounded on a thick leather bound bible, so hard that dust rose like incense. His voice boomed in a thick, dry Glaswegian monotone
'And lo, the sinners did dance... and wear trainers in the house of the Lord... and they shall be cast oot!'
From the congregation there were murmurs of grim satisfaction, one nodding his head so vigorously that his hearing aid popped out.

Daftie tried to move quietly into a back pew, but his still wet boots betrayed him with a squelch. Thirty heads turned in unison, in such unison that they could have made it into any synchronised head turning team. The minister pointed a finger, and barked
'You! Are ye a visitor?'
'Aye, just passing through.'
"Have ye signed the doctrinal statement on the wall?'
'The what?' queried Daftie.
'Do ye affirm the 1642 Addendum to the Solemn League and Covenant, plus footnotes?'
Daftie blinked.
'I've nae even read the menu.'
The building echoed the gasps of the congregation. One woman silently fainted collapsing into a position of prayer.

He was immediately surrounded by three Elders. Grey faced men in grey suits with all of the solemnity of undertakers, and smelling of boiled wool and mothballs.
'You're no here to change things are ye?' one hissed.
'We don't allow guitars. Or smiling.' added another.
'Or forgiveness before page six.' said the third.
Daftie made an attempt to explain that he was simply seeking the Holy Loch. The Elders weren't listening. With a flourish a laminated list of Acceptable Beliefs (Vol Vii) was produced, and section 3b(ii) was pointed at, which proclaimed

'Thou shalt not wander spiritually without proper documentation, a reference letter from a Reformed butcher, and proof of generational misery.'

The congregation began humming. The hum was a low tuneless drone which could have been a hymn, or more probably disapproval in auditory form. Daftie backed towards the door shouting
'I mean no offence! I just thought this was the road to the Holy Loch.'
The minister snarled
'Aye, it is – but only our road. All other roads are roads to ruin, folk music, and possibly dancing.'
A baby began to cry. Some elderly woman shook her fist. Another threw a psalter.

Daftie bolted.

He sprinted vigorously down the Kirk steps, and kept running until the Kirk was but a distant outline in the dreich drizzle. Later when sitting on a rock gasping for breath, soaked in sweat and doctrine, Daftie scribbled into the Holy Loch pamphlet

'Note to self: not every holy looking building is holy inside.'

He turned the page only to find some tiny writing, that he had missed, at the bottom of the next section.

'Beware the Kirk of Crabbitness. Salvation is free – but some folk will charge ye anyway.'