I can live an entire decade without encountering writing that draws me in. Furthermore, most often I don't get past the first twenty or so pages of any work before I put it aside, having caught the gist, and turn to something else. However, one paragraph of this book hooked me enough to commit to reading the work in its entirety. Even more surprising, as I look back, I can deem it time well spent.
It doesn't hurt that I happen to love Scotland, folklore, medieval times, and poetry (in crafting this story, Mackay never strays far from being a poet). And it didn't hurt to learn that Mackay clearly did not see the success that his talent deserved. Ultimately, I read this cover to cover in order to advocate for another writer who was crushed under today's publishing industry. The least we could do, and now the most we can do, is read him.
Of course, this book would have benefitted from the editorial attention and support of, say, a Maxwell Perkins, so that we're not reminded for the 20th time that Mungo is old, Soldier big, and Mairi a little girl (that lack of trust in the reader is a common shortcoming in debuts). Although Mackay's hand can always be seen controlling the narrative, yet that same hand finely hones each word in each sentence like the bard he was, so one forgets to be annoyed.
If you're not familiar with the Scots language, you will want a dictionary handy. At any rate, give this poignant story a read.