My Dear Fiona

Chapter 16 - Marwick's Hole

I wondered if there was any sort of protocol when talking to ghosts. Is one allowed to call on them? Or is that considered too forward and one should wait to be acknowledged first?

It seems rather rude to disturb the peace of an entity without the consent of the latter, especially when their home base is always overrun with people.

Denise adamantly disagreed, saying Mr. Sinclair obviously enjoyed the company of the living and he'd be really disappointed to find out we came to the cathedral and didn't bother to call.

Unfortunately for my sister, our friendly guide seemed to be otherwise engaged; besides, the church was filled with the living, anyway.

I'd stopped keeping track of the calendar in Kirkwall, my independent research schedule didn't seem to find any usefulness for it and didn't realize we had come to the cathedral on a Sunday.

The service was almost over when we arrived, and we slid into one of the pews as quietly as possible, careful not to disturb the ceremony.

The familiar chants lulled me into a soft reverie as my eyes wondered, taking in the austere details of the Romanesque architecture, and I was startled when the soft voice behind me, a voice rather recognizable now, whispered from very close by, "I told you, young lady: second pillar on the right."

I looked behind me and saw no one, just heard the echoing of a voice that seemed to walk away from me.

"Look up!"

"Up where, Mr. Sinclair?"

Nobody answered.

"Did you hear that?" I asked Louise.

People don't realize stuff is only weird when it doesn't have social support: my sister was there to validate my conversation with the dearly departed, or to enable me, depending on one's opinions.

A shared experience, either way.

"Yes. Told you!" Denise took a victory lap. "What's that?" She asked out loud, pointing to an arched opening.

"That would be Marwick's Hole, miss," the proper older woman sitting in the pew next to her whispered back. "It's the church's dungeon."

"The what??"

"Those were different times, back then," the lady smiled kindly, bowing to look at me past my sister. "If you lived in those times, you might have had the pleasure of its accommodations. Lore says the best known occupant of it used to have a gift just like yours."

When you've lived your whole life thinking yourself practically invisible, it is very jarring to find out everyone is watching your business, acquaintances and strangers alike, evaluating all your actions, passing judgment and waiting for the next episode of your saga.

How does everybody know about my gift, Fiona, when I spent my entire life perfecting my silence?

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have thought twice about blaming this on Denise. The woman was a murder mouth whose lips couldn't hold back a secret if they were welded shut. But she'd arrived long after my reputation apparently blanketed the island.

The elderly lady continued, unperturbed.

"Poor Janet Forsyth, bless her soul! Sad enough that her lover didn't listen when she told him not to go out to sea in the fog, but to get blamed for it too! Life is cruel, miss. Cruel and unfair. Cherish your youth."

One had to wonder whether the heartfelt sentiment for the departed Janet, who had lived in the seventeenth century, was not a container for feelings much closer to home.