Edie
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
Frank was muttering lines to Dylan Thomas poems as I measured and sketched the rock art in the stone circle on the west coast of the island. Squinting, I covered my eyes and peered over the western horizon to the Irish Sea and the setting sun. “You’re right, we’re going to miss the last ferry home if we’re not careful,” I said.
Leaning in a James Dean–esque pose against a menhir, Frank whipped out the pocket watch his dad had given him for his birthday. I sat across the stone circle, finishing my detailed sketch of the circle and the carvings on the center stone.
“There is a great deal of data on the stones themselves, of course. Every circle has information on the sizes, types, and placement of the stones, but their carvings and markings aren’t as seriously considered.”
“Why?” Frank asked.
“Well, there’s no effective way to carbon-date the carvings, so the argument is that we can’t prove that the carvings are contemporaneous with the stone circle.”
“Mmm, I guess that makes sense.”
“Sure it does, but it’s also not precisely the point. If we want to understand what the circles were used for or what their significance is to the culture, then it doesn’t really matter that the carvings match the building dates.”
“Right. But if some really bad folk band on mushrooms, for instance, came and carved these stones up in the early 1960s, then that’s hardly an archaeological explanation for the last four thousand years of their existence,” Frank pointed out as he fidgeted with his camera, looking through the dozens of photos he had taken over the last few hours.
“Fortunately for us, that’s not what it means. Monks recorded some spirals and similar etchings on the stones when they arrived in the ninth century. If we know how pre-Christian society interacted with the stones, then that gives us a pretty good inkling as to the cultural significance in prehistoric Britain. You don’t have to extrapolate too much to have a solid theory, especially if you find something magically simple like a datable carving tool next to a stone.”
“You’re telling me that we missed a ferry, caught another one, came out to this island, and hiked up here to find a datable tool? I have four dating apps for that on my iPhone currently,” Frank said.
“And I’m pretty sure we just met one at the ferry bar,” I added.
We broke into delectable laughter before we heard the first clap of thunder.
Frank examined his watch for a moment and then started to pack up all the equipment. Frank doing anything in more than a lackadaisical manner was a sign of the ferry timetable and impending bad weather without me even needing to ask. So I folded my sketch pads in my lap and tucked my pencil neatly behind my ear. We met in the center of the circle, and I reached into his inner coat pocket for the beloved pocket watch. “I wonder how much of his hair he had to sell to buy this,” I smiled, hoping my O. Henry reference had reached the right audience. Frank smiled too but often hesitated to gush about his tight relationship with his dad in front of me.
Without waiting for a reply, I dropped the watch, and with its reasonable heft, it swiftly plummeted in free fall for a millisecond, about ten inches from my palm and several feet above the earth. With the old, tarnished chain securely wrapped between my fingers, I stabilized it. The watch was in tailspin from the sudden force of gravity, but as the spinning slowed, a forceful back-and-forth motion began, making it swing like a pendulum, first one way and then, very dramatically, as I had predicted, switching directions and moving steadily counterclockwise. Frank seemed surprised at that and looked up at me. Most likely he had just been expecting me to examine the watch or perhaps read the inscription his father had chosen for it: Timor Mortis Conturbat Me.
I always thought it was a cruel inscription on something meant to be passed on by death, but Frank saw the humor in it, a sensibility I’m sure was as inherited from his father as the watch itself. Slowly, the watch began to make larger counterclockwise circles, and as we grew stiller and the calm before the storm grew quieter, the circles widened.
“Well, this is weird. So I guess now is the time when you confound me with your witchcraft and lead me blindly to your lair as a virgin sacrifice?” Frank asked, swinging the heavy pack up on his shoulders. I stuffed my books in the bag, zipped my coat, put the watch in my pocket, and we began the descent in a quick-step down the mountain trail.
“For real, tell me what just happened,” Frank said as he lit a cigarette for our walk down the hillside after reaching into my jacket pocket to take back his watch.
“One theory is that Neolithic tombs and circles are built on ley lines, where there is magnetic pull to the earth’s core because of mineral and metal deposits. The phenomenon that causes the magnetic reaction in the metal watch chain is the fluctuating magnetic field of the earth, what gives us the north and south poles and a lot of weather phenomena and reactions.”
Frank nodded, and I took a deep breath, struggling to keep up with his pace and explain simultaneously. “Anyway, there are a couple theories Sully had. One is that the magnetic fields of the earth fluctuate, which is obvious, but they may have been much stronger around 2500 to 1500 BC, when monuments such as these were erected. And what’s significant about that is that the monuments themselves could have been a reaction to this increased magnetism, which the ancient people of the time naturally felt because they were so connected to the earth. Essentially, they were marking the pull they felt by erecting a monument. We’ve really lost touch with that ability within ourselves through modernization. Especially as the era of technology has conned us into believing that we’re somehow better linked now through social media and online dating.” I raised my eyebrows, looking over at Frank. “So often you see people on their phones or devices whenever they’re outside in nature, and they don’t truly experience or perceive the depth and detail of what surrounds them. We’re missing connections with the earth, and thus we’re missing both small and big messages it has for us.”
“We’re also missing connections with our transportation.”
Frank laughed as I continued with my boring lecture: “And because of that distance, we continue to lose or distrust our intuition, which is that ancient sense tying us to the earth.”
I could see Frank nodding in agreement in my periphery, but he was nearly in a jog, racing to catch our boat, which happened to be the last one off the island since we had gotten a late start.
“Think about how we treat the people who use their intuition and connectivity to nature to tell us what’s happening to us.”
“Like Al Gore?” Frank asked, half joking.
“I was just thinking generally about people who identify as intuitive or psychic, but climate change prophets should definitely be included in that,” I responded.
“So…like Rasputin!” Frank exclaimed.
“Frank, one could consider your ability to weave Rasputin and Russian history into any conversation a superpower in itself,” I replied, out of breath from jogging and lecturing with a pack on.
“Anyway, not go get too Ancient Aliens on you, but there is a theory of geometric gridding as a sacred design or sacred geometry of ley lines, but there are also some more pseudoscientific ideas, like the vile vortices, which all seem to have the properties of the Bermuda Triangle. There are, of course, the Nazca Lines in South America and Buckminster Fuller’s work, which you remember, I’m sure. Even Plato had ideas about energetic gridding as represented by the five solids.”
“Ok, I get it, but what’s the point of them? Like, why do they matter other than making my pocket watch do magic party tricks?”
“Well, it’s hard to say. I mean, maybe on Armageddon we’ll see. They’ll all light up or explode or something. There was an amateur archaeologist in the 1920s who pointed out that they’re like modern-day monuments and skyscrapers in that they give us a concept of where we are and where we’re going, not only in the sense of which cardinal direction but also related to other settlements, like a road map linking them through man-made topographical features. And a couple of bros at the British museum actually took that hypothesis and proved that there are these underground rivers and magnetic currents, using dowsers.”
“I knew we were overdue for a visit to the Elgin Marbles!” Frank was now almost at an all-out run, which worried me. What time was it? I followed on his heels. “But how can topography be man-made?”
“Well, if you’re standing in Trafalgar Square and someone has to be at Parliament in ten minutes, do you tell them walk southeast or do you tell them to look for Big Ben? It’s that sort of concept, but that only works locally. And of course many of the stones are brought in from faraway places, so was that done to recall a homeland or to connect to those places? It’s hard to say. But if the monuments are meant to refer to other ones built on the same ley lines, like the sacred geometry theory, then it makes sense that they would also use material from the places to which they refer. Or maybe there is something else to the rock choice, like the magnetism of the metals that run in the colored veins. Or maybe it’s both. I think many of the kerbstones and menhirs of Britain’s most famous stone circles are from shared sources, particularly the Welsh and Scottish coasts,”
“OK, so they didn’t just choose the place to erect the monument; the place chose them. They felt it, and the monument is a physical representation of that feeling. And it’s been theorized that there may have been stronger pulls from these magnetic fields at certain times when the monuments were built, which is why so many of the stones contain veins to make bronze alloys. So what do you think the world was like when these magnetic fields were pulling on people like that—how did they explain it without science?”
“That’s a great question. Maybe people are polarized—the individual is polarized from the group, ideas are polarizing, and most of all, they felt it, intuitively, physically, through the nerve endings in their feet, in a way we can’t anymore,” I said.
“So you’re saying that the ancients dealt with these times more constructively than we do?” Frank laughed at his own pun. He was the only person I knew who could be simultaneously fast and witty.
“Whatever drove them to create the monuments, I definitely believe, above all, that the pull toward the earth is positive. It’s what we want to feel, what grounds us, and what gives us important internal cues and information for decision-making. Feeling it is what some people call being centered or in harmony.”
“Maybe we should have a pint or two and try to imagine what it all means,” Frank offered.
“We already had a pint or three waiting for the last ferry. Oh shit!” I yelled, rounding the corner to catch up with Frank, who was waving on the gravel slope as our ferry pulled away so slowly its movement was nearly imperceptible. I ran after it, waving my arms. No use. And neither were ferry timetables. They simply did not follow them.
Frank had apparently already seen that we had missed our ferry yet again. By the time I turned around, he was squatted, sitting on the pack in a comfortable resting position after our little jog, counting out the cash we had brought with us.
“Oh my God! To be left by something that slow?” I exclaimed, attempting to rile him a bit so I had someone to be angry with. “It’s like a receding iceberg. I can barely tell it’s moving. All we have to do is jump in and swim to catch it.”
“Simmer down, honey, I have enough cash for the pub inn if they don’t take cards. Anyway, a) we don’t have extra clothes so, let’s avoid hypothermia and two) they won’t let us on if we swim for it. You know all those ferrymen are on a power trip. In fact, it makes me hot just thinking about it.”
“In that case, I’m thankful they’re headed away. Don’t tell me how far a walk the ‘pub inn’ is! I don’t want to know. Just walk there, and I’ll follow you.”
“We just passed it when you were deep in thought, dear.” He turned me around by my shoulders. “Let’s navigate toward that flat-top hill in the distance. You can barely make out the tippy-top of the thatched roof of the pub and the vacancy sign, some man-made topography for you.”
The inn was the standard—a dark pub on the first floor with very subpar yet warm food and single and double rooms upstairs. I was correct in that the island was not a popular vacation destination at this moment in seasonal time, but because of a personal family gathering that the innkeeper was having, there was just a single room left. One tiny, twin bed on an ancient wooden frame stood in the corner with a small nightstand next to it. In the opposite corner was a large leather chair, ripped in the seat, with stuffing exposed, next to a full bookshelf. I knew that was where Frank would be spending the night. He was quite chivalric as best friends go. So we carried the pack up, locked the room, washed our faces and hands, and headed down to the pub, where raucous singing could be heard as soon as we descended the stairwell.
“This will easily go on past midnight,” I whispered.
“And it’s only seven o’clock,” Frank bemoaned.
We smiled and nodded at the garrulous company, wishing we shared their mirth. But the impending night of uncomfortable sleep kept us less than joyful as we slid into a corner booth. Frank doffed his beanie and ran his hands through his thick, wavy hair, making it stand on end and thus appropriately display his emotional state.
“OK, what are we having? It’s my treat—it’s my fault we missed the ferry,” I said. “With the number of sheep and cows at pasture out back, I imagine either the mutton or burger might be best. And you’d think the fish would be OK at least, it being an island and all…I’d kill for another Scottish herring.” I peered over my menu with a smirk on my face. The joke was quickly received and delightfully rebutted.
“I told you if I saw another herring on a plate, I’d jump off the Arran Cliffs and take you with me,” Frank reminded me. The corner of his mouth neatly turned up at the end as he focused on rolling a small cigarette. “I’m ordering us both the burger because if you don’t get your own, you’ll want mine. Join me?” he questioned as he licked the end of the paper and waggled the neatly rolled cigarette.
“No thanks. I don’t want to smell like cigarette smoke and wet wool. I can’t imagine anything worse than sleeping in stinky clothes.”
“I think thou dost protest too much.”
He shrugged and started to walk to the bar as I shouted, “Fries, I mean chips, for me too!”
Facing the barkeep, different from the innkeeper—his son, perhaps—Frank merely raised a thumb in reply. He ordered at the bar, blessing me with a pint of local cider before heading out the back door with his own pint.
Solitude was always helpful to my thoughts. Despite knowing me quite well, Frank was still an outsider to the workings of my mind, and as of late, I had found myself deep in a contemplation that was part academic, part intuitive, and the result was leaving me a little more than perplexed about where to head next with my research.
It was funny how I never needed headphones to study or write, I thought; the background susurrus of the jubilant crowd, now fully engaged in a less-than-coherent version of “Eamonn an Chnoic,” was the perfect soundtrack to my deliberation.
The tartness of the cider cut through the bitter taste in my mouth, and as the chorus came back around, I zoned out completely, focusing on what tidbits I had that I could link. Funnily enough, it was the herring that pulled my attention most. I knew that the cliffs had significance. How could they not? How could modern tourists park themselves on these fragile shelves, reminders of our frail existence, without thinking about how people used to interact with the landscape? I wondered, in a macabre moment, how many people had actually thrown themselves off of Slieve League or the famous Cliffs of Moher or the ones on Arran, in a moment of despair.
I knew with certainty that these monumental landscapes themselves must have an important relationship with the monumental creations I was uncovering. Standing at the edge of a nine-hundred-foot cliff is life-changing. You feel the deafening power of full control, and then, looking out into the vastness of the Atlantic, you know you’re utterly powerless. The Druids never would have let the Paris Environmental Accords fail, I thought. Then, plonk, our fresh burgers were dropped on the table like manna from heaven by…Michael?
“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised.
“I should be asking you that question.” He smiled. “I live here, Edana.”
I had never been regularly called by my full name. Not by my parents. Not by my grandparents, whom I barely knew. It was only ever uttered in that first day roll call at school each year before I corrected the teacher. I couldn’t tell if the way he pronounced it with his Irish lilt irritated me or enchanted me. At this news I looked around at the pub automatically.
“Well, not here in the pub!” He laughed. “I live on the island, just across the way. Do you need a place to crash tonight?”
Frank’s head appeared just then, bobbing inside the nearby doorway; he was ready to devour his delicious burger and relax to some authentic Celtic pub music. “Yes!” he confirmed as he approached the table. “We only have one bed upstairs, so one of us needs to stay with you.”
I turned a deep red color, which probably made me blend in with the Irish more than stand out, I thought. I wanted to eat my burger and go up to the room alone to sleep, but Sully had always said, with his green canteen full of black coffee, “There’s no time like the present!” and I felt like I had something yet to learn from Michael. He slid in next to me with his nearly gone Smithwicks in hand. He was warm, wearing a flannel over a black T-shirt and faded black jeans with workmen’s boots. He was clean-shaven and smelled of beer and some sort of aftershave I couldn’t name. Had he shaved at the bar before coming here? I thought I remembered stubble from earlier. He rested his arm on the back of the ancient bench seat behind my head, and I leaned back into it a little bit as I sipped my cider.
“Just arrived on me boat,” he said into my ear. “Was that you I saw runnin’ at the ferry terminal?” I nodded, embarrassed, and he smiled, amused.
The music picked up strength, and we couldn’t hear each other for a chat at the table, anyway. We ate and bobbed and swayed along to the rhythm of the bodhran and fiddle. Even sitting, it’s impossible not to move your body with the sounds of traditional music.
After a few minutes, Frank looked over at me and asked, with his mouth full, “What’s that look, Edie?”
“What?” I asked in a daze of music, food, drink, and Michael’s musk.
“Are you going to fall asleep?” he asked.
“No, I’m just happy,” I replied.
Michael’s chest seemed to expand as he accidentally overheard this exchange. “Yous two can go across the way to my house if you’re tired. It’s the one with the red door and barking dogs. Door’s open. Dogs are friendly. There’s one bed and one sofa. It’s an old crofter cottage, so just two rooms. I can sleep here at the pub. Won’t be the first time.” He winked at me and finished, “Or the last.”
Then the lead singer’s voice came echoing through the microphone, which he spoke too closely into. “This one is for all you young lovers on this weekend of Ostara.”
I had almost forgotten the spring equinox was the next day. “It’s always some fecking pagan holiday,” Frank said across the table.
“Will you go with me up to the stones in the morning before the ferry?” Michael asked so close to my ear it tickled, but it was the only way to be heard above the singing. I nodded, looking into his earnest blue eyes. “I have something I want to show you,” he added.
While my mind began spiraling into what secret the stones may have up on the lonely hill, the Irishmen I was sitting with gleefully joined in the singing. I couldn’t help but laugh and clap along to the beat as best I could.
I’m as happy as a king
When I catch a breath of spring
And the grass is turning green as winter ends
And the geese are on the wing
And the thrushes start to sing
And I’m headed down the road to see my friends
The next morning I met Michael at sunrise at the stone circle. Frank slept. As I approached, the sun was rising and shining in long shafts between two of the largest stones. That’s no coincidence, I thought. I reached into my bag for my journal, but something stopped me. Michael was leaning against the kerbstone, paper cup of coffee in hand, staring off into the distance. The sight was so perfect it took my breath away, but I had never let feelings come before work, and I couldn’t now, not when I was so close to finishing Sully’s book. Anyway, I hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school, just over a decade ago, and I had no idea what to say or how to act.
As I approached, he turned toward me, and I saw he had a cup of coffee for me as well. “Thanks for letting us crash at your place, and for the coffee,” I said quietly. I pulled my journal out and turned to my most professional tone to ask what he had to show me.
“Coffee first,” he said simply.
We sipped in companionable silence, and I pressed my back against the kerbstone. The fingers on my right hand dangled by my side and grazed something on the stone. There was a very precise carving. My eyes popped open. Michael smiled as I knelt down and searched for my tracing paper in my bag.
“I can’t believe it’s a triskelion!” I exclaimed. The triple spiral motif was something I had only seen at Newgrange.
“Bit of a sundial too, like at Newgrange,” he answered, squatting next to me, speaking my thought out loud. He was smiling so big that I noticed the neat space in his front teeth for the first time.
“Thank you,” I said, maybe less professionally this time, trying to take my eyes off his mouth. “We were in such a rush yesterday—I can’t believe we missed this.”
“Weeeell, yer no Indiana Jones, that’s for sure,” he joked. “It’s well hidden, ‘round this side and small. Most people miss it,” he said. “I have plenty of drawings and etchings back at my house. When you’re done, I’ll show you, and we can bring Frank some coffee.”
He stood up again and picked up my bag for me. I finished the transfer to the tracing paper while he hummed his favorite tune from the night before, an American song, “Galway Girl.”