Jessica: Reading from My Dear Fiona - Cathedrals of Stone

Orkney takes great care to protect her ancient treasures and history: they are revealed, not discovered, and usually only when she allows it.

Violent storms have uncovered many of the old sites, stripping away the topsoil and vegetation to expose millennium-old constructions that had been sleeping beneath the ground.

I wanted to show mom and dad the enchanting beauty of the islands and figured going to Sanday together to explore its wild nature would be the perfect way to do it. 

Protests emerged immediately and subsided just as quickly when I explained the island was part of my research, since it is the site of an important Viking burial site.

In truth, it was the incredible beauty of nature, rather than the workings of man, that called me there.

Concealed by the rocky hills near the ferry dock, Doun Helzie is a place that time seems to have forgotten, with its lengthy stretches of beach hugged by pristine waters, a mesmerizingly blue color, almost glowing against the snow-white sands.

The caves were nearby, but hard to access, the island was testing us before it revealed itself. We took a little while to find and go down the trail on the edge of the hill, which brought us to the beach. It took even longer since Mom was in sandals, even though we tried to encourage her to wear Denise’s sneakers.

We were alone on the beach, which stretched as far as the eyes could see, like we were the only people in the world, walking into the sacred nexus where earth water and air meet and intertwine.

All along the rocky cliff the sea and the wind had carved interconnected caves, joined by intricate white sand pathways leading from one red stone chamber to the next, accented here and there by the shallow pools left behind by the recent tide.

A natural cathedral out of time, looking even more unlikely to have happened in this surreal landscape devoid of any signs of human presence.

It becomes harder and harder to tell the stonework of nature from that of human hands after a while, or which age does the edifice belong to, you almost expect to find the bones of the ancestors, carried through the landscape by the dutiful sea waters, which sorted and distilled them as a favor to their human stewards in their absence.

“I’m beginning to understand why you don’t seem to want to leave here, Betty Lou,” dad try to play down the emotional impact of the beach’s otherworldly wild beauty, “but if memory serves, you said you came here for research?”

“Of course,” I replied, taking my sweet time to get the sand out of my sneakers. I was sitting on a rock at the entrance of a cave, facing the ocean; I could barely make out the vague contours of clouds and neighboring islands in the distance, and was feeling like a water creature valiant enough to wander off on land, one who saw it for the first time and was enchanted by every one of its details.

“I am a high priestess, a goddess. I carry the wisdom of the ages,” Denise declaimed, her voice shaking from the pathos of artistic expression.

She looked it, too; she was very convincing. I could almost feel the power emanating from her union with the elements permeating sand, water, and stone.

I wondered how many times the old hills of Doun Helzie had seen this scene, how many women before her invoked the spirits of the land and the sea and asked for their great powers for protection. How many thousands of years back, exactly the same way? We are programmed to feel awe for the things which lay beyond our understanding, for the unknown laws of being which engage the engine of creation itself. They make us feel small and all powerful at the same time, of one substance with the gods.

“Sure you are, honey,” dad laughed heartily, because there was nothing Denise could have done he didn’t think was the most wonderful thing in existence, she’d always been his prize and joy and the reason for the light in his eyes.

“I’m hungry,” the goddess stopped abruptly, attended dutifully by mom, who had thought to bring sandwiches.

She fed us both, making sure our portions were exactly the same, and for a moment I felt like I was five again, munching on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and my apple, like a kid on a field trip who didn’t have to plan or worry about anything, because the adults were there to mind the details, free to enjoy an exciting experience without the burden of responsibility.

“That will not do it for me, woman,” dad protested, rubbing his stomach. “We’ve been out for what, five, six hours? I need actual sustenance before our resident anthropologist regales us with more Viking digs. I saw a delightful pub back in town. Off we go, before I fade away. How are you doing in those sandals? Do I have to carry you? There is a long way up the hill,” he joked.

“Mind yourself, dear. They’re very comfortable, actually.”

I took a last look at the sea before we started our steep climb back to civilization, and the sea put visions of boats with intricately carved figureheads decorating their prows in my mind, and the wind carried guttural sounds of horns and voices speaking in a sharp language.

I know of the horn of Heimdall, hidden

Under the high-reaching holy tree;

On it there pours from Valfather’s pledge

A mighty stream: would you know yet more?

(The Poetic Edda - The Lay of Volund)

I saw your girlish figure in the distance at the end of the beach, Fiona, your hair blown by the wind, barefoot in the white sands, your hands and arms engaged in a strange gesture I instinctively read as a blessing.

Thank you, my fair princess. I’m going to need all the help I can get. I need you to show me the way, if I’m ever to figure out who you are.

“What is this place we’re going to?” Dad asked as we were eating, to make conversation.

“It’s a Viking boat burial site, three people, lots of artifacts.” I preempted the question. “All the findings are displayed in the Orkney Museum in Kirkwall.”

“And yet we are all here,” dad pointed out the logical inconsistency.

“Well, the whole point of coming to Orkney is to go to the actual sites, right? Besides, I thought a nice day at the beach was in order. Denise had her fill of souterrains.”

“And to think that if you can’t get to a man-made hole in the ground, you’ll still find your way to a natural one,” Denise countered. “Let’s keep above ground, shall we? I want to go to Tresness Beach. Have you seen the pictures? It’s surreal.”

“If there is time left after we go to Scar. Did you know there is a large stone there that was thrusted all the way from Norway by the glaciers? Legends said a furious witch tried to throw it at the boat that carried her cheating lover and his new sweetheart and missed.”

“Why do you think I never displease your mother?” Dad replied, serious.

“If only,” mom sighed and rolled her eyes. “Dessert anyone?” She looked around the table.

I was going to decline, but Denise had already grabbed the menu and picked a plate of cakes to share with the family. Summoning the powers of the earth, air and water must be burning a lot of calories.

I suppose it is fitting for a descendant of the dragons, if those symbols you keep showing me, Fiona, are true, if the whale bone carving found at the side of the revered matriarch from the archeological site we’re about to visit speaks of our roots at all.

Red dragons writ large on the sides of rocky hills, the symbols of longevity, power and wisdom, and apparently a voracious appetite.

“Where do you put it all?” I couldn’t help myself, knowing full well Denise was going to treat me to a piece of her mind.

“Shut up and eat, will you, Ethel? God forbid anyone enjoyed oneself at all. You’re like the fun police.”

“Denise!” Mother protested.

Denise didn’t respond, too deeply buried in the cheese pastries to pay attention to anything else.

It is a rare quality, this singular focus, the ability to let the entire world fade to the background so that only your object of interest exists.

Maids from the south through Mirkwood flew,

Fair and young, their fate to follow;

On the shore of the sea to rest them they sat,

The maids of the south, and flax they spun.

Hlathguth and Hervor, Hlothver’s children

(The Poetic Edda - The Lay of Volund)

“Is it true the Valkyries dressed up like swans?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t sound very menacing,” Denise commented distracted, while she considered which sweet confection she should sample next.

Thank you for reading.

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