The Dwarfie Stane: A Portal at the Edge of the World
- Ruben Flores
- Apr 18
- 9 min read
Updated: Oct 20
It’s 7:30 a.m. at Houton Harbour, five miles southwest of Stromness on the Orkney mainland in northern Scotland. Cindy and I are about to board a ferry for the first time, bound for one of the most mysterious prehistoric sites in Europe.
The night before, over dinner beneath a golden sunset, Cindy shared a story that left me speechless. She told me about a magical stone on the Island of Hoy—a massive block of Devonian Old Red Sandstone, carved with a chamber deep inside. It rests in a steep-sided glacial valley, surrounded by desolate peatland, and for years, archaeologists dismissed it as nothing more than a tomb.
But Cindy said researchers now believe its design doesn’t match anything native to Britain. Its origins are rooted in southern Europe and the Mediterranean. And recently, something even more intriguing was uncovered: the chamber inside has a unique sonic resonance
—116 Hz—nearly identical to the frequency found in the King’s Chamber of the Great Pyramid of Giza.
According to researchers, that frequency isn’t random. With the right tone, it can synchronize both hemispheres of the brain, shifting consciousness and expanding perception.
A ticket to the Otherworld, she said.
I sat there stunned, trying to wrap my head around what she’d just told me. After collecting my jaw from the floor, we paid the bill and returned to our hotel. Neither of us could sleep. We were too excited. Tomorrow, we’d begin a journey of our own—a modern-day Viking saga.
Crossing to Hoy
But first, we had to cross one of the most dangerous stretches of sea in northeastern Europe—waters known not only for shipwrecks, but for sudden, lashing storms and thick mists that roll in without warning.
For people on these islands, the sea has always been a part of life—powerful, unpredictable, and alive with presence. With its whirlpools, rip tides, jagged skerries, sea stacks, and echoing caves, the ocean here has long been a source of legends and mystery.
Over the centuries, islanders gave shape to the unknown by imagining a realm beneath the waves, filled with strange and powerful beings: The Finman, who might steal a mortal woman to make her his bride. The mermaid, always luring lovers into the deep.
The selkie-man, slipping between human and seal skin. The mischievous sea-trow, always up to no good. And great sea serpents, moving silently in the depths.
These myths weren’t just stories—they offered explanations for what people couldn’t fully understand. They helped make sense of a world shaped by forces beyond their control.
And as Cindy and I prepared to board the ferry, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of story we were about to step into ourselves.
Ferry Fog and Glacier Rolls
“It’s our turn,” Cindy said.
“What?”
“Go!” she snapped.
A Scotsman in full yellow rain gear waved us onto the ferry, rain spitting sideways. We couldn’t understand a word, but the message was clear: drive or be left behind.
Trapped in the car for the hour-long ride, coffee-deprived and slightly claustrophobic, we passed the time cracking jokes and pretending not to panic.
“I feel like a sardine in a can,” Cindy muttered. We laughed, but the mist outside was thick enough to swallow whole villages.
Hoy greeted us with wind and wilderness. Population: 402. Coffee: unlikely.
The island felt like the edge of the known world—narrow roads, brooding cliffs, and silence that hinted at ancient secrets. We stopped at the Scapa Flow Museum for a quick hit of history and caffeine.
Mid-glacier roll, Cindy looked out the window and said, “We should go. The weather can trap you out here.”
“Trap us? Like storm-trap? Rescue-trap?”
She nodded.
We threw on jackets and hit the road. The clouds were moving fast now. Somewhere out there, the stone was waiting.
Trail to the Stone
After 45 minutes of dodging puddles and creeping along narrow, muddy roads at 30 mph, we finally reached a small pull-off near the base of a quiet hill. I was still fumbling with my camera gear when Cindy called out, “Trail’s this way!”
She had already found it—a narrow wooden path cutting through fog, peat, and standing water. We set off, boots squishing, air thick with silence and mist. Tiny purple flowers dotted the valley floor, barely visible from the car but now glowing like secrets under low cloud.
“Why’s it called the Dwarfie Stane?” I asked as we walked.
“The Vikings,” Cindy said. “They found it sealed and empty—no one knew who made it.
They called it Dvergasteinn, the home of dwarfs.”
She took a deep breath and kept going.
“There’s an old story about a dwarf named Trollid who lived inside it. Might’ve come from Norse myths—trolls, dwarfs, giants… all blending together over time. Some even say it was built by giants.”
“And how do you know all this?” I asked.
She smirked. “Look at me—I’m Scandinavian. I am a Viking.”
We both cracked up, trying not to trip over the wet planks.
“Okay fine,” she laughed. “I read every story I could find about this place. Like the one about Trowieglen—‘home of the fairy folk.’ Supposedly, if you go there, the trolls will steal something from you. Every time.”
“Great,” I said. “So we’ll lose a sock, a camera lens, or maybe… a sense of reality?”
Cindy just grinned and kept walking. The fog was getting thinner, but the mystery was getting thicker.
The Dvergasteinn
The trail led us through waterlogged planks and sodden earth, the air damp and hushed as if holding its breath. Then, at the crest of the hill, the land opened—and there it was.
A solitary giant.
The Dwarfie Stane stood silent and immovable, carved from a single titanic block of red Devonian sandstone. It felt less like arriving at a destination and more like approaching an altar.
“Here we are,” Cindy said quietly.
“Wow,” I whispered.
We stood still, the mist curling around us. The stone radiated a kind of presence—something ancient, watching, waiting.
“I don’t understand why archaeologists call this a tomb,” Cindy said.
“What do you mean?”
“They say it’s five thousand years old. Hand-carved. Hollowed from within. And yet they settle for tomb as an explanation?”
I shrugged. “Maybe that’s just the default label.”
“If they can’t explain it, they call it a tomb. Easy answer.” She rolled her eyes and smiled.
“Figures.”
We laughed, but neither of us could look away.
It was clear that this stone didn’t belong to the landscape—it stood out, a stranger among hills. A glacial erratic, they call it. Carried by ice from somewhere far away and dropped here like a puzzle piece from another world.
Even more curious: it’s the only known Neolithic chamber in Britain carved into a single stone. All others were built from stacked slabs. This was different. Intimate. Intentional.
Its design doesn’t match anything local. In fact, it mirrors the Domus de Janas—“Houses of the Fairies”—in Sardinia. The same curved interiors, the same layout. And, uncannily, the same resonant frequency: 116 Hz. That’s the tone found in the King’s Chamber of the Great Pyramid of Giza—a frequency known to alter states of consciousness.
We walked slowly around it, absorbing its silence. On the southern face, Cindy spotted a faint carving in Persian script.
“Captain William Mounsey,” she said. “He spent two nights here, stranded in a storm.”
Mounsey had been stationed in the Middle East, where he fell in love with sacred texts and ancient sites. He returned to Britain as a mystic and antiquarian. This was his message, left in stone:
“I have sat two nights and so learnt patience.”
To some, it’s poetic. To others, it’s a confession—an acknowledgment of inner work. The stone’s entrance is aligned due west, just like initiation temples of old. West is the path of the setting sun, the direction of endings, transitions, and journeys inward.
Temples that face west aren’t about death. They’re about transformation. The descent into silence. The invitation to step beyond the seen.
The Veil Between Worlds
I was still lost in thought, contemplating Captain Mounsey’s inscription, when I heard Cindy call out from beyond the stone.
“Ruben! Come here—you have to hear this!”
I stepped around the monolith and saw her already inside the chamber, crouched low and humming softly. A massive square block lay on the ground outside the entrance—clear evidence that the chamber was meant to be sealed, not casually entered.
I ducked inside.
The space was small, carved like a stone womb—silent, intimate, and precise. A narrow passage opened into two side cells, each barely large enough to lie in. The ceiling brushed close overhead. Despite the tightness, there was something peaceful about it. Timeless.
As usual, I reached into my bag and pulled out my flute. I played a single tone—an offering to the spirit of the place.
Cindy’s eyes lit up. She pointed out the fine ridges along the walls, the smooth precision of the inner cavity.
“Look at how exact this is,” she whispered. “The stone’s so dense—Devonian Red Sandstone. You don’t carve this by accident.”
“How did they even do this?” I asked, my voice low with wonder.
“That’s just it,” she said. “They say it was done with stone tools. Antler picks. Muscle. Patience. But come on—who’s going to believe that?”
I nodded slowly. “Not me. I think the builders of this ancient chamber chose stones for more than their structure. Some of them hold energy. Maybe this chamber was designed to resonate with the human body—sound interacting with the biofield, helping the brain drop into alpha or theta waves.”
“A place built to change consciousness,” I said softly. “A ticket to the Otherworld.”
Cindy didn’t reply. She simply closed her eyes, as if accepting an invitation.
Silence settled over the chamber. A thick, intentional silence. The kind that seems to listen back.
I closed my eyes too. Breathed. Let go.
Then I heard it—a tone. Subtle at first, but growing. It was Cindy, humming low and steady. The sound filled the space like water in a vessel. I joined in, breathing in through my nose and humming out through sealed lips. The vibration moved from my throat to my skull, then down into my chest.
My lips tingled. My face pulsed. I felt my breath slow, my heart steady. The resonance grew heavier, rounder, as if the chamber itself was humming back. And then—I lost my sense of direction. Time blurred. It felt like I was halfway out of my body, hovering just at the edge of something vast.
I opened my eyes.
My watch said we had to leave.
Cindy was still deep in it—eyes open, glowing, fixed on something invisible. Her pupils were wide, her face soft and radiant. She was singing now, gently, in a language I didn’t recognize. It sounded like something from a lost people, a song carried on the wind from another world.
Gradually, the melody shifted into English. The lyrics spoke of the Tree of Life—the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. The meeting point of earth and sky.
I nearly cried. She looked so peaceful, so open—like someone who had seen something sacred and come back with a piece of it.
Then a low rumble cracked across the sky.
Thunder.
“We gotta go,” I said gently.
“Huh? What happened?”
“Check your watch.”
She blinked. “What? That can’t be right... it feels like we just got here.”
“I know,” I said. “Maybe... time works differently in here.”
She smiled. “Maybe the Dwarfie Stane opened a portal.”
I laughed—but I wasn’t sure she was wrong.
“Why not?” I said. “Our ancestors built this for a reason. It wouldn’t surprise me if this spot was a kind of... disruption in space and time. Especially now that NASA admits they exist.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Space-time disruption?”
“Yeah. NASA calls them ‘X points.’ Places where magnetic fields from Earth and the Sun cross. The images from the THEMIS missions showed them as literal Xs. Right where magnetic portals form.”
She stared at me.
“So you’re saying I actually did open a portal?”
I grinned. “Looks like it.”
We both laughed, but the moment still hung in the air.
“You know,” she said, “it might sound strange, but I really believe this place was chosen. The ancients knew what they were doing. Sacred sites like this weren’t random. They were built where the veil is thin.”
I stepped out of the chamber. The sky had darkened. Clouds moved low and fast. A few cold raindrops tapped my shoulders.'
“I’ll meet you at the car,” I said.
She stayed behind, eyes closed, offering a quiet prayer of thanks to the spirit of the stone.
Back to the World
We left the island of Hoy with a quiet joy in our hearts—a peace that wasn’t loud, but deep. Something had shifted. It became clear to us then that ancient temples and megalithic sites weren’t built for the glory of one culture, or one time. They were built for all of us.
These places are not ruins. They were offerings to the future. To the unborn. An inheritance of meaning for when the world forgets. They are instructions. Anchors. Portals. They whisper to our true nature if we take the time to listen.
The end.
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