by Ryan Holden
The Arches of Orkney County
by Ryan Holden
Copyright 2017 Ryan Holden
Long ago in the county of Orkney there were two towns that faced each other. The one on the left was Kirkwall and the one on the right was Stromness. They were near each other as the crow flies and worlds apart in every other way.
Kirkwall rose gently from the plains behind it, carrying a winding path the oxen found steep enough to moo about but not steep enough to get whipped. Its roofs were thatched, when they did have roofs, for in its early days its inhabitants did not fear rain. The splash of seawater, yes, for that poisoned their plants, but Kirkwall was too high above the bay to be in any danger.
Immediately across a deep ravine was Stromness. The ground was rocky and hard and there were no oxen to complain of the steep slopes. No, no. Donkeys were used or, better yet, mules. They carried the wealth of the mountain beyond to a place that was good for a town only because there was nothing better.
Those of Kirkwall wondered at Stromness. Why was it even there? And who should be so unlucky as to have to live there? For their part, folk of Stromness wondered how Kirkwall survived: with no natural defenses, no security, at risk of any passing ship.
There was one defense. The bay looked placid enough on the surface but those mariners who lived in Kirkwall—rather, those marooned to become architects and rope makers—had felt what could not be seen. Due to the peculiar shape of the shore, there was a strong rip tide that was the death of so many passing ships. Stories of the foul breath of the gods kept most newcomers away.
This current, at times pressing inland, at times reversing and casting a broken boat out to drown, extended up into the ravine that separated Kirkwall and Stromness. Many bucket pulls were wasted in the pulling up of salt water, yet near access to the freshwater stream kept folk on both sides at the gamble.
Seasons came and went. An unlucky or unwise captain would lose his ship and Kirkwall would prosper from the flotsam and jetsam. A lucky or wise miner would find the next twist of a silver seam and Stromness rejoiced.
Besides these events, each day was as like to the one before as it was to the one after, and the old grew despondent at what wisdom to give the young, for everything that was to be known was known, and it remained for them only to complain of youth's faults. The youth ignored them, as had the old when they were young, and so the strife was gotten over and no harm befell them.
And so the towns might have lived for time immemorial. And perhaps they did. But after all this, because of a child's bauble and a boy's wits and a girl's face it was not so.
The child in question was playing with his shiny toy—I forget what it was—a little too close to the ravine. His mother should have told him to be careful, and perhaps she had. But the boy had not listened as little boys are wont to do. He had an older sister, a girl not thirteen, who was watching him. Or was supposed to. It is a good thing for all concerned that his bauble, and not him, did the falling.
This was in Kirkwall. On Stromness a boy not fourteen was coming for water. It was not water time, for though the currents were not understood well, there were a few hours where they shifted back and forth so that the saltwater was not so salty and the freshwater not so fresh. He had been playing that morning instead of getting the water, as boys-becoming-men are wont to do, so now he came when play had soured and work looked to be no better.
But the boy was a good lad, in his head and in his heart, if you didn't take his clumsiness and untimeliness into account. He often did not take things around him into account, so it's only fair that the same be done for him. He did not, for example, hear the child's cry.
The girl, however, did. She looked around, suddenly aware that her toddling brother was not in sight. Glimpsing him at the edge of the ravine she screamed and ran at him. She grabbed him and clasped him to herself, shaking in fright.
One may ignore a child's cry. But a lungful of a scream from a girl not thirteen is hard to ignore. The boy was not used to doing hard things and so being well practiced, promptly paid attention. Perhaps for the first time in his life the world outside was more interesting than the world in his head and he dashed forward, bucket in one hand and rope in the other.
And so on this day, this already luckiest of days, it happened the way it should have. No bauble of Stromness could float, for rocks with bits of metals made most all of their toys. No wit of Kirkwall could have retrieved a sunken orb from the churning darkness of the ravine's depths. But the toys of Kirkwall were sprigs of trees or pretty leaves or braided vines. Whatever it was the child dropped—again, I have no recollection of what it was—it floated. And in the worst time to gather water, the worst boy to gather it had half a chance to rescue the bauble.
A better boy would not have shirked from his chores, especially after a morning of sloth. A more practical boy would not have wasted effort on something so fleeting as the child's bauble, a toy easier made than found were it lost. And so the boy not fourteen was the right sort of wrong person on this luckiest of days to take the half a chance given him and retrieve the bauble.
A toss of the bucket, a hush of the child, a look of the girl, and the rope sang through the boy's hands. Still, one mustn't expect too much, even on the luckiest of days, and it took three tries until the boy's bucket swallowed the bauble.
The child cheered, the girl smiled, and the boy pulled up the rope. He plucked the bauble from its shadowy depths and held the crumpled toy up. And right before he let himself enjoy his victory, he realized he had no way to give the bauble back.
No one crossed the ravine. No one spoke across the ravine.
A rock might be thrown across, but not the weak bauble in his hand.
He stared across the ravine. The squirming child stiffened. The girl's smile pursed into a line. And so the least practical of the sons of Stromness was cursed—or blessed—with a desire to challenge the inviolate border dividing Orkney county.
