A Shimmering of Orkney
When the wind hurtles over sea and land, the trows fly. On dockan leaves they scoot and swerve and skim the waves with outstretched fingers. Trouble blooms in their wake: hear their delighted screeching. The standing stones do not bow to wind nor fairy. The giants trapped within are silent; they dream of bounding, moonlit days. The hogboons are quiet, thoughtful, vengeful. They are all but forgotten, invisible in mound and mind, and reward only those who nurture cows, sheep, barley and hay. See how the waves tumble and crash, whipped up by the Finfolk’s fury. They are not as powerful as they once were. Throw a Finfolkman a shining of silver if you feel threatened. Mermaids lurk in the dunes, half hidden by marram grass, and let loose their voices. They sing of love and longing and the liminal ways of the shore. The selkies shed their sealskins and dance. Listen for melancholy songs of women searching for sealskins lost; watch how they move with the wildness of the ocean. You may glimpse the uncanny ways of witches who move among us but never with us. Be mindful of an innocent looking bee or rook or hare with a human eye. These isles shimmer with magic. Tread carefully. Speak wisely. Resist the music from the fairy hill: a hundred years on is a daunting place. The magic, it might be gone.