Scottish contemporary playwright David Harrower’s story takes place in a small village in the middle of nowhere full of superstitious, ignorant farmers. Like in any other closed community, the common opinion is the most defining standard. And the village constantly speaks and gossips. The hard working, rising early in the morning, church going family man is maybe, just maybe, spared by the evil tongues. In this world, being uncultured is virtue, and the submission and humility of women is as law as any law of working the land around. 

Pony William’s – of whom is said he lives for horses – wife can handle as much as any man around. One day she must take a couple of bags of wheat to the chastised, excommunicated miller, Gilbert Horn outside of the village. There is something devilish in the miller and at the same time alluring: he can write, read and think although she seems to remember that it goes against the will of God. It soon becomes apparent of the enfolding love triangle: it brings death. And while all this is going on the main question isn’t even love anymore, but rather the meaning and stake of words, are we brave enough to believe, experience and can we step outside our earth-bound lives, or we let ourselves be broken in like submissive cattle?

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