To My Children:
When I’d dead and gone you’ll find front and
centre among my odd keepsakes two small rocks with holes right through the
centre. Before you toss them out, I want you to know their story.
Here’s the Short version:
I found these two stones in a riverbed in Smoo
Scotland, on the very north coast, in 2013. One is igneous I think and the
other sedimentary. They are about 1.5 inches each.
As for the longer version:
I get yearnings. There are forces all around me
leading me, pulling me pushing me in various directions. Invisible of course.
Do I hear a Banshee wailing to me across the ocean that divides us? Is there a
witch beckoning with wings of a black swan? Is there an ancestor’s lonely song
calling from beneath rarely travelled sod?
I had to go to Northern Scotland. Where that pull
came from, I don’t know but I’ll tell you what I do know. The moment the plane
landed in Edinburgh I felt at home. More intense than feeling at home, what I
felt was cellular. I belonged here. Though I’d traveled alone, I felt
accompanied.
Edinburgh is wonderful. Centuries old, ornate,
cobblestoned, hilly, snaked with dark alleys and spooked up with ghost tours.
But the north called. I found a tour, which edged into and around the
highlands, to Inverness (a good base for going elsewhere), then to the tip of
the country, and then a ferry across the cold ocean to Orkney.
We toured the ruins of Pictish houses, Norse
structures, and most important for me, the prehistoric standing stones that
comprise the Ring of Brodgar. No one knows why they are there. No humans that
is. They stand as giant shadows against the evening sun, and in the daytime
stalwart sentinels.
I leaned into the one that called me and placed my
hand on it, wanting a response. It stood there stoically but I was convinced
there was a little warmth of response under my hand. Really.
Back on the little tour bus, and loaded on the
ferry, we left Orkney, heading for the mainland. The next day at a very
Scottish breakfast I sat with the bus driver, who was focussed on the small
stone in his hand. It had a remarkable hole straight though the middle.
He looked up. “It’s a prophecy stone,” he said.
My spidey sense perked up. “Do tell,” I said.
And he told me if the bearer peers through it she
may see spirits or fairies or see through a witch's disguise. It will protect
her from witches and ne'er-do-wells, those things that go bump in the night.
Whether she sees fairies or not, no bother, the stone will bring good luck.
I wanted one. “Where did it come from?” I asked.
He was coy at first. “Oh, a wee cave not far from
here.” He took a drink of coffee, teasing.
“Around here?” I was already mentally lacing up my
boots to get going to wherever that was.
He nodded. “Smoo. The stones are in the river
there just outside the cave. You may find one or two. Some do, some don’t. What
I think is, if you’re blessed or need blessing, you find them.”
“Are we going?” I had to go but I was a prisoner
of the bus route.
“Oh, that I canna tell,” he bit into a piece of
black sausage. “Up to the tour guide.”
But of course, he knew. We did stop at the famous
Smoo Cave (I know of its fame now). My anticipation could have combusted
everyone within five feet of me. A prophecy stone!! My very own!!
The driver winked at me on my way out of the bus.
We stumbled in a touristy line down a steep hill to a riverbed that opened on
one side to the ocean, on the other to a wide-mouthed cave.
It was a nice enough cave. I wandered in there a
bit, admired the waterfall within it, appreciated the Durness limestone, (my,
isn’t that nice rock) came out again to examine the riverbed. I was looking for
my stones. He said they’d be in the river.
It was a sunny day in Scotland. (True!) The river
teased me. Stones of every colour glimmered in the sunlight beneath the shallow
water. All I could see was a jumble of lovely stones with no holes.
My technique was primitive. I kicked stones over,
getting my toes wet, plunged my hands into the freezing water. Finally, the
stream revealed a small grey treasure with a perfect hole. Of course, I was
thrilled and zipped it into my jacket pocket.
But the river wasn’t done with blessing me. I
stole time for one more look. The bus was leaving and I had to catch up to the
others stumbling up the slippery hill to the road. And there it was! A white
triangular stone with a slightly skewed hole, yes! Right through the centre.
I scrambled up the hill, and boarded the bus with
a smile at the driver.
It’s been some years now since I packed my little
treasures in my homebound bags. So far the stones are silent. But perhaps
quietly, invisibly they do bring me blessings and luck. But so far no fairies.
They do bring memories of a wonderful trip, and a call to the north coast of Scotland that I’m glad I answered. You may wonder why I felt so at home there when my ancestors are Irish. More to be revealed.
Geology:
Google Pics tells me both stones are also called
hag stones, having a naturally occurring hole that runs completely through,
caused by wave action or the burrowing of bivalve mollusks. That does sound
dull. If they were Irish stones I’d picture leprechauns with tiny drills
working away all night on the job.
The lighter stone is probably pumice, volcanic,
porous, light coloured, ejected from a volcano. Dissolved gases escape as the
rock cools, creating the foamy texture. I picture it flying through the
atmosphere with the eruption wondering where to land.
The grey stone’s beginning is more elusive. I see
various small rocks embedded within it. Perhaps it’s a conglomerate. Undoubtedly
it had a quieter birth, settling in slowly as it gathered other smaller stones
in one unit.
Do they relate to me? One stone is light in both
weight and colour, but had a violent beginning. Perhaps the dichotomy applies.
I have what you consider a goofy sense of humour, yet I’ve been through some
deep and distressing times. The darker stone is a mystery, comprised of various
smaller rocks and smoothed eons by time.
Both reflect the concept of impermanence.
Everything changes no matter how slowly, reminding me to stay flexible and to
try to accept the sometimes-unsettling fluidity of life.
And so my children, my grandchildren, this is the story of the two stones that spend hours of every day with me at my computer. So far they are withholding visions of fairies. But they continually remind me I am blessed. When I am gone, do toss out whatever you like, but at least you’ll know there is meaning and story behind the things that surround me.
Sheila Eastman is a musician living in
Mississauga. She plays and teaches piano and performs in local concert bands in
the percussion section – hitting things. Her writing reflects detailed
observations of human behavior and her bizarre sense of humour.
She is a past winner in the Mississauga Library writing contest, poetry division, and was runner up in the Alice Munro short story contest.
Publications include obscure articles on medieval music, an equally obscure monograph on a Canadian composer and totally relevant and exciting articles on wildflowers. Because of her short attention span she writes mainly short stories.
For more essays, short stories, and poetry by you fellow writers see here (and scroll down).
See Brian Henry's upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and four-day retreats here.
