“The Prophecy Stones of Smoo” by Sheila Eastman

 

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.

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