Page 17 of Simon Says

When they woke the next morning, Rogerin was gone and they were alone. Simon looked at his watch. Five o’clock.

“We have the place all to ourselves,” he said. “Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

They stepped inside the ring. Reverently at first. But in a short time, they were running in circles. Simon caught Sorcha, both of them breathless, pressed her back against one of the taller stones and kissed her like he’d been desperate to do it all night. The fact that they were already panting fed into the frenzy of sex free from a sleeping bag.

Their hands roamed over each other as their bodies tried to create friction fully clothed.

Sorcha pulled back suddenly. “Simon. Do you hear that?”

He stopped, listened, and shook his head. “No.” He took a step back and turned to look over the surrounding landscape for signs that someone might be coming. When he turned back, his intention being to say, “I don’t see anything,” Sorcha was a transparent figure, blended with the rock, a look of startled horror on her face. She reached out for him, her lips forming his name, just before she faded altogether.

Eventually, after hours of pounding on the stone until his hands were bloody, shouting until his voice was hoarse, he succumbed to exhaustion and sank to the ground.

“The Ring ofThorgall,” Simon said. “Do you know where it is?”

Rosie shook her head. “Show me on the map.”

Simon pulled out the Atlas, found an enlarged spread of the Orkneys, and showed her the exact spot.

“I’ll be back with handcuffs and some go-juice.”

“Go-juice?”

“You know. I’m going to give you enough of my blood to take you through the passes without you dying.”

“It’s an hour flight on a whister. Why don’t we just…?”

“Simon.” Rosie laughed. “Have you never taken a ride in the passes?”

“Well, as a matter of fact…”

“Then I insist.”

“You insist,” he repeated. Simon wasn’t accustomed to having people insist on an approach that wasn’t his, but he was approaching Elora Rose hat in hand.

“Don’t be a…”

“Alright. Go get what you need.”

Ten minutes later,Rosie returned with furry pink handcuffs and a small syringe.

“Bend over,” she said, holding up the syringe. She doubled over with laughter at the look on Simon’s face. “Just kidding. Give me your arm.”

After injecting him with her blood, she snapped one cuff onto his left wrist and one onto her right. “Here we go.”

Before Simon had a chance to ask what to expect, they were in the passes. He had the usual sensations of walking, but what his feet touched wasn’t like hard ground. It was springy. Not so much like a trampoline. More like a sponge.

He was surrounded by swirling mists, like the thickest fog being wafted about and occasionally interlaced with swirling maroon-colored ribbons. He could make out Rosie’s shape, traveling in front of him, but not details. A couple of times he thought he might have heard voices, but the crescendo and decrescendo was so fast he couldn’t be certain if his mind was playing tricks on him.

In less than two minutes they were standing at the site of the ring with no other people in sight on a day where dark clouds were broken up with beams of sunlight. Simon felt mildly nauseated when they came to a stop in the deserted meadow.

Rosie grabbed him by the elbow when he swayed a little. He didn’t resist, but let her steady him.

When his color began to return, he said, “That was…”

“What?” When Simon didn’t answer immediately, she made an effort to supply an adverb. “Exciting? Exhilarating? Consciousness-raising? Mind-bending?”

“Stop.”

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