The Thirteen Stones

by Finegan, KT

  The woman hesitated, and then asked, ‘Kirsty?’ Or at least that’s what I heard in my head. I wasn’t sure if she had moved her mouth or spoken out loud.

  ‘How do you know me? Who are you?’

  She slowly pushed her long, light hair back from her face, in a gesture that looked familiar. We appeared to move closer together, or so it felt, and now I could clearly see her bright green eyes. She transformed from translucent to colour and back again. By this time I wasn’t sure if any of this was real or not. I knew Granny had believed in spirits. But I didn’t. I really didn’t. This wasn’t real. It was a trick of the light and imagination, and grief and tiredness… and guilt.

  ‘Oh Kirsty,’ I heard somewhere in my head. ‘It’s me. Mum. It’s been a very long time.’

  There was a scream or shout, as if from a long way off, a deep roaring in my ears, and a dizzying fall towards blackness.

  6

  I was aware of cold chilling dampness in my knees and hands. The metallic taste of blood was in my mouth, a sharp pain in my head and ribs. Feeling lost and disorientated, I slowly opened my eyes, wincing as the pale light hit me. I had fallen sideways and a large, stone, angel headstone had broken my fall. Otherwise I would have hit the sharp stones which covered this part of the graveyard.

  Luckily for me I had managed to stay almost upright as I passed out, striking my mouth, head, and ribs against the stone. Very tentatively, as my whole body ached, I pulled myself upright. I wasn’t badly hurt but I was very confused and felt a little dizzy. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious but I was chilled to the bone.

  The shock and surprise hit me as I glanced over at the graveside. The whole graveyard was empty apart from the big black birds sitting along the top of the abandoned chapel.

  What had that all been about? Was she really my mother? Did I see a ghost? No, impossible.

  There had to be another explanation. I could hear people talking from over the wall to my left hand side, and within a few moments a man and woman walking a big black Labrador came towards me. They asked if I was okay, and I assured them I was fine.

  When I asked if they had passed anyone else on the pathway, they both shook their heads. I must have looked a fright. It was kind of them to be so concerned, and the woman looked back a couple of times as they walked on. But I didn’t want to talk to strangers. What would I have said? They would have thought me crazy. No, this was just because of my grief. My mind was playing tricks on me. It had to be.

  I found a broken piece of masonry and sat down gingerly, my head swimming again. In my mind I could picture long-buried images of my mother, conversations with my grandmother, images and sounds of a family life, but all from a very long time ago. Memories, I was sure. More than those old photographs had ever given me. I could hear her voice, I was sure of it. Images of us laughing and dancing around the cottage. Sunny days, picnics, reading in bed under the covers with a torch. Lots of pictures came to me, fast, one after another like someone had speeded up a video recording of my life.

  After my mother’s death I had gone off to boarding school in Edinburgh. I think Granny wanted to make sure I was okay and got a good education, but I hated it. Home had been for the holidays only. It took me ages to make friends at school and I learned quickly that no-one likes a cry baby.

  I thought so much of my childhood had been forgotten. But was it ever? Recently, the nightmares had felt so real that I’d begun to wonder if there were some memories mixed up and wanting to come out for a visit. But the sensible administrator in me, and the dull accountant in Derek, hadn’t wanted to believe that could be the case.

  Whatever had just happened to me must have been some sort of waking nightmare. Could such a thing exist? The ‘woman’ had gone, apparition or imagination. I felt drained.

  Stupid fool, I told myself. She died years ago, and you haven’t thought of her in a long, long time. You’re tired, and upset. Now, it’s time to get a grip. People will think you are mad.

  Even though Granny had believed in spirits, it had always seemed so silly to me, and totally unbelievable. I shivered as I walked away, and at that moment I missed the presence of my gran even more, if that was possible. She would have loved to have had this discussion with me.

  I thought of all the times over the years that Granny had tried to talk to me about ‘her work’. I liked to think of her as a herbalist, making up creams and lotions in her kitchen for local people, as her mother had done before her, and hers before that. I suppose I knew somewhere deep down that she did a little more than that, but I had never ever wanted to talk about it. I had always wanted to be practical, and believe in science and reason, not spirit and faith.

  Slowly, limping slightly, I pulled on a pair of black suede gloves I found in my pocket, then headed out of the graveyard and back along Station Road. Some things about the town were exactly as I remembered them, but other things had changed. There was a new school up behind the graveyard, built deep into what used to be a hilly area. They builders must have taken a way a lot of earth, as the ground floor was so low down I couldn’t see it fully from the roadside.

  I spotted the bright lights of a new retail park on the other side of the road, built on the site of what used to be the livestock market. Around the fencing someone had tacked up a hand-painted banner protesting about a new extension to the quarry on the other side of the graveyard. I noticed some council workers stop to take it down and throw it into the back of their van.

  As I walked along I probed around my mouth with my tongue for damage, but apart from a sensitive raised area at the back of my lip, I was okay, at least physically. I walked along towards the High Street, and past the black and gold painted railings of the imposing Church of St Mary’s.

  Set back from the road in an immaculately tended courtyard, it was over three hundred years old and had recently undergone a multi-million pound renovation. Last time I had been in town, the building wore a shroud of plastic sheeting around its skeleton of scaffolding.

  Its vastness surprised me. For the first time ever, I saw the church in its full majestic glory, and I realised why people came from all over the world to see it. It was already floodlit, the day as dark as night, and the newly-cleaned granite sparkled under the lights. The church stood easily three storeys high, and longer than two football pitches. High, arch-shaped, multi-coloured stained glass windows glinted from the lights inside.

  There was something so grand and beautiful about the place. It was breathtaking and, despite the sharp winter’s air, I stopped at the gate. We were so high here that the church seemed to sit on the clouds like something from a fairytale. The stained glass windows were designed by a famous artist, and the middle window caught my attention. With the lights from inside the church I could see the pattern on the glass. I’d always thought it was something like St George and the dragon, like the story. Although, I suppose why that would be here in the middle of Scotland and in a church called St Mary’s escaped me.

  Standing looking at the window, I realised that it was a woman, not a knight, standing in front of the fire-breathing dragon. She was holding up a ball of some kind, like an orb but one that shone with a pale blue light all around it like a halo. The image, now that it was cleaned up and lit from behind, was really clear. She was tiny against the size of the dragon. Dressed as in medieval times, her long blond hair was in a braid down her back, almost to her belted waist. Her face showed compassion; love even, not fear. And around her head was a golden halo as well.

  I could see that the dragon had half turned, as if looking behind him to a large doorway, and the background looked like they were in a cave. It was an odd scene, but one of bravery, especially when she was unarmed in front of the dragon. The vibrant colours sparkled in the light.

  The churchyard was landscaped with little white sandstone cobbled blocks, and under the floodlights these shone and looked magical. Right in the
middle of the courtyard was a simple wooden cross, perhaps twenty feet high. As I looked, the lights for this flicked on and the cross seemed to shimmer in the light.

  I’d never been very religious and it was a long time since I’d gone into the church, but I immediately felt it was a very beautiful, welcoming place. The word sanctuary came into my mind for some obscure reason. A blackboard at the gate announced that a guided tour was about to start – something new for the town.

  While I stood there, a busload of Spanish tourists descended, all trying to get in the narrow gates at the same time. Not wanting to share the experience with so many people, I decided to leave a visit for another time. I had no idea it would be so soon and under such strange circumstances.

  7

  Next to the church stood what used to be an old gatehouse, set against the stone wall surrounding the rest of the church grounds. It was now a coffee shop, with a glass conservatory added to the front. The steamy windows looked inviting, and I had to smile at the name emblazoned in lilac fluorescent lights across the front of the café: Angel’s Cakes. What a great name for a place so close to the church.

  I pushed open the door, and walked across a darkly varnished wooden floor. Immediately the sounds of chat and laughter hit me, along with the sweet aroma of cakes baking in an oven and freshly ground coffee. Some of the old stone walls were exposed, with flickering candle-effect lighting and big circular black chandeliers hanging from the ceiling on chains.

  There were about half a dozen wooden tables and what looked like old church pews as seats to the left of the room. Straight in front of me was a big wooden counter, a glass-fronted fridge filled with cakes – lots and lots of cakes – and the reassuring hiss of a cappuccino machine. A couple of older women were paying their bill at the counter and chatting away happily, so rather than crowd them I moved over and almost gasped out loud in amazement.

  The whole right hand side of the space was set out like a shop. Dark wood shelves displayed hundreds and hundreds of angels. Every kind of angel. Glass, wood, cloth, plastic, wax. Statues. Candles. Lights. Toys. Teddy bears with angel wings. Pictures. Wall hangings. Books. Cards. CDs. Every surface, shelf and wall was full of angels, in every colour, size and type. The effect was mesmerising.

  As a child I had been an avid collector of all things angelic, but I had forgotten all about it until the effects of this crazy, unexpected little space hit me. I felt I could breathe here and let out a deep long held sigh. I felt my tension ooze away like mist in the air, as if an angelic cloud surrounded me.

  As I wandered around the shop, picking things up, squeezing stuffed toys, softy touching the faces of the angels of stone and wood, I was entranced. And a feeling of peace overcame me. I had found a little haven amongst all my pain. I knew my gran would have loved this.

  I was aware of some music playing behind the chatter and clatter of the coffee shop. Beautiful, almost angelic female voices singing. The tone was hypnotic in a way, and I relaxed a little more. The smell of the coffee signalled a rumble in my tummy, and I realised how thirsty and hungry I was, as I hadn’t had breakfast or eaten much over the last few days. That was unusual for me, especially when I was stressed.

  Back at the counter, a fair-haired woman was smiling, waiting for my order. ‘You must be Kirsty,’ she said. ‘I knew your grandmother really well, and I knew you’d pop in when it was the right time. Are you okay? ’

  I didn’t have a clue what to say to that, and if I hadn’t been looking into blue eyes with a cheeky glint from behind thick spectacles, I would have been upset. Instead, for the first time in what felt like ages, I smiled back at the woman. She looked a little older than me, maybe in her fifties; it was hard to tell. Her blond hair was pulled back away from her face and she wore a black apron with Angel’s Cakes in purple swirly script across the chest pocket. She was so friendly and attentive.

  I ordered a large latte, some soup, and a big slice of carrot cake. All of the cakes looked delicious and were obviously home-baked, hence the wonderful aroma of baking. The woman told me to take a seat and she’d bring it all over.

  I headed towards a recently vacated leather sofa looking out onto the street, and shrugged off my coat, scarf, and gloves. A few minutes later a steaming mug of coffee was in front of me, and the soup quickly followed.

  I stifled a giggle when I saw that the mug had an angel on it, as did the napkin wrapped round the cutlery. Served with loads of creamy butter on thickly sliced brown bread, the soup was delicious and warmed me all the way down to my toes.

  Feeling a hundred times better, I looked around and sipped at my coffee whilst waiting for the cake. I had the distinct feeling that someone was watching me, and as I turned my gaze back to the counter, I saw the lady who had taken the order talking with a taller, older woman. She was very smartly dressed in a mossy green tweed skirt suit, with a cape of muted rust orange brown and green over one shoulder. I wasn’t sure of her age, perhaps sixties or early seventies.

  It was obvious that they were discussing me, which would normally annoy me. But in the circumstances, the whole town probably had something to say so I decided to let it go and try not to brood on it. Looking round the empty tables, I realised that I was the only customer left.

  Stupid fool, I chided myself. They probably want to clear up and get home, that’s what they were saying.

  The fair-haired woman arrived at my table with a huge slab of carrot cake, and another steamy latte.

  ‘Are you trying to close up?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to hold you back.’

  ‘Not at all, there’s no hurry. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here for ages yet, cleaning up. We were just saying how much we missed your grandmother and how you look like her. There’s a strong family resemblance.’

  I looked into those bright blue eyes, already filling with tears to match my own.

  ‘I’m Angel,’ she said.

  How appropriate, I thought. Another angel.

  I realised that I couldn’t speak about Gran. The words wouldn’t come and I didn’t know if I’d cry, and I didn’t want to start in case I couldn’t stop. It was easier to change the subject, so I cleared my throat a couple of times before trusting my voice not to shake and give away my sorrow.

  ‘I love your angels,’ I told her. ‘When I was younger I loved them, but it’s been a long time since I really thought about that. I felt so good when I walked around and saw you had so many angelic things for sale. And that music is beautiful. It made me feel more relaxed… I didn’t know you could buy so much. I suppose being right beside the church you get lots of religious people in?’

  I had forgotten about the childhood magic you can enjoy with a toy, or how the simplest things can take on great importance. For me it had been angels and unicorns. I’d loved them, and had lots of toys and little ornaments and statues. I wondered what had happened to them. I hadn’t taken them with me to school, or onwards to university or my adult life in London. I guessed Gran had probably cleared them away years ago, and I felt a little tremor of guilt on how quickly I had dropped my childhood comforters.

  ‘We get lots of people who are welcoming angels back into their lives. People who used to believe in fairies and magic, but felt they had to leave that all behind as adults. So there’s something really special about seeing people reconnect with that childhood innocence and sense of fun,’ the woman explained kindly. ‘It’s not all what you would call “religious people” we get in here. Some people just love angels, and like to come in and browse. I love their energies. I also have crystals and meditation stools and cushions, Himalayan salt lamps, bowls. You name it, I probably have it!’ She laughed.

  ‘I really thought angels were only for children.’

  Angel didn’t seem to take any offence at my words. Instead she laughed again, and I felt an immediate closeness, which was very unusual for me.

  ‘I suppos
e I was the same,’ she admitted. ‘I loved angels and cherubs when I was younger as well. I remember I had a magical unicorn toy and I could tell that toy anything. The fashion then was to swap paper scraps, and my favourites were all the angels. It sounds so simple now, not like kids today with their technology, but my friends and I would spend our pocket money on all different pages of little images that we could cut out individually and place in a book.

  ‘If we wanted to swap a particular image, we would pull that one out of the top of our books, and our friends would look through to see if they wanted to swap for one of theirs. It was all the rage with the girls. The boys swapped football cards, the girls swapped scraps. And then, I suppose a bit like you, I sort of forgot about that and grew up. I went to Glasgow and trained as a nurse and then worked in the local hospital and got married.’

  My eyebrows must have risen slightly, and she seemed to know what my question would be without me voicing it.

  ‘No. I’m not married now. I got divorced about five years ago and that’s when I got back into my love of angels. You could say meeting my Guardian Angel saved my life.’

  What could I say to that? I didn’t want to be rude, and she seemed sincere but also a little eccentric in her rainbow-coloured top and brightly coloured glasses. Maybe I was just too used to dark business coloured clothes, and I realised I was wearing black trousers, top and coat. Even my bag, scarf and gloves were black, which was my normal attire, and not bought especially for the funeral or sad times. This darkness had become my life.

  My sceptical side must have been apparent to her, as she carried on speaking.

  ‘Honestly. I know it probably sounds crazy to you, and if anyone had told me that before I met my angel I would have had them carted off to a mental home. But I met my Guardian Angel and my life changed for the better. And I love my life now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not perfect, but I don’t believe that’s what life is about. And I know that it is perfect for me. I know I can get through the sad times and I know I always have the love and support of the angels. It makes life so much easier. I don’t have to worry about anything. I turn problems over to my angels and things work out without me fretting and making myself ill the way I used to do when I was nursing.’