The Ninety-Day Grain

The bar in Kirkwall had five tables and a fire. The door opened onto a street of grey stone with the cathedral at the top. Polly took the table nearest the heat. "Can I see the menu?" she asked. The card had fewer things on it than she expected, and more of them local.

"Could you recommend a good dish?" The owner was a heron. She recommended the bannock at once. Bere is a barley they have grown here for centuries. People call it the ninety-day barley, because it ripens fast enough for a short northern summer. Ground into meal, it makes a flat, dark bannock.

"Do you have vegetarian options?" Polly asked. The heron pointed at the same line on the card. Bannock, butter and crowdie, the soft cheese the farms have always made. The same grain also goes to the distillery under the tower, working since seventeen ninety-eight.

"Can we get the bill, please?" Polly said when the plate was empty. The heron took her time bringing it, which is a compliment. Outside, the wind had dropped to what the islands call still. Polly walked up the grey street toward the red cathedral.