Always Midnight In Orkney E-Book

Søren Landkildehus

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 497

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Returning to Orkney has consequence for Joe and his mother, Marjorie. Joe gets a new start in a part of the world where the isles and the sea are integral to the lives that unfold, the myths created, and the stories told. Marjorie faces a reckoning in a community where some stories hurt too much. In the course of a decade, Always Midnight In Orkney follows the lives, victories, and sorrows of Joe, Marjorie and the circle of people around them. Into the mix, ancient forces make themselves felt and known as they intervene in the course of events. Destinies are woven together on Orkney: "It's where the loom is!"

Leseprobe

Chapters

Part One: The Tides of Jupiter

1: The Ferry

2: St. Magnus Cathedral

3: The Earls Incumbent

4: The Distillery

5: The Barriers

Part Two: The Ring of Brodgar

1: The Dance of Death

2: The Stone of Westray

3: The Comet Stone

4: The Stone of Odin

5: Death Digging

Part Three: The Ba' Game

1: The Ba' at Mercat Cross - Calum

2: The Ba' at West Castle Street – Mike & Neil

3: The Ba' at the Parking Lot – Clive & Sam

4: The Ba' in the Vicinity of the Odin Store – Torsten & Bjorn

5: The Ba' in the Harbor - Joe

Part Four: The Trip to Birsay

1: Skara Brae

2: The Farmstead

3: Birsay – The Beach

4: Brough of Birsay

5: Always Midnight in Orkney

Author's Note

Credits

PART ONE: THE TIDES OF JUPITER

1: THE FERRY

It was almost impossible to discern, but there was a glimpse of a starlike light peeking through a hole in the otherwise overcast sky.

“Look, Ma, a star!”

“It's Jupiter, Joe.”

Joe and his mother stood on the deserted sun deck of the Aberdeen ferry as it approached Kirkwall. The evening had turned into night. Soon they would disembark at Hatston Pier. Other passengers were busy preparing to get off the ferry. Joe looked at his mother. Her slim and short figure was enveloped in a large coat with faux fur lining the hood. Her greying, but still reddish, long hair draped on both sides out of the hood, down on her chest. Her slender hand was holding onto the railing, her knuckles white and pale from the chill.

“Should we get inside, Ma?” Joe's voice trembled. He wore an old shell jacket and a knitted cap from some sports team down south. Joe hadn't been too interested in sports. It was one of his mother's boyfriends who got it for him. Paying for access. Not that his mother was loose, but when the men met Joe, it seemed as if they had to make peace with him or at least acknowledge that Joe was the man of the house. They were only passersby. Lucky them. Joe had had to be the man of the house from a very early age. He remembered the day when his dad suddenly fell and couldn't be revived. Joe was seven years old at the time. By two months. He was fourteen now.

“You were born there,” Ma pointed to some indistinct place in the maze of dim city lights.

“Am I an Uppie or a Doonie?” Joe inquired. This was his first trip to Orkney, but he had heard all about how the town of Kirkwall was divided between those born up by the gates and those down by the harbor. His parents had left Orkney shortly after his birth because his dad had gotten a well-paying job down south. Now, looking at the mythical city of his parents' origin, he felt a strange wistfulness that took him by surprise. His mother turned to face him and reached to caress his cheek.

“You're a man of the sea, that's what you are,” she laughed a little. The silvery tones of her voice went straight into his heart, and he leaned into her hand.

“Ma, shouldn't we be going in now?” His breaking tenor harmonized with her soprano.

“Yes, now we'll get inside,” she decided.

They had embarked from Aberdeen after a long drive from the Midlands. Ma had lived close to Birmingham since the day the man Joe knew as his father died. Marc had taken her in when she found out she was pregnant. Ma didn't know who Joe's biological father was. She had always practiced safe sex, insisting that the men wear condoms. So how Joe happened was a mystery to her. Marc had been terrific. He had just landed a big job in Birmingham and he let her escape from a family that would treat her badly if she had stayed. She didn't mind the realization of her parents' rejection as much as she minded the fact of their poverty. Somehow, she resented that in ways that surprised even her. It wasn't that she faulted them for being poor. She felt that they took a pride in it that she didn't like. On their way to Aberdeen, she had told Joe a version of events that suited her best. She didn't want to tell him that Marc wasn't his real dad. She needed a story to tell him why they had never visited her now-dead parents and why she had kept him in the dark about the rest of the family. She had spoken about her Orkney heritage all through his childhood but carefully dodged any mention of or question about the rest of her family.

She was good at telling stories. They kept people entertained. She would embellish and exaggerate just a bit to allow people to know they were hearing one of her stories. This time, she needed to tell Joe why the old Vauxhall Corsa was filled with all their movable belongings.

The house Marc had bought was sold quickly after his death. She kept going on that money for a while and then she sought the company of other men to get by for a little longer. She had been on the dole, she had taken odd jobs, she had done her best. Now she was past doing anything. She felt so tired and worn out. So, when the message came that her parents had died within a month of each other, she called Phyllis, cancelled the lease on the flat, and stuffed everything they had into the car. Phyllis, her sister, had invited them to live with her, just like she had expected she would. But how to tell Joe the story of why she had kept hidden from him the fact that he had an aunt called Phyllis?

Joe had come home from school one day to find his mother packing.

“What's going on, Ma?”

“Ah, there you are, Joe. Now, I know this looks strange, but what's happened is that I got a message from my sister. She's in dire straits and needs help. I've asked 'have you got room for Joe as well?' and she has this very nice place in Kirkwall, not far from the distillery. She has plenty of room. So we are going to help her out.”

“I didn't know you had a sister?”

“Ach, we've been a bit estranged, that's what – but blood is thicker than water, isn't it?”

“Blood… but what about school… and my mates?”

“You'll have to say goodbye to them, Joe. I must tell the school that we are moving.”

“But Ma!”

“Ach, our Joe, there are no buts or ifs – we leave on Friday. So, you have tomorrow to say goodbye to your friends.”

“That's not fair!”

And it wasn't, because she had begged her sister for help a month before she broke it to Joe. But a story of crisis is so much easier to handle than the truth, and her needs came before Joe's.

Phyllis had finally agreed to take her sister and Joe in after hours of phone calls sketching the terrible fate that had befallen Ma and now threatened Joe. But with Phyllis out of the shadowy secret of Ma's past, Joe became an unstoppable inquisitor. Ma tried her best to stay consistent through all the repetitions that followed from Joe's many interlinked questions. He would often return to something she had answered earlier on, just to check if her answer could withstand scrutiny. She felt secure in her narrative. Marc was disliked by her father, so when they left Orkney, they had a big falling out with the whole family. Joe couldn't check that story, so it didn't matter if it wasn't true. Yes, it was difficult in the short span of time between Ma and Marc getting together, Ma getting pregnant, and the falling out. How long before Joe was born did grandfather know about Marc? It was hard to say, because he was a coach in one of the football clubs where Marc played. Ma was counting on Joe not investigating much more beyond the car trip. Because as he kept going, she was spending more and more energy on keeping all the stories straight. She rallied around Aberdeen to impress upon him that Phyllis was a strong and proud woman, so she wouldn't like to hear stories about her around town. Therefore, they had to agree on telling the story that Phyllis was helping them. Even Phyllis was to be kept in the dark.

“Can you do that?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“That's our Joe!”

She drove the old Vauxhall onto the ferry, and as they left the small world of the car, they were enveloped by noises, vehicles, and adrenaline-pumped human beings in a rush to get to their seats. Ma and Joe navigated the stairs to where they could get something to eat. Ma ordered the soup of the day with a buttered bun for both. Joe could have eaten more, but he knew better than to ask. She had sent him off to get a cup of tea for her. He had kept the change. She had dozed off, leaning her head back. For fun, Joe placed one of the coins on her closed eyelid. It stayed put until Ma woke with a little start. The coin sprang from her face onto the table, on which it ricocheted down to the floor. Joe jumped after it to get it back.

It was only a twenty-pence piece, but with no money to speak of, any coin is worth more than its face value tells you. Usually, that's what Ma would say. This time, when he returned without the coin in his hand, she gave him a scolding. He had told her stutteringly why the coin had disappeared. She was more interested in the disrespect, as she called it, he had shown her by putting a coin on her eyelid while she was sleeping. Joe sat back and sulked for a bit. Ma went to the cafeteria and came back with a cake, which she divided in two. Joe stared reluctantly at the piece of cake that Ma had placed in front of him. Ma had already eaten hers, with only a little crumb left on her lower lip. Joe shifted his gaze from his untouched piece to his mother's mouth and back again. With a shake of her head to rearrange her hair, the sleeve of her sweater accidentally brushed the crumble away. Joe felt like that crumble, accidentally brushed away and now stuck in the mesh of his mother's clothing.

“Eat your cake.”

“I'm not hungry,” Joe lied.

“We can't afford to let it go to waste.”

“You can have it.”

“There are still some hours until we get there.”

“I don't care.”

“Joe! Don't be ungrateful.”

“Thank you for the cake, but I'm not hungry.”

Ma took the piece of cake off the plate, wrapped it in a napkin, and put it in her bag. As she did so, she looked furtively around as if to detect whether someone was watching her. The silence between them grew. Joe was sulking, and Ma was disappointed. The long drive had taken a toll on both. And now, this confinement. Ma had no more stories to tell, afraid she was no longer able to keep them apart and consistent. Joe was no longer inquisitive, feeling that he had been fed a lie. Joe didn't want that cake because in the moment, it became something more than just sugar, butter, and flour. Ma wasn't being straight with him, and he couldn't figure out why she was so changeable. She should have just repeated her usual rant about the value of the coins when he failed to retrieve it.

Joe felt that blaming him for being disrespectful was unfair. Just as unfair as the whole moving to Orkney was sprung on him like that.

“Joe… I can't make ends meet.”

“I know.”

“Do you, Joe? Perhaps. Well, you know I can't afford what your friends' parents can afford. But all my skills were lost long ago, and I can't do the cleaning jobs anymore. I just can't, Joe.” Ma began sobbing.

Such little moments of truth moved Joe. He scooted over to comfort his mother. Joe made a pact with himself that he would stay true to the story his mother wanted to tell. There was a core of truth in his mother's inability to take care of them, which meant he had to step in again and again. Just like now, when he held his mother's sobbing body in an awkward embrace. He took charge, and he was the one to look around furtively to see whether others were observing them. Most people ignored them, and the ones who stared got an aggressive stare back. They were left alone.

Ma felt comforted and safe with Joe taking charge like that. Just a boy, but he was all the rock she had. As the sobbing stopped, her mind glided into a reverie. There was a pull and a push between them. Joe was dependent on her because she was the adult, but his soul was so forceful that he made her wobble ever so slightly. She needed him more than he needed her, she felt sure. “Joe'll be all right no matter what. But I won't,” she thought to herself as the warmth of her son's embrace rippled through her and back again. She dried her eyes and looked at him.

“That's our Joe...”

Joe let go of her and stood up. She followed. Without speaking, they communicated a direction towards the sun deck. They were going to watch the ferry's approach to the mainland. Once out in the open, darkness encompassed them. The night sky was overcast with clouds carrying water vapors destined for Norway. The lanterns of the ferry struggled in vain to enlighten the passage. They leaned on the railings, holding onto the ferry's structure as if the ship would at any time shake them off like parasites on an animal.

“We are riding a horse to Orkney,” Ma said, making a reference to the ship's name “Hrossey”.

“Did you learn to ride when you grew up?”

“No. I was more interested in music then.”

“What was it like, growing up on Orkney?”

“I guess just like anywhere else,” Ma replied.

“So, nothing special?”

“The only sure thing about Orkney is that you can never be sure about the weather,” Ma said, and explained: “Four seasons in a day, my mother always said to me and my sisters.”

“Four seasons…” Joe didn't inquire about the plurality of siblings Ma had accidentally betrayed.

“The day can start with snow showers, then suddenly bright blue skies and the sun insisting on its right to warm everything up, then fog and clammy chill, then a nice cool autumnal sunset. And all that in a day.”

“Sounds magical.”

“I guess it is, come to think of it,” Ma agreed.

Ma was overwhelmed with memories that fought for her attention. That time when she had that terrible argument with her mother about moving with Marc to Birmingham. Her mother's chocolate brownies, with the smell of rich and dark flavors, were as present to her as if there was a tray of cake in front of her. Her mother's voice, as she sang hymns in church. Incomplete, torn asunder, and lacking direction, the memories demanded something of her. And it wasn't just her attention: to look, feel, smell, and taste them for what they were; they also wanted her to be a witness. They lacked truth and sought to be validated by her remembrance. She settled on “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and tried to focus on the lyrics and the melodious voice her mother had possessed. But in crept another memory. The Boxing Day spat they regressed into involuntarily. The shame of it all – that she was pregnant, sexually active, that she didn't know the father of her child – blame mixed with the smell of cloves, cinnamon, and mince pies. “Oh, the mince pies from Westray… such a reprieve,” she thought as she tried to hold on to “Hrossey” more tightly.

Concentrating on the mince pies allowed her to regain herself from the image of her mother's eyes that night so many years ago. But it was a small pause because the saltiness of the air made her rehearse her stories to Phyllis when she excused herself from attending their parents' funerals. She had always been fascinated by tears, her own and the tears of saints. The salty canals they created on the faces of mourners, whether they mourned the passing of a beloved or a witness to their lives. “Witness,” she dwelled on the word. “Witnesses are supposed to tell the truth. But what is that? How are events ever going to be recounted from any other perspective than a first person?”

“Look, Ma, out there!” Joe pointed to a flickering light.

“I guess that's Copinsay,” she said. Soon they would enter Shapinsay Sound, and then it wouldn't take long to get to Hatston Pier. Joe seemed to have found his childlike enthusiasm again, busily looking out for other lights. Ma remembered when she and Marc left. They had also been looking for lights, a way to say goodbye. How it had felt like the right choice then, and how it had stung when she registered the rejection she felt from her parents. “Witness,” she thought again, “the ones who knew me best are gone. There are no witnesses left. No one to correct me, no one to hold me accountable.”

“Ma, are you alright?” Joe asked.

“That's our Joe—always thinking of others. That's good,” she replied.

Joe beamed, now recovered from the incident. It was a familiar route to harmony: Ma could cry and be comforted. In turn, it allowed Joe to be the boy who could play and have fun. He was trained in this transaction of care: to get it, he had to provide it. Not that Ma didn't take good care to be seen as a proper mother, providing structure, food, and decent clothes, though nothing too fancy. But when it came to who was the source of emotional security, it was always Joe. Without entirely knowing this mentally, his body knew it. He responded to the storms and flares his mother could be capable of showing. Without reservation, she was present to him, interlocked in a tragic cycle of needing him. Without fail, she always repented when having had an outburst.

She had never hit him physically, but he understood that his mother's emotional unreliability meant that he had to be wary of when she might lash out with her words.

As “Hrossey” navigated closer to the mainland, the clouds began to break. Out of one of the holes in the clouds, a starry light emerged.

“Look, Ma, a star!”

“It's Jupiter, Joe.”

“Jupiter...”

“The largest planet in our solar system.”

“How it shines!”

“It reflects the light of the sun.”

“So it does nothing on its own?”

“Well, it does plenty. Especially for the moons that circle it.”

“Moons?”

“Yes. Europa, Io, Callisto, and Ganymede, and many more.”

“But nothing to the sun?”

“Well, actually, the sun wobbles a little because of what Jupiter and Saturn do.”

“Where's Saturn now?”

“Below the horizon, I guess.”

In the distance, they spotted the lights of Kirkwall as the ferry drew closer. The feeling of returning to her origins made Ma smile wryly. Perhaps it was her feeling of anticipation that was strongest, but there were also feelings of trepidation and anger. How she was going to speak to her sister about all that had happened, she didn't know. "Blood is thicker than water," as she so often had said to Joe, but she knew that turning one's back on family comes with a price. On the one hand, she really wanted to see her sister again. However, she was afraid of what the move to Phyllis's house would mean. Would they get along? How much humble pie would she have to eat, expecting Phyllis would serve it? And underneath, she felt the growing anger of being put in this situation. Why had Marc left her on her own to take care of a fatherless child? She knew Marc wasn't to blame, but she blamed him anyway.

“Where did you live before leaving?”

“Look over there… well, you can't quite see it, but it's in that direction.” Ma pointed to a place in the distance. Joe couldn't see what she was pointing to, but he nodded anyway. He sensed his mother's expectant unease. Being used to her paradoxical emotional life, he chose to appease her as best he knew.

“It's getting cold, Ma,” he said.

“Look over there. That's where you were born.” Again, Joe just nodded.

“An Uppie or Doonie?”

“You are a man of the sea, that's what you are.” She laughed and caressed his chin. Joe kept nodding.

“We can go in now.”

Ma led them through the maze of people who were readying themselves to disembark. They got to the old Vauxhall. Back in Joe's interrogation space, Ma decided that she was going to make her best effort to make things work with Phyllis.

“Joe… I'm going to make sure it works out with Phyllis. We are going to settle down and find ourselves a good life.” The car had turned into a sort of confessional. Joe looked at his mother and nodded again, but his silence spoke volumes.

“Joe… I mean it. I'm going to make this work.”

“Okay.” As the word fell from his lips, Joe regretted it. Now Ma had promised something, and he would hold her to it. As soon as the okay sounded in the makeshift sanctuary of the car, the ferry docked. Within minutes, they drove onto the mainland.

After Grainshore Road, Ma chose to drive towards Junction Road. She felt suddenly estranged; many things looked the same, but just as many were unfamiliar, uncanny even. Up St. Catherine's, along Queen and King Streets, round Bignold Park, she sat tensed up, trying to remember her native landscape. Finally, they got onto Holm Street, and then she found the road quite close to the distillery where Phyllis lived now. During the drive to Aunt Phyllis's, Joe watched building after building as if trying to make a map on his own, but he had to give up, disoriented by the many impressions and the insufficient light. He wouldn't be able to recount the route.

Not that he expected to be held accountable for that, but he was curious about his surroundings. He sensed his mother's tension and chose to keep quiet. It wasn't the time to ask questions. She would probably scold him for distracting her. Anyway, he was anxious to meet Aunt Phyllis. Ma hadn't said much about her. Was she an older or younger sister? What did she do? How come she had plenty of room? Didn't she have a family of her own? Joe had so many questions that he wanted answered, but he had realized on the way from Birmingham that Ma knew very little about Phyllis. So Joe was just as curious about why Ma and Phyllis hadn't been in contact all those years. With his head close to the window, his breath made a little foggy area where he drew a smiley face, which he quickly erased with the sleeve of his jumper.

The old Vauxhall Corsa stopped in front of Phyllis's house. Filled with all their things, the small car contained everything from clothes to games and books to Tupperware containers, and an old china tea set. Ma had disposed of most of her kitchen things, toys, and furniture the day before they left Birmingham. They had eaten leftover pizza off the precious tea set plates and been drinking lemonade from the cups. She had taken great care to instruct Joe to be careful with the delicate china. As he fell asleep on a yoga mat that last night in Birmingham, she washed the china with an almost religious reverence. Then she wrapped it in bubble wrap, packed it securely, and whispered a little prayer along the lines of “please let it get there in perfect shape” as she gave the cardboard box a little pat. That night, she packed all their belongings and found space for them in the car. She knew what was in most of the boxes and bags, but during the night, she was so engrossed in the routine that she couldn't keep track of which boxes and bags belonged together. What was in the car was hers, she knew that. What was hers in its entirety escaped her.

Joe got out of the car before his mother. The house was all dark except for a small window upstairs where a dim light tried to penetrate the red curtains. Joe closed the car door softly. It was midnight. The neighbors would be sleeping now, or so he imagined. Ma got out of the car as well. She looked a little forlorn, small, and almost like a gnome. With equal care, she closed the car door on her side.

Joe was surprised by the way she limped towards him and the front door. There was a strange air to her behavior. As she came close, he felt her anxiety. She was afraid. What was her reason for being upset? She grabbed hold of his shoulder and leaned on him for support.

“Be a good boy, love, and help me up the stairs.”

“Okay.”

“That's our Joe…”

They moved ever so slowly up the stairs. When they stood at the front door, Ma hesitated, but finally she lifted her hand to knock. She never made it because at that moment, an elderly woman opened the door.

“Marjorie! I've been waiting for you! And that must be Joe!”

“Phyllis! Thank you so much. This is my Joe.”

Joe reached out to give a handshake, but Phyllis dragged him into a warm embrace. Afterward, she did the same to Ma. Joe was disoriented by the welcome. He didn't really know what he'd expected, but the way Ma had reacted, he'd feared awkwardness. There was none. Phyllis had squeezed the anxiety out of them and now led them into a warm kitchen where food was on the table. Joe's eyes widened when he saw how much. Phyllis guided them to the table, took their coats, and as they dug into steak pies, broad beans, and a leafy salad, she went upstairs to turn down their beds. Ma and Joe ate like they hadn't eaten for years. A sense of well-being flowed through their stomachs to their whole being. Ma looked positively radiant. Joe's cheeks acquired a glow from the grease. Phyllis came down into the kitchen and stood leaning against the counter. Ma looked at her and tried to say something, but her lips quivered, and a single tear ran down her cheek. Joe stopped eating and rose to comfort his mother, but was stopped by Phyllis.

“It's only gratitude, Joe.” Phyllis held his shoulder firmly, and he knew not to disagree.

“What you can do, Joe, is go upstairs to the right. That's the bathroom. There's a cup with your name on it and a toothbrush for you. There's also a peg on the right of the sink with your name on it, and a towel and a washcloth.” Phyllis paused.

“Why don't you get ready for bed? Once you've done that, come down and I'll show you to your room and tuck you in…”

“I'm fourteen. I don't need tucking in…”

“Today, you are my nephew whom I have met for the first time ever. I've never had the chance of tucking you in for the night. It'll only be this time… for my sake.” Phyllis smiled and guided Joe firmly to the staircase.

“I'll have a little chat with Marjorie, while you do as I told you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joe went up the stairs. They were carpeted and felt soft, like walking on a cloud. The staircase had a banister to the left with cherrystained wood turned balusters. The handrail and the newel were massive pieces of oak. To the right, the wall was papered with a repeating pattern of fleur-de-lis, and hanging on the wall were several frames forming another kind of staircase. Each frame had a photo of people. Joe didn't recognize any of them except the topmost photo. Something caught his eye. There were five people in the photo: a woman and a man who must be the parents of the three girls, all dressed in matching outfits. There was something familiar about the woman's features. Joe almost got stuck on that step but recalled the firm grip of Aunt Phyllis and hastened to the bathroom. Everything was as Aunt Phyllis had said, and there was even more because she had laid out pajamas on a little bench. He washed up, brushed his teeth, and slipped into the pajamas. He folded his clothes and brought them with him as he went downstairs again.

“Hello there, young man.”

“Thank you, Aunt Phyllis.”

“You're very welcome. Now kiss your mother goodnight, and I'll take you upstairs again along with this glass of water if you need it. I can't have you searching for glasses in the middle of the night.”

“Thank you, Aunt Phyllis.”

Joe hadn't really been in the habit of kissing his mother goodnight, so it was a bit awkward for both. However, they navigated towards a little peck on the cheek and a soft “goodnight.”

Aunt Phyllis smiled and steered him towards the staircase again. They went up the stairs, and just before the landing, Joe stopped, pointing to the photo that had caught his attention previously. Phyllis nodded and pointed too.

“That's your mother, and that's me,” she said, giving him a little sign to move on towards the landing. Joe understood not to ask any more questions. He was led into a room with a single bed, a desk and chair, and a dresser. Aunt Phyllis turned on the light on the nightstand. He crawled under the duvet. She tucked the duvet around him and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Do you think you can sleep here?”

“Yes, Aunt Phyllis. I'm very tired.”

“Well, my sweetie, that's what taking the ferry does to you. But rest now, and tomorrow we'll start anew.”

Aunt Phyllis left the room after turning off the lights and said “sleep tight” as she closed the door ajar.

2: ST. MAGNUS CATHEDRAL

Early on, Phyllis wanted a more structured life than what her parents could offer her. She had married well. Her husband, Harry, worked in the oil industry and wasn't home much of the time. They never had any children, and when he died in an accident at sea, she was left with a substantial amount of money from a life insurance policy Harry had secured while they were building their base in Kirkwall. Phyllis owned a shop in town that sold all sorts of trinkets to the tourists from the large cruise ships that occupied the sound during the tourist season. She did well from that business, but it wasn't her passion. As the shop became established, she hired staff to run it while she pursued other interests. Part of what Phyllis envisioned for an ordered life was a focus on spirituality and alternative medicine. She kept saying it was all about "the orderliness of energies." Phyllis's spirituality was a patchwork of beliefs and practices from all over the world, reflecting her philosophy of life: "humans have forgotten about their eternal selves." She believed she could help them recover and remember by incorporating practices like yoga, Tibetan chant, Roman Catholic mass, Protestant fervor, Jewish cooking, Islamic calligraphy, Taoist Zen, and the Japanese tea ceremony. She prided herself on being ecumenically broad-minded. The local vicar, Betty, called her "a bit of a loony" and sometimes "dangerously heretical." But Phyllis felt she was in the right. In her search for her own eternal self, she had discovered a talent for helping people through acupuncture and aromatherapy.

After Harry died, she took time off for training and became certified in Japan and Germany. She returned with a strong desire to care for others. So, she set up a small clinic to offer treatments. She was very careful in her treatments, not promising anything beyond an opportunity for the body to channel chi, the life force, which she believed must flow through us all unimpeded. Bemused, Betty sarcastically remarked that if only Pontius Pilate had had some chi, she wouldn't have to endure dreary services and cold churches on those remote islands. Phyllis chose to ignore her. Betty kept a precautionary distance from Phyllis but was still very much dependent on all the work Phyllis did for the parish. Who would organize tea and biscuits after Sunday service or mince pies and tea for Christmas? Phyllis. Betty reasoned that it must be a trial of her faith to have Phyllis in her congregation, and that her solemn job was to minimize the heretical nonsense Phyllis could, between biscuit crumbs, spew out from her ever-speaking mouth.

This morning, Phyllis walked over to Betty's while Marjorie and Joe were still sleeping. Phyllis hadn't slept much, not because she was uneasy, but because she was busy planning. Betty was a part of this plan. The Kirkwall sky was grey, and there had been rain throughout the night. No matter how much moisture got exported to Norway and dumped there by thermodynamics, there was always rain on Orkney. The green of the bushes and strips of lawn bore witness to that fact. Phyllis knocked on the front door of the vicarage. Betty's husband, Bill, with whom Phyllis got along excellently, opened the door.

“Phyllis! What a delightful surprise. What brings you here so early?” Bill showed her in immediately.

“I need to talk to Betty on urgent matters,” she said as she took off her coat.

“She's in there struggling with Nicodemus,” said Bill, pointing with one hand in the direction of Betty's office while receiving Phyllis's coat with the other.

“Ah! One should struggle with Nicodemus, especially if one is a teacher of Christ. I'm sure I can help Betty with that.” Laughing, Phyllis took leave of Bill, who joined her in their mutual joke.

Phyllis gave the door to the office a short, sharp knock, entered without waiting, and gazed into Betty's exasperated eyes.

“This sermon is killing me,” she said.

“Let me offer some rest for the weary then.” Phyllis sat down on a Chesterfield sofa situated near the imposing fireplace that dominated the room. She patted the seat next to her, inviting the owner to join her. Betty pouted a little, got up, and stood at the end.

“Can I offer you some tea?”

“I come on a mission. I need no tea.”

“Right. Do you mind if I finish my mug of tea?”

“You might need it to strengthen you when you hear my mission.”

Betty clenched her eyes shut for a moment, turned around, and retrieved her mug. She sat opposite Phyllis in a matching armchair.

“What are you up to now?”

“Marjorie's back.”

Betty set her mug down on the small table that acted as a barrier between them. She was shaken. Fifteen years ago, she had had a crisis of faith. She and Bill had lost their son, and she had been involved in the drama that unfolded when Grace and Phil's Marjorie got pregnant. She had performed the wedding ceremony between Marjorie and Marc. She had been in the thick of things, trying to mediate the rift the wedding created in the family. She hadn't been overly successful. At least they hadn't stopped going to church, but they weren't going to forgive their daughter, and certainly not Betty for performing the wedding.

“And the child?”

“Joe's with her. He's solid. She's not.”

“What do you propose?”

“I'm taking them in, and I'm going to raise Joe.”

“That's awfully good of you, Phyllis, but what does Marjorie say?”

“Betty… she's damaged,” Phyllis began to weep a little. Betty got up and moved to the sofa.

“What do you mean?”

“I spoke with her last night. After I got Joe to bed. Oh, that boy needs some structure! She is running wild with all sorts of stories and fantasies, and she can't keep anything straight.”

“Insane?”

“I don't know if it's because she hasn't really slept for months. I gave her a little something to help her sleep.”

“Drugs?”

“No, no, Betty, you know that I don't believe in that sort of thing. I put some drops of cedarwood oil in the diffuser. It had the desired effect.”

“Talk about believing in stuff…”

“Let's not argue now. We need a plan.”

Phyllis outlined her proposal. Marjorie could help at the vicarage with some light cleaning and general household chores. If she could start with a few hours every other day, then Phyllis would provide firm structures at home. Make sure that Joe got to school, attended sports, and did his homework. She would also make sure they were well fed. Phyllis's plan was to scale Marjorie's working hours over the next three months if she improved in terms of sleep and taking care of herself. Betty listened and nodded occasionally. They could do with some help around the vicarage, and she could see further little jobs at church functions. Before long, they were in perfect agreement.

“Now we have to break it to Ma.”

“And to Bill.”

Betty rose, got to the door and stuck her neck out to shout, “Bill! Bill! Billy-sweet!”

“Yes, darling?”

“Would you mind terribly to enter into our confidence?”

Bill arrived and looked a little suspicious. This was not the first time and probably not the last either, when the two of them made a scheme that implied his assistance for its realization.

“What are you two up to now?”

“Marjorie is back,” said Betty.

“Alone?”

“She brought Joe with her. He's solid. She's not.”

“What are you proposing?”

“We are in need of assistance here at the vicarage. Marjorie will start slowly and increase her hours as she gets better. Joe needs firmer structures.”

It all sounded as if it was Betty's idea and Phyllis had kept quiet to let Betty herald the almost divine directions of how things were to be. Bill knew the spiel. Betty could not be overlooked in persuading him to help. It would never do if Phyllis had asked Bill for help. Bill was not able to persuade Betty. Consequently, Betty would be credited with the idea and others would be allowed to bring it into reality. Bill's task in this moment would be to be a little skeptical because Betty would need the feeling of having persuaded him. Betty would say to others that it was so important that Bill thought it was his own idea, and that was married life for Betty and Bill.

“So how do you propose this could work?” Bill caught an approving glance from Phyllis. He had hit the right tone of incredulity.

“Well, Bill, you're so busy at the school, and you always say I work too much. I must say, I can't be crying into the kitchen sink every night while I'm doing the dishes. It has got to stop. We need the help.”

“But I could get us that new dishwasher…” Bill caught a little wave from Phyllis, indicating he was about to go too far.

“Billy!” Betty sighed, exasperated.

“Only, I mean, then she could empty the dishwasher…”

“What a great idea, Billy-sweet. I knew we needed you to come up with a solution for our little challenge.”

When Phyllis left the vicarage after tea and biscuits, having arranged all the details, she had gotten everything she came for and more. The web of people needed for a young boy to become the man he's supposed to be is greater than one can possibly imagine. Joe was already fourteen. From what Phyllis could gather, he had already seen too much instability. No blame intended, but Marjorie had been broken by the loss of Marc. That plan had been too fragile back then to bear the weight of that little family, let alone now when Marjorie was practically destitute. Somewhere between her house and the vicarage, Phyllis stopped to take in the sky. It showed a mountain range of clouds with white and gray tones accentuated, but the bluest blue was strewn as if in a pattern. “I dare not think what would have happened if I weren't alive,” she thought. Shame immediately washed over her for thinking of herself as such a pivotal person in the lives of her sister and nephew.

“I'm only grateful that they are with me,” she said aloud to a kestrel she saw hovering far off. She allowed a tear to roll down her cheek. No one was there to see her. Regaining her composure, she quickly got back home. She found Joe in the kitchen, eating cereal.

“I got hungry,” he said.

“Just help yourself, Joe. I put the things so you could find them easily.”

“I figured that.” He smiled, and Phyllis knew then in her heart that Joe was the child she'd never had.

“I'll have a cup of tea with you,” she said as she filled the electric kettle with water.

“Let's let Marjorie sleep as long as she can. I'm thinking of taking you into town today. We can do some sightseeing so you can get to know your way around Kirkwall. We'll grab a bite to eat, do a little shopping, and be back by afternoon. Then we can discuss unloading the car. How does that sound to you?” Joe nodded, still engrossed in his bowl of cereal. Phyllis poured water into a mug.

“Tomorrow we'll attend the service. My good friend Betty is a vicar. Her husband, Bill, is a teacher at the grammar school. I'm going to introduce you. The best thing is to get you enrolled as quickly as possible.” Joe nodded again, finished his cereal, brought the bowl to the sink, rinsed it, and put it in the dishwasher. He returned to his seat and looked expectantly at his aunt. She sipped her tea only to realize she had forgotten the teabag and milk. She laughed a little and remedied her drink immediately.

“Why is it called Kirkwall?”

“Because of the great cathedral, the Kirk.”

“So, it's 'Church Wall'?”

“Not quite. Someone made a mistake once. In Scots it is 'Kirkwaa'.

And they got it from the Vikings. In Norse it means 'wave'.”

“The wave at the church?”

“Exactly! Perhaps we can see it today. We could head down to Mercat Cross, see the Kirk, and then go down to the harbor. You can see my shop and even your birthplace. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great!”

“Right. Well, then.Put your coat and shoes on, and I'll do the same.” While Joe exited the kitchen, Phyllis quickly rinsed out her mug and set things out in case Marjorie woke up. She also left a note saying that she had taken Joe sightseeing.

A light breeze blew from the west as they walked down towards the Mercat Cross. They kept a brisk pace, almost like they were on a mission. Joe was quite chatty, asking many questions that Phyllis patiently answered. It became clear he knew little about Orkney, so Phyllis decided to start with the basics.

“Some say it was because of seals and some say it was because of pigs all according to different languages. But Orkney is the name of the archipelago. The suffix -ey or -ay is what tells us that the land is surrounded by water. We are on Mainland and in close proximity you'll find the islands to the north: Shapinsay, Eday, Egilsay, North Ronaldsay. To the southeast you can drive over the barriers to Burray and South Ronaldsay. From Stromness in the west you can take the ferry to Hoy. When you see it you'll understand why it is called Hoy. To the west you have Westray and Papa Westray. My mother's family, your grandmother, was from Westray.”

“So, Orkney is all the islands?”

“Yes. And remember, it's just 'Orkney,' never 'The Orkneys.' That implies a misunderstanding.”

“And Mainland is just Mainland?”

“Yes, some poor sod once tried to convince everybody that it was really called 'Pomona', but that's a tall tale. Look here now. There are the old ruins. We'll be at the Mercat Cross soon.” Phyllis beamed like a little sun walking through the streets of Kirkwall with her newfound companion. “This is going to turn out just fine,” she thought to herself. They were at the market cross in front of the cathedral.

“This is the sign that Kirkwall is allowed to trade,” she said and went on hurriedly, “back in medieval times, you see.” Joe touched the old carved stone and reflected the enthusiasm his aunt was showing.

They went to the cathedral entrance. The structure was imposing and impressive, yet also worn, showing signs of centuries weathering the shifty climate of the North Atlantic.

The red sandstone stood out like an invitation and a warning, as if the holy blood had been poured over just here, tainting the city with both importance and ominous reproach. Joe and Phyllis entered the cathedral and found themselves in an equally enticing and fearinspiring nave. Large, round pillars carried a vaulted ceiling high above, allowing the mind to be transported towards heaven. Magnificent banners hung between the pillars, adding to the feeling of medievalism. They walked down the aisle and stood gazing at the stained-glass window art. The sound of others' movements in the cathedral felt like a hushed murmur, a reminder that the word of God would always outdo whatever little noise humans might produce. Phyllis observed the effect of the room on Joe and smiled. He was quietly engaged in registering all the various artifacts and architectural embellishments of the building. He would catch her eye and point to something he'd noticed. Inspired, she looked at the familiar cathedral through her nephew's eyes. There were things she hadn't noticed before. Soon, she followed suit, giving him a little pat on the shoulder and pointing to something she'd noticed. Without words, they formed a communicative agreement on how to be with one another. After a while, they sat down in a pew. Joe was intrigued by the pulpit and kept staring at it. Phyllis closed her eyes. With each breath she took, she felt more and more in tune with Joe. His life force was strong, she felt, and his heartbeat steady. Despite the start in life he'd had, she was sure more than ever that he would make it all right. Then it dawned on her: "He will save us, not the other way round." She struggled to keep herself from feeling sad about the kind of fate she had intuited for him. She touched his arm and motioned for them to leave. He rose with her and walked beside her down the aisle.

Outside, the sun was shining. People were going about their Saturday business. Joe and Phyllis both took a deep breath and smiled at each other.

“Let's go see my little shop, shall we?”

“Yep.”

They navigated through a steady stream of people going in all directions. Down towards the harbor, they stopped at an old building with a colorful display of various goods from Orkney.

It was Phyllis's shop. They entered. The staff was busy attending to customers but took the time and courtesy to greet Phyllis and meet her nephew, whom she introduced with great pride. Joe felt a little like a horse being appraised at the market. Luckily, the customers were waiting, so Joe was soon led out of the shop by Phyllis and down to the harbor.

“You were born up there.” Phyllis pointed to a second story window.

“We had just finished dinner. Suddenly, her water broke, and before we could get her to the hospital, you arrived. So, you were born without warning.”

“Where were you?”

“I was there with Harry, my husband. He was working in Aberdeen for a while. I got to see you as a baby, but soon after your arrival, your mother went with Marc to Birmingham. Everything was a bit of a mess. But here we are now. Look at the harbor. Over in that direction, your grandparents rented a flat for many years during my childhood.”

“What were they like?”

“Hardworking, tough, frugal, serious... devout, kind, generous with what little they had... stubborn, temperamental, unforgiving.”

Phyllis turned left down Junction Road, and Joe followed her a few steps behind. They walked in silence, passing the Kirkwall Information Centre and the Orkney Library and Archive. She turned right down Tankerness Lane, then left down Great Western Road. Within a few minutes, they were at the supermarkets. Phyllis did a little shopping, nothing much. Her goal was more to show Joe where things were. They walked back to the house through Union Street by Earl Thorfinn Street and Quoybank's Crescent, ending up on Holm Street. When they got back home, they were both quite exercised for one day. Joe hurried to the bathroom. Phyllis stored her purchases and took out bread, cheese, and cold cuts for lunch. They made a swap, so Phyllis got a moment for herself while Joe found plates, glasses, and cutlery. Then, they ate in silence.

***

Marjorie awoke that morning when they left. She spent her time alone in the garden with a pot of tea. Entering the kitchen as they were eating lunch, she seemed more relaxed. Joe faithfully reported what they had seen but left out Phyllis's narrative about the night he was born. Accustomed to stories, Joe found Phyllis's retelling of facts less credible. Though he liked Phyllis and felt safe with her, he reserved the right to discern between stories and facts. He understood how simple realism, the recounting of what you've witnessed, can still be subject to a specific point of view. Ma responded with encouragement and gratitude towards her sister. After all, she was thoroughly dependent on Phyllis's good graces.

They decided to unpack the car. Some things went into their rooms, others were stored in the attic. Among these was the precious tea set, placed there amidst cobwebs and old cardboard boxes. They were done in time for dinner, which they ate with great appetites. Joe said goodnight, and Phyllis and Ma sat in the drawing-room.

“I saw Betty this morning,” Phyllis said.

“How is she?”

“Oh, she's fine. So is Bill. They're busy. They might need some help at the vicarage.”

“Did you ask for a job for me?”

“No. I suggested it might be good for everyone to have some help,”

“And what help do you think I need?”

“I think you need a fresh start.”

“But at Betty's...” Ma trailed off.

“They know enough not to ask too much, and they'll let you adjust at your own pace.”

“I suppose I should be grateful.”

“Well, that's an option. It's also an option to decline the offer.”

“I dread this prison of gratitude that's being built around me.”

“We just want to help you.”

“You know, Phyllis, I'm a major architect of this prison myself. Don't worry, I won't blame you or Betty. But... can we agree to discuss things before you make arrangements for me?”

“Of course, Marjorie.”

“And another thing, just call me Ma. I've lost the shine, you see...”

She rose from the sofa, went to her sister, bent down, and kissed her goodnight.

“See you tomorrow, Ma. If you want to join Joe and me for service, you can negotiate with Betty and Bill yourself.”

“That sounds like a plan.” And off she went, leaving Phyllis feeling a pang of worry. Ma was right. Helping others in need is one thing, but there's a fine line where their gratitude becomes a burden, crushing them under the weight of obligation.

The next morning, the three of them sat in the pews at St. Ola's, listening to Betty's sermon.

“Christ says to Nicodemus during the night, that no one is to see the kingdom of heaven unless they are born again. Nicodemus takes a straightforward position: 'How is that possible? How can we crawl back into the womb to be born again? It makes no sense.' Christ corrects him, expecting him to know better. Nicodemus, a teacher of God, carries a great burden of understanding and accountability. He must understand that the world of God doesn't follow the rules of human logic and is accountable to lead others to the humble realization that with God, something else is happening to us. Thus, Christ teaches Nicodemus, and us through him, that being born again is also about baptism and continual renewal through the spirit.”

Joe listened intently, but confusion gnawed at him. He felt Nicodemus had a point. It was impossible to be born again. He didn't hear much more of Betty's sermon. He pondered what it meant to go at night to a teacher who, despite everything said and done, was considered bad company in the eyes of the authorities. Joe thought: “Was Nicodemus a coward, or could one only speak with God at night? Who was this Nicodemus?”

Ma had a different experience. The conversation from last night stuck in her mind. She could foresee all the future times she'd be forced into the position of gratitude, fearing it would erode her already strained relationship with her sister. And all the people her sister got to help her. She bit her lip, reflecting on how difficult it was for her to accept help, to say thank you. Then, she thought about Joe, and with a moment of clarity, she admitted to herself that accepting help or asking for it wasn't hard. She'd just done that.

It was hard to admit that she resented having to ask for it. That she was not in control any longer, if she ever had been. Ma thought: “Perhaps I'm just the tension between wanting to control and having lost control. If only I can stay there, it's a kind of control.”

Phyllis was filled with great peace. She felt born again in the mission that she felt had come from the great divine, whatever people chose to call it: the Creator, the Great Spirit, God, or some such. All names for the same experience of being in synchronous harmony with everything. “Born from above,” as Betty went on to elaborate, was precisely what Phyllis thought about Joe, and she was powerfully moved by the intensity of feeling she had developed instantaneously for the boy. How that could be, she didn't know, but she bore witness to the fact that it was real. Easing back into her every day, all-toohuman form by the end of Betty's sermon, she noted to herself that Betty was like Nicodemus. Betty knew the words but hadn't experienced the power. Therefore, Betty didn't know what she was speaking about but that was the case with so many clerical persons, Phyllis had met.

However, Phyllis realized her characterization of Betty was terribly inappropriate. It spoke volumes about the lesser-worthy traits in her own personality rather than describing Betty at all. Just for a moment, Phyllis felt ashamed and thought, “It serves me right.”

They met with Betty and Bill afterward. Other people from the congregation were there, enjoying tea and biscuits. Phyllis took care to separate Bill and Joe from Betty and Ma. Like a pendulum, Phyllis swung from one conversation to the other, trying to oversee that everything happened as she thought it ought to.

“Marjorie, long time no see! How are you holding up?”

“Yes, thank you. I'm grateful my sister could help.”

Phyllis leaned to the other side.

“So, Joe, what sports do you like?”

“I don't really like any sports, sir.”

“Do you have any work lined up?”

Phyllis swung her head.

“Not at the moment, no. I guess I also need a place that can accept my current limitations.”

Phyllis turned quickly.

“I was just like you, and then I tried rugby in third year secondary school. Same age as you are now.”

“I don't know if I'm suited for that, sir.”

“Why don't you come around the vicarage and we'll have a chat about chores, working hours, and salary, of course.”

“Thank you. Tuesday at 10 am then?”

Phyllis nodded, and Betty agreed.

“Why don't I pick you up for school tomorrow, and then we can always talk about trying out some sports?”

Phyllis nodded again, and Joe agreed.

Ma and Joe went back home with plans for the next week. Phyllis, pleased with herself, felt that everything had turned out for the best. Ma had spotted the nod her sister had given Betty, so she thought she knew where the money for her salary would be coming from. Joe knew, that he would be learning rugby, and that was that.

At the vicarage, Betty and Bill sat down for Sunday roast with all the trimmings. Bill opened a nice bottle of red wine, poured a generous amount in their glasses, caught his wife's glance, and they both began laughing nervously.

“Did you see how Phyllis swung like a reed in the wind?”

“And poor Marjorie struggling to keep it all straight…”

“We've been played.”

“We let her think we've been played.”

“What do you mean?”

“We are doing it for Joe, don't you see?”

Betty took a sip of her wine.

“Bill, I saw that boy. Sitting there in the pews. And I don't know…”

“Yep. This is eerie.”

“And I was preaching about being born again…”

“I know.”

“All right, we are doing it for Joe.”

“We are doing it for Joe.”

***

In Phyllis's house, gravy, assorted vegetables, Yorkshire puddings and slices of roast beef adorned the plates. Ma and Phyllis had wine, while Joe enjoyed a cola. Joe was in heaven. He devoured his plateful and was fed one more. Phyllis and Ma ate more modestly. Phyllis because she had to watch her calorie intake. Ma because she felt raw from the encounter with Betty and Bill.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How strange it is to be back here. How strange to see Betty and Bill again.”

“Are you okay with the arrangements?”

“Now I am. I won't lie… I was worried… overwhelmed… I will make it work, Phyllis. I promised Joe.”

“Thank you, Ma. That means the world to me.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. I see Joe and you. I think my mission is to make it possible for you and Joe to have good lives.”

“A mission even. Phyllis… it all becomes so grand and ominous and so quickly. It is hard to deal with when I just felt in control a month ago.”

“I am sorry to push my feelings on you like that. But all I want you to know is that this situation might just be good for me too.”