My Dear Fiona

Chapter 10 - Saint Magnus' Bones

It feels like everything in Orkney is made of stone, meant to last forever, and that includes the old stonework of Saint Magnus' Cathedral.

The structure is Romanesque, and austere, with heavy, sturdy pillars built of red sandstone masonry, the kind it takes four people to surround, a strange stone forest again, built by the hands of men.

I returned to the cathedral because the heritage society documents suggested it housed more human remains than that of the saint, and when I saw you playing with the bones, Fiona, I thought this could lead to new revelations.

The most remarkable feats of humanity often come from its most wicked inclinations, and these triumphs start with bloodshed and sorrow, but life is brief, and so soon these tragedies are forgotten.

Betrayal, martyrdom, assassination, lust for power and wars, all the things that governed the lives of people in those older times, seem trite and insignificant when viewed through the lens of history, but the cathedral still stands, now aged nine hundred years.

And the Cairn of Maeshowe.

And the Ring of Brodgar.

And the happy underground homes of Skara Brae.

It makes me ask if we're all getting it wrong, with our ambitions, desires, frustrations and griefs, since humanity isn't just this ongoing form, constantly bringing up the same simple inquiries and misguided passions, but the entirety of its being on earth, past, present and future, in the same way a coral reef adds and grows onto itself for many years to become itself.

Maybe in the grand scale of things, we're only the flawed and unwitting instruments of a much larger purpose, which always eludes us.

Maybe the experiences and stories of those who lived in the past are still with us today, held in the stones of Orkney, which will stand for much longer than human bodies. Could that be the respect and uneasiness I felt, as I moved to the front of the nave: a thousand years of human life?

"You look conflicted, miss. I'm here to listen and hopefully offer some good advice, if you wish."

I turned around, expecting to see the familiar black shirt with a white collar, and instead encountered the kind countenance of an elderly gentleman wearing a tweed jacket.

The disconnect between the expectation and reality pushed me off balance, and before thinking, I said,

"If it's not too much trouble."

Who takes up a complete stranger on his offer to receive and repair one's most profound and troublesome thoughts, I wondered, and the irony of confession and counseling jumped at me with great force? What does it take to trust another's wisdom and good intentions? A starched white collar? A shingle by the door? Somebody else's validation? Usually a person you don't know either?

"It got to you, didn't it?" he started. "Orkney. It's a special place."

"Yes," I replied politely, and then felt awkward, because I didn't know what to say, and regretted my mindless reaction.

"What brought you here, if you don't mind me asking?"

I told him about the research project and the grant and the interest in old Norse poetry and legends, but he shook his head.

"That's the what, not the why."

I instantly decided to keep you out of the conversation, Fiona, at any cost if I wanted to maintain any illusion of sanity.

"I suppose I wanted to know more about my roots."

"Is your family from around here?"

"Was, many generations ago."

"And I see you found your way back," he chuckled. "Lighten up, young miss! Everything is not that important. Just enjoy your life. There is a music festival, you know."

I confirmed I enjoyed the performances in Stromness and in the process gave him an earful of my travels across the islands.

"You left no stone unturned, I see," he commented softly. "Well, there may still be a few of them left. How long are you staying?"

"I don't really know. Until I find what I came here to find," I mumbled, with a naïveté that amused him greatly.

"I would check out the second pillar on the right if I were you," he got up and left, still laughing.

"Where?" I raised my voice to reach him at a distance.

He raised his cane and wished me good luck before the door closed behind him.

I rushed to the second pillar, and I don't know why I expected something obvious to jump at me immediately, some old inscription or a secret hiding place; I kept remembering how my sister laughed at me and the child detective stories I used to get so caught up in. The world is a lot more subtle than the stories we make up about it, I found.

I got confused, because the old gentleman's description, which seemed so straightforward, did not, in retrospect, clarify the location he was pointing to. Which second pillar? Should I have started counting from the ones imbedded in the walls? Include the ones inside the altar? Skip the square pilasters and count the round columns only? At least I knew which side of the church it was on

I checked all the possible candidates, still no luck, and then I sat in a pew and left all thought behind, trying to sense that pillar with my instincts, as if my soul had known its location before, but lost it, like a dream upon awakening.

The pillar didn't answer, but I could feel the spirits of the saints laugh at me and my approach to studying history.

I decided to call it a day and go to my room to go through the documents again. As I got up, my eyes got drawn to the spectacular stained glass of the east wall, and I gaped at it, mouth open in amazement, and to the second pillar on its right.

In the apse behind it, below the stained glass window, lay the sleeping statue of John Rae, the discoverer of the Northwest Passage, and on the wall behind him, the poets' corner, commemorating many of Orkney's writers and artists.

It turns out stone is not the only medium that lasts forever.

The stories and legends of humanity are timeless as well, our past and present legacies to future generations.