Fire in London

The walk took Martha a leisurely fifteen minutes across the serene fields. The man selling maps at John o' Groats had promised that the trail wouldn't be too difficult. Now, at the top of the untamed cliffs that oversaw the Duncansby stacks, the hang-glider's vista of the open sea greeted her disbelieving eyes. She blinked again to be sure.

Mountain avens, moss and heather coated the rugged, plunging walls of the precipice. Overhead, the sky hung tranquil and azure, decorated with drifting cumulus clouds. The shimmering sea with a faint cast of cobalt undulated silently. The haunting ocean projected fingerlike inlets into the steep faces of the firth, as if eroding them over centuries of patient glacial activity.

A fulfilling form of tiredness suffused her. Martha's palm raised to block the sinuous stream of cold air from chilling her nose and lips. Her Burberry scarf, a present from her husband, fluttered wildly. The hem of the worn-out dress rose and billowed. She secured the zip of the jacket, as the winds whistled and the waves beneath broke on the shore.

Here, forces of nature seemed untouched by human hands. Not a single soul lingered in the wilderness of the humpy hills and the glades. Martha sighed. I've done it. I'm here at last.

A stray seagull yelled at Martha, bringing back memories. Twenty years ago, Martha had promised Harold Buchanon, the man she loved, that she would come to this place. This wild and tangled place appeared to be the northern edge of the world—all her life a Londoner, Martha had never travelled north of Oxford or Birmingham. Harold had been persuasive, promising that the planned trip would be worth it—where we're going, words could not describe the view—though he himself hadn't been there for decades.

More birds circled above, mewing, putting an end to Martha's reverie. Taking a deep breath, her face relaxed, she hummed the Scottish hymn There is a happy land. As the urn opened, its contents swirled out into the air. You will be at home—a peaceful resting place.

***

Fire broke up around them. The last two Luftwaffe bombers fled, pursued by the Royal Air Force spitfire planes. The desktop calendar showed the date as March 1944, before it was engulfed by the flames.

Pinned down by the fallen column of their London house, Harold couldn't move. A huge group of rescue workers and volunteers crowded outside, but they were prevented from entering the house by the growing fumes and the sweltering heat.

"Promise me," the burly Scottish man said with effort, sweating. "You must visit the Duncansby stacks."

"We will go there together," Martha said, tears and soot mingling on her face. "That's what we planned. After the war, we'll go there, to Inverness, to Duncansby Head. You'll see your hometown, again."

"Don't be silly." Harold pushed her away, his faltering voice urgent and harsh. "I am done now. You must go while you can. I need you to go there for me. Please tell me you will."

She gasped. Martha felt the strong hands of a suited fireman gripping her from behind. As she coughed, the uniformed man pressed an oxygen mask on her face. Within one second, the ashen floor beneath Harold had collapsed into the basement below.

As Harold disappeared, all Martha could hear were frantic yelling. "We have to leave now."