love remains

I wanted solitude and Keith delivered it – we flew in a light plane from Glasgow to the tiny island of Barra in the Western Isles and landed on the beach. Our accommodations had been arranged and immediately as per our agreement, Keith set out to go fishing leaving me for the entire day to wander the wind- swept dunes and sort out my life.

“I have no idea why I’m even living,” I had confessed that night in the pub – but, after the break-up with Nan and the months of selling off the remnants of our past, I was totally drained and directionless.

“You need a break,” he shouted over the din. “I know just the place.”

I was ready to listen. Ten years of working for Scotland Yard as a forensic archaeologist had exhausted me. It only took only a few minutes to convince me. So, here I was, a burnt-out civil servant, hundreds of miles from the city life I knew so well, cargo pants rolled up below my knees and walking barefoot through the dunes.

It was a wildly beautiful, yet desolate place. The wind was relentless as it battered the coast and pounded the beach. I let it punish my hair and scour my mind, as I stood there, shirt billowing like a parachute, eyes scrunched to narrow slits against the grit the wind flung in my face. It was a timeless scene: the long line of waves rolling in and pummeling the shore as it had done for thousands of years. Momentarily, I felt a brief frisson as my mind tried to come to terms with the passage of millennia. The attempt to wrap my mind around the conundrum just produced frustrating images buzzing through my brain like a swarm of bees.

I rounded a slope and stopped dead in my tracks. Immediately before me, a great dune had collapsed exposing a ring of huge stones and within, some skeletal remains. I could make out ribs, and the curved spine of a young girl buried in a fetal pose, curled up and lying on her side. I knew immediately what I was seeing – a bronze age or iron age cist,- a burial cave into which had been carefully laid the bones of a young girl.

I approached carefully and stared in morbid fascination at the remains. It was obvious from the jaw and pelvic bones that the girl was prepubescent – as I looked closer I saw there were other ashes scattered in among the skeletal remains, the sad remnants of a second ancient cremation. I stirred the ashes with my finger and uncovered the upper pallet of a child, whose sex, of course, was indeterminate.I wondered if it were an earlier or later burial – a relative, or friend – it would be impossible to know.

I sat back, legs splayed before me and took in the scene. Almost instinctively, my professional mind went to work and began sorting through various scenarios. I stopped it. This was not a riddle to be solved – this was a pathetic scene the wind uncovered – a four thousand year old sacred burial. Parents had grieved, tears had been shed and finally the child had been reverently placed in this circle of stones. I began to weep – for what or whom, I had no idea – all I knew was this had been a real person, someone’s little girl and she had been mourned and cared for – I could do no less.

I spent an hour sitting there guarding the bones, wondering what to do next. I could contact the authorities and they’d come and dig and perhaps uncover a round house or even the traces of the entire community. What then? The bones would be unearthed and carefully carried away – put on display in Glasgow or London and the curious would come and pay admission to stop and stare. It seemed so irreverent. I knew in that instant I couldn’ t allow that. I began scooping sand back over the bones, pushing with both hands like a plow. I worked for an hour until the rocks and the tiny skeleton were completely covered.

I walked down to the rocky beach and began dragging boulders back to the site. It took another hour until I had set up a makeshift wall of eight or ten huge rocks that would offer some protection against the wind. It was nearly sundown when I finished. The western sky was a somber red and gray.

Then, I did something I had never done before – I knelt in the sand and said a prayer. A simple plea for a primitive girl I had never met, but who had just given me the ability to reconnect. Only eleven, only a child, but somebody’s daughter and somebody’s love.

© 2016, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.