He leant in, bringing them eye to eye, this huge man and she a slight girl, a gesture that told Viola she could tell him the truth, that it would be all right; he would rescue her. And she needed rescuing, she wanted out. This was her way to win. But Viola could see her mother leaning forward in her chair, making herself seen behind the bulk of the man. She was giving Viola a slow, warning shake of her head, her mouth making an exaggerated shape – ‘no’.

The vibrations at the Sisters’ Stones had been strong, this message was stronger.

‘It’s going really well. Thank you,’ Viola said, returning Mr Crane’s gaze. Her lungs felt tight, squeezed empty of breath.

Mr Crane straightened up abruptly, his smile gone. He stared at her for a moment, the acknowledgement of the lie passing between them.

Above, a red kite squealed plaintively in its search for prey.

‘That so,’ he said, not kindly, but not unkindly either, and there were few pleasantries exchanged after that, before the man tendered his final goodbye.

He made his way down the stairs towards the Land Rover, and as he went, he ever so quickly and hardly at all pinched Viola on the cheek.

Ordinary Time: Autumn 2017

ORDINARY TIME: AUTUMN 2017

The letter was sent home with the children.

It could also be found, folded in three, inside every hymn book at Saturday Mass. It took up the whole of pages four and five of the Lark Chronicle, a quarterly, stapled pamphlet, typeset by Miriam Calder. The Chronicle’s pastel-coloured pages rotated with the seasons, pink, green, blue, yellow, but the front cover illustration remained unchanged – a pen drawing of the harbour by a long-dead resident. The notices inside were unchanging too, only the dates shifted. So, this letter was something else.

Residents of Lark,

Let it be clear: that our beloved island was built upon superstition and mystique is no excuse for a pursuit of the dark arts. For those were shaky foundations and dark times, before the light of Jesus had touched us, bringing word that God created all. He shaped Lark, let it yield grass, herb and fruit, siting it in a location that provides us, the fortunate and chosen few, with splendid isolation.

We have maintained it well, upholding His word, keeping this island a place of beauty, free from so many of the sinful temptations that are permitted to flourish upon the mainland.

But we are not without struggle. Daily, we must battle with the devil, dousing his desires to engage us in conversation, enticing us as he does with his mystic cards, his vices and his rituals.

Be convinced: a dialogue with Satan is never entertainment and must not be justified as distraction or play. His symbols and his polished stones, his rhymes and his actions, will never bring protection, only harm.