Ritual at the Stones

The Pentalina coursed northward on its journey through the whitecaps of the Pentland Firth. At 237 passenger capacity, it was the only ferry traveling back and forth from Gills Bay to St. Margaret’s Hope. That morning, May 30th, 2025, I’d started my first day of an Orkney Islands tour with Rabbie’s Tours in the far north of Scotland. We had driven from Inverness to the coast, stopping at the Dunrobin and Dunbeath castles along the way. We were a small group of 14 tourists from Canada, the US, Australia, and others from the UK.

   

    The Pentalina Ferry

When I climbed to the top ferry deck to record a video of the salt spray and turquoise waves, I found my tourmate, Leesa, withstanding the gusts. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked. She told me that she had to stay above deck to stave off seasickness. I sat with her as long as the brisk air would allow, then descended to get a warm drink from the cantina.

Around 7:30 that morning, I had checked in for the tour next to the St. Andrew Cathedral in Inverness. Amy, our driver, found my name on the list and gave me an amused smile as she saw me yawning. Next I heard two names that were unexpectedly familiar. “Jean and Dorothy!” she called. My mom, who died in 2015, was named Jeanne. Her mother, Dorothy, died just a few weeks after she was born. I found the synchronicity of us all traveling together like a little cosmic nod from them.

Now I found Jean and Dorothy in the ferry’s bench seating area. I learned that they were two friends traveling from the US to explore their Cornish ancestors’ roots. Like me, these two tourmates had decided to first go to Orkney before visiting England. Something about 2025 had led us to visit the remote and sparsely populated islands–for me it was the desire to see the mysterious works of the Neolithic era and the stunning natural wonders of the land.

We would see four Neolithic sites the next day on our tour of the Orkney “mainland”--the largest island in the archipelago. First were the Standing Stones of Stenness, a monument of four stones up to 16 feet high and founded around 3100 BC, which was 1000 years before Stonehenge. Next we would see the Ring of Brodgar, whose smaller stones bordered two lochs. Next would be Skara Brae, a preserved underground village near the seaside, and Maeshowe, a dark, chambered cairn with an entrance passage aligned so that a ray of sunlight reaches the back of the tomb only once a year, on the winter solstice. 

Orkney Hotel, Kirkwall

I checked in with Dorothy and Jean at the Orkney Hotel in Kirkwall, a three-star hotel hidden down a narrow alleyway near St. Magnus Cathedral. Its beige and grey concrete facade and beveled double doors led inside to a lovely blue-carpeted lobby with polished antique furniture. I planned to head straight to bed after dinner to make up for the jet lag I was still feeling after arriving two days before from Seattle. I knew it would prove difficult because the further north we went, the later the sky stayed light at night.

After depositing my luggage in my large ensuite room on the second floor, I told Jean that I would eat dinner in the bar attached to the Orkney Hotel lobby. I peeked into the low-ceilinged room and spotted Terry and Jenny, two Australian women from our group, at a barrel table in the small dining area. They had already gotten their food, but they invited me to sit down. I pulled out a stool next to the glass doors that displayed the more select bottles of scotch as Terry indicated her displeasure with her hamburger entree. “I ordered a burgher,” she said. Seeing my confusion, she tried again. “You know, a burgher.” She was making tapas-sized gestures with her hands and shaking her head. “I didn’t think it would be…this!” Since I’m from the US, I could confirm that she had indeed gotten the “American burger” listed on the bar menu. Maybe there is an Australian entree called a burgher? I shrugged but kept quiet. Terry had already shown herself to be a tireless conversationalist that day, and I hadn't even ordered my food yet.

The bar boasted locally distilled gin, so I decided to get a martini. When I approached the bar to discuss the different brands with the bartender, my American accent must have given me away to a man sitting at the countertop. “What part of the US are you from?” he asked. When I told him I was from Seattle, a conspiratorial gleam came into his eyes. “Do you think the West Coast is going to break away and form its own government?” I knew that Scotland had entertained ideas of doing the same, so I let him in on a secret. “We’ve already got a name for it,” I said, smiling. “Cascadia!” He seemed very pleased, and I didn’t realize until after I went back to my table that it was because residents call the Orkney Islands “Orcadia.”

Back at the table, my tourmates were talking about their afternoon in Kirkwall. A walk along the paths by the peedie (“small” in Orcadian) sea had tired Terry out, and she hadn’t even gotten to the great, brick cathedral of St. Magnus. “Seems like every town has a St. Magnus church here,” she said. I had spent a couple hours exploring the church and the ruins of the Bishop’s Palace nearby. Now we were all exhausted from our drive and ferry ride, but we were looking forward to visiting the Neolithic sites the next day. I paid my bill and said good night so I could be ready for tomorrow. My tourmates didn’t know, but I had a mission. 

Bishop’s Palace and St. Magnus Cathedral, Kirkhall

About a week before my trip, I received an alarming text from my second-oldest sister, Lisa. It was on a group chat I share with my four older sisters. “Don’t be concerned,” she began. “I was admitted to neurological care at the hospital last night after I was having trouble texting. They found a three-centimeter mass in my frontal lobe.” When I read those words, I threw my phone across the room in disbelief and denial. Three centimeters is a lot of space to take up in someone's brain.

Hours later, Lisa went into surgery and the tumor was successfully removed, but we wouldn’t know what kind it was until the lab examined and identified it. She stayed in the ICU but was ready to be discharged after two days. I begged my brother-in-law to let me visit her at home before I left on my trip. “I’ll come over on my way to the airport, if I have to.” I couldn’t bear leaving without seeing her. 

The day before I was set to leave for Scotland, I got to see her. We sat outside on her deck at the picnic table in the crisp May breeze. Her head was bare and I could see the thick scar rising from her shoulder-length hair, which was greyer than I had ever seen it before. She was having difficulty finding words during our conversation, suffering brain fog from the swelling and surgery. I was so happy to see her, and even though I was shocked by what had happened, I was grateful we could talk. I told her about the ancient standing stones that I would soon visit. “I’ll tell  them your name,” I said. She paused and considered my words, which would have made her chuckle just last week, before her life had taken such an unbelievable turn. “Well,” she said slowly, “nothing can hurt.”

My room at the Orkney had large windows that looked out onto the street from the second floor. The bright sky had shone through the red curtains, casting the room in a rosy glow until almost midnight and waking me every few hours after my early bedtime. The people in Kirkwall seemed to enjoy the extended May evening, and I could hear them chatting and walking in groups on the cobblestones. I woke up the next morning around 7:00 a.m. to eat breakfast in the warm, bustling dining room with Jean and Dorothy before it was time to take our minibus to Stenness. Stepping into my room to quickly brush my teeth after breakfast, I felt my phone buzzing again with a text. 

I slid my phone out of my pocket and saw that it was a message from my sister, Kristin, on the group chat. Lisa had gotten her lab results back. “It is glioblastoma (GBM) grade 4 & she will start radiation and chemo, likely soon,” it read. “Lisa is taking it well but it does get hard to say the words that make it all true.”

I hung my head and set the phone on the counter. I felt like an unbearable weight was pressing down on me, despite Kristin putting a brave face on her text. I spent the next few minutes reading and responding to the flood of messages from my other two sisters. We had all been waiting for the news and keeping a close eye on our phones. I had already heard about glioblastoma from my friend Mary, whom I had met at a counseling group I attended to deal with the residual grief from my mom’s death in 2015. Mary’s sister died from glioblastoma, and she had shared her story of the incredibly aggressive cancer. Mary had been unable to travel and visit her sister after her diagnosis because of the COVID lockdowns in 2020. I felt the same isolation and pain at being separated from my sister while traveling, now, in Scotland.

It was time to meet my tourmates in the lobby of the hotel, so I gathered my strength and reapplied some makeup. I was going to need some time to absorb this news, and it seemed like my sisters felt the same way. The chat had fallen silent after our initial burst of messages. I opened the rosy curtains in my room and felt the glinting morning sun on my face. Walking out the door toward my day’s adventures, I didn’t want to speak to anyone about what I’d learned. I was glad for some anonymity among the new faces in my tour group. But I could feel a tumbling sensation deep in my stomach, below the layer of dissociative calm that was keeping me together for now.

Stenness

My tourmates were already outside on the hotel’s short driveway. When I stepped through the double doors, Dorothy motioned me over to where the group was standing with a tall, cheerful man. He was the driver for another Rabbie’s tour, and he had offered to take our photo. I stood with Dorothy, Jean, and Terry and tried to keep my hair from blowing in the brisk early morning  breeze. 

“Can I give you a hand with the luggage?” he asked, after returning Terry’s phone. We thanked him but said that our driver had instructed us to wait in front of the hotel, where she would pick us up. “She drives the bus down here?!” he exclaimed with admiration, eyeing the narrow cobblestone alley. “I always have my groups meet me in the square!” As if on cue, our minibus came rumbling down the street, carefully squeezing past the walls on either side. When she reached the hotel, Amy clambered down from the driver’s seat to help load our bags. She was wearing a jaunty plaid chauffeur’s cap, and her easy smile and big laugh lifted my spirits a little. We were ready to collect the rest of our tourmates at their lodgings and then drive on to Stenness.

I boarded the tour bus and took a single seat across the aisle from Leesa, who had already been picked up from her B&B across town. When she smiled at me, I again marveled at the synchronicity of family names on the tour–Jean, Dorothy, and Leesa. We drove through the grey, misty morning with the wind spattering occasional raindrops across the windows. I was still reeling from the text I’d received earlier, but it made our destination seem all the more significant. As we drew near Stenness, there were very few cars on the road. Leesa pointed out the window. “Look, there’s the other one!” She was showing me the Ring of Brodgar, less than a mile away. I’d had no idea they were so close to each other.

When we arrived at the Standing Stones of Stenness, there were no other people in sight, but a few lone sheep were sheltering near the stones. I felt like I was looking through a time portal to 3,000 BC. The minibus stopped, and everyone took the usual moment to gather their belongings or just take in the view. But I felt a surge of motivation. I stood up and walked determinedly to the front, the first person to exit even though I had been seated toward the middle of the bus.

Stenness Standing Stones

The tallest of the stones towered above me at about 15 feet, and a smaller one with a zigzag shape rose to around seven feet. A pair of stones with a flat rock forming a small platform behind them stood at my height towards the back of the circle. I felt in awe of these giants before me, and at the same time there was a familiarity to them. They all had coin-sized, white lichen patches on their dewy surfaces, which reminded me of lichen on the Jizo child statues I’d seen throughout Japan. Like those statues, the stones had a perceptible personality. With the fog muffling the sounds around me I stepped up to the first stone, filled with a sense of purpose. 

Each stone’s surface topography was rough and bumpy, but if I searched for the right spot, I could find a handhold that perfectly fit my palm. I touched the stone, and a mantra of images started in my mind. I closed my eyes briefly, seeing my sister and the post-op scar showing through her hair. I didn’t dare linger on it when I visited her, yet it was burned into my mind’s eye. As I pressed my palm onto the cool surface, I said her name clearly in my mind. I continued the ritual at each stone: her face, her scar, Lisa.

As I approached the third stone, I began to feel a sense or a memory of something very familiar. Although I was the one sharing the images in my mind, now I was receiving an impression, like a communal presence around me. It was as if this third stone had already recognized the thoughts I had shared with the first two. Suddenly a childhood memory resurfaced–showing my school project to the adults at a party while they humored me, sharing smiles over my head and hmm-hmming their interest. I felt an understanding from the stones, too, of the grave injury my sister’s scar conveyed. 

I pressed my hand to the last stone and felt the same recognition and understanding. As I released my handhold, the completion of the ritual also meant that I had nothing standing between me and the text message I received earlier in the morning.

Dorothy and Jean

I turned around to find Jean approaching. She smiled, seeing me so affected. “They’re amazing, aren’t they?” she asked reverently.

And that was all it took. The dam that had been holding back my emotions started to give way, and a change came over my face. My lips pursed and tears sprang from my eyes as I put a hand to my face. Jean took my arm, looking concerned. I burst out, “I had…some really bad news this morning.” I looked into her kind face. “My sister has cancer. She just got her results.”

Jean came closer and put her arm around my back as I covered my face with my hand. Leesa, who had been standing nearby, came over to offer her help. “I just found out my sister has cancer…a brain tumor. Glioblastoma.” I spoke this last word knowing that Leesa would understand its seriousness because she worked in healthcare. She took my other arm, and both she and Jean stayed with me until it was time to rejoin our group.

As we approached the minibus chugging at the roadside, I noticed the fog was lifting. We exited the field, passing tourists from another group who were exclaiming at their first glimpse of the stones, breaking the spell cast over us in that lonely, hallowed place.