The Village Under the Storm

Polly had one place written down. "Can you tell me how to get there?" she asked the ewe at breakfast. Follow the coast road west, the ewe said. The Bay of Skaill is a long curve of pale sand. Behind it is a green shelf, and the village sits there, half sunk into the ground.

An oystercatcher was working the site. Polly asked, "I would like to know the history of this particular monument." People lived here five thousand years ago, he said. They farmed this coast before Stonehenge and before the Great Pyramid. Then sand covered the village for four thousand years, until a storm in eighteen fifty took it away.

The wind took half of that. "Could you please repeat that for me?" Polly asked. Every house has the same furniture in the same places. A hearth in the middle. Beds at each side. A stone dresser against the far wall. It is stone because there was no wood.

"Could you tell me if the museum is open tomorrow?" Polly asked. She knew she would come back. She stood at the edge of one house, looking into a room laid out the way anyone lays out a room.