Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  It was a damned uncomfortable thing to walk along a beach at night naked, especially in Yorkshire in October. He found the nearest town, probably Scarborough, by the lights, and decided the best thing would be to go ashore and ask around. At first, he draped the skin around his shoulders like a rude cloak, but the fear that someone would take it dogged every step. Eventually he found a large rock, well above the high tide line, and buried it underneath. Not ideal, but in a strange way he felt much safer walking naked towards the houses.

  Damned cold though. His teeth were chattering, and he couldn’t feel his toes. As he walked, he tried to come up with a story. Boating accident? Bathing disaster? What about John? What story might he have told someone?

  And what about Father, who was now surely drowned along with Prout and Abbott? Might he have said anything to anyone before he died?

  Father, drowned.

  Thornby felt nothing beyond immediate relief. Perhaps he’d find the time to be really happy about it, once he’d found John and begged his forgiveness. And managed to get warm. Then a quick twist of memory showed him his father’s hands, holding a golden pocket watch out to him—and he was six years old, and allowed to hold that wonderful, magical thing, because Father trusted him, and his parents were looking at each other, smiling.

  Damn it, why did it have to be so bloody cold? His eyes were streaming and his nose was running. And he’d stubbed his toes again, because these small towns were so damned dark. Eventually he got up to the town from the sands. There were fishing nets spread out along a low wall and he wrapped one around his waist. Then he went up to the first door he came to and banged on it with his fist. If Father had taught him anything, it was that clothes could tell a powerful story, but were not nearly as important as people thought.

  If one’s a gentleman, one’s a gentleman, no matter what one wears.

  ***

  John sat in the cell, ate the stale bread they gave him, and drank the mug of sour beer. Then he lay on the bare plank that was both bench and bed. The barred window wasn’t glazed and he asked the rowan twig to keep him warm. Tomorrow he’d demand lawyers and send for friends in high places. Paxton would speak for him, if necessary, and the Duke of Devonshire would probably take an interest if Paxton asked it of him. And Catterall, of course. For now, John was too heartsick to bother sending for anyone.

  Lord Dalton’s words kept ringing in his ears. You’re doomed. You bloody sodomite. You’ll hang. Damn the man, the fool. He was probably still out looking for another seal-wife, and with that stinking curse on him, so they all swam a mile the moment he went near the sea. So, Lord Dalton and his selkie wife had loved one another. John imagined them meeting on a wild shore: the handsome young lord, thunderstruck, already falling in love. And the beautiful naked woman with a sealskin in her hands. Had she been afraid, or had she smiled, desiring him too? Had Dalton taken her skin then, or had she followed him willingly? The latter, John felt.

  But then, the years had passed and things had changed. She’d had a son, and she’d wanted to show him his birthright; the sea, where Dalton could never follow. So, Dalton had taken her skin to stop her from leaving. And there, right there, was the seed of Dalton’s hatred for his son. If not for Soren, perhaps she’d never have wanted to go. And perhaps, too, if Soren had been a different kind of boy, Dalton might have loved him more. Instead, Dalton had found him a disappointment; a sissy, a bed-wetter, who had grown into an insolent and depraved young man.

  Soren had told of arguments—his mother begging, his father implacable. No doubt, she’d begged for her skin. Then, with Soren gone to school, it had, perhaps, become too much for her to bear. Missing her son, desperate for the sea, she had gone to the lake at night. Had she meant to drown herself? Or in grief and desperation, perhaps, as the cold waters closed over her head, she had surrendered, because the dark lake was the closest she could come to the sea.

  And even after her death, Dalton had not been able to give her up. He’d kept her body where he could visit. Kept her sealskin too. How had he learned that trick of cutting it? You’d have thought he’d let no harm come to it. But, perhaps, one day he had thought to end his obsession, to destroy the skin, had cut a piece and flung it away and realised it gave mastery of that foul spell wind.

  Yet keeping the skin had also cursed him. Dalton had obviously hoped it would give him an advantage, and it had. The ability to raise a wind, even a foul one, would be no small thing for a man who spent his summers at sea, searching endlessly for another selkie wife. That spell wind had nearly done for John and his salt; had nearly been the end of Soren’s bid for freedom. Yet even if Dalton could not sense it himself, keeping the sealskin had done terrible things to him, and it had also ensured that no seal-woman between here and Greenland would ever come to him.

  Soren. Oh, God, Soren. John had been trying not to think of him, but of course it was impossible. Where was he now? Did seals get cold at night? Were they prey to sharks? But Soren was no ordinary seal. Perhaps he had nothing to fear from the usual trials of life. Perhaps by now he was playing in a many-coloured sea with his own kind.

  Or perhaps Soren was swimming back to London to reclaim his old life. Perhaps he’d put the skin in a bank vault and never touch it again; he had suggested as much at Raskelf. John had only the vaguest idea of the life Soren must have lived in London. But he supposed it was a glittering world of balls, clubs, private art shows, and rich lovers as handsome as Soren himself. In some ways, that world of privilege was even more removed; an ironmonger’s son could never belong there.

  Either way, Soren would never come back.

  John gritted his teeth, curling up against the pain. He should never have allowed himself to hope for anything beyond a night or two at Raskelf. He had tried not to hope, but somehow had been unable to help himself. Soren had given him hope—the way he’d smiled, the way he’d kissed, the things he’d said, the tone of his voice—it had all seemed so genuine. As if he’d felt something too.

  What had John expected? That a lord, a devastatingly handsome, half-fairy earl, would fall in love with him? The idea was so preposterous it helped to clear his head. Soren had needed help and had given all he had in return. And since all he’d had was himself, that was what he’d given. Soren had been lucky. If Armstrong or Christie had gone to Raskelf, they’d have flung his first attempt at payment back with a punch and a curse. So would most men. It was as simple as that.

  John had been lucky himself to get a few nights with a man like Soren. Of course, Soren had made himself charming. He’d had no choice.

  That idea of going where the seals go, hoping he might recognise one? Looking for clues, like Dalton must have done; spending his summers afloat; giving himself the gnarled hands of a sailor; and searching, endlessly searching, for pearls on a rock in the middle of the sea, for footprints on a deserted beach—

  Ludicrous. That was the opposite of what John should do. Was he going to spend his life looking for someone who didn’t want him? Stupid. He’d never expected to be lucky in love anyway. Men of his type never were. You were lucky if you never got caught.

  But sod those bloody factories. He was never going back there. And sod the Institute. Everything they’d taught him was wrong. At least Soren had given him that realisation. In a way, he wasn’t really alone and never had been. The salt, the pins, his other materials—they wanted him, wanted the magic. The soldiers had taken most of his things when they put him in the cell, but he could feel the salt in his pocket, a light, warm awareness, like having a cat on his lap.

  Perhaps he’d leave England. Perhaps they had better ideas about magic in other countries. India, maybe? New Zealand? How did magicians there do things?

  But he was thinking like a free man. He was assuming that justice would be done and his innocence proved. But Dalton wanted him to hang, not only for freeing Soren, but for loving him too. The glow of warmth from the rowan twig died, leaving him shaking in the cold. The word of a marquess carried more wei
ght than that of an ironmonger’s son from a not terribly respectable profession. John had never been on the wrong side of the law, but he knew well that the theory of things and the reality are often very different. In theory, English law was the best in the world and the truth would out. In practice, if Dalton lied on the stand, and got his men to lie, even direct intervention from the Duke would not save John. He wondered, bitterly, if he could make friends with the hangman’s noose in the few seconds between meeting it and having it throttle him.

  The iron bars of the cell door were murmuring at him and he put a hand to them. The cell was so small there was no need to get up. The bars had known all kinds of chimera keys, glamours and demons. The stone walls likewise wanted to tell what they’d seen. Spells to conceal, to disguise. Love charms. Love charms, in a lock-up? Yes, the walls kept telling him, love, love, love. He told them to shut up, and tried to put thoughts of the gallows out of his mind. He stroked the trembling rowan twig, igniting it once again, and tried to go to sleep curled around its feeble warmth.

  He woke from a miserable half-doze to men shouting in the street, doors banging and the slap of feet on stone. Orange lantern light made wild shadows on the walls. And outside, directly under the barred window, a familiar voice said, with crystal diction and withering scorn, “Do I look like a drowned corpse, Mr Howarth? Well? I grant the costume is quite apropos. But I think you’ll find my fist quite warm and dry. If you’d care to try it?”

  Soren.

  Something exploded inside John’s chest. Joy, sheer delight, and a tide of relief. There was a mumbling response; that must be Howarth.

  Then Soren again; “No, I damned well won’t take a drink with you, sir. You’ll open this door, and you’ll do it now. I don’t give a rat’s arse what the Marquess told you. I’m telling you to open it.” The last two words were a feral snarl.

  John got to his feet and nearly fell. The room was spinning. Whatever had exploded inside him had not abated. It was intensifying, now moving beyond the confines of his body and effervescing in the air around him. He clutched the bars of the door for support; they started to tell him about a glamour from twenty years ago. In his pocket, the salt was whining like a dog that hears its master. Love, love, love the walls started humming, despite the fact that he wasn’t even touching them.

  “Please,” he said. “Quiet now.” How on earth was he supposed to compose himself when everything was clamouring at him, and the entire world was fizzing like champagne? Was it magic?

  Then Soren was there, grabbing John’s hands through the bars and snapping at the man with the keys. At the same time, the salt was singing with joy, wriggling with ecstasy in John’s pocket. The rowan twig kept flaring with heat, not quite in time with his heartbeat; it felt unnervingly as though he had two hearts, and both of them pounding. And the Och resin found it had a voice too, and began trilling like a canary.

  Now Soren was standing directly in front of him, looking into his face and saying something that sounded urgent. Their hands were clasped together. John shook his head, trying to clear it.

  “Please be quiet,” John said. He was beginning to feel afraid. The magic was too strong. All he wanted to do was to gaze at Soren, but everything was too loud, too distracting. “Everyone. Please.”

  “John?” Soren’s voice rang loud in the sudden silence.

  John stared at him, taking deep breaths. Soren looked more handsome than before, if that was conceivable. Some subtle energy flowed from him; it lit his eyes, it was in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. It was a fluid power that could not contain itself, even though Soren was frowning, looking at John in concern. Soren no longer had any marks on him. No scratches, no bruises. There were patches of colour in his cheeks. He looked as vital as if he’d just come from a morning walk. But he wasn’t a dream. He was wearing a ghastly old canvas shirt and trousers, and a jacket that looked as though someone had once painted it with tar.

  John tried to decide what to say. Should he explain that the world had just started talking at him? What about the murder charge? Lord Dalton and his hunt for another seal woman? The chase across the moors? The sealskin?

  “I wouldn’t have taken it.” He realised only after hearing the words that he’d said them aloud.

  “I know. John—I—Christ, I’m so sorry.”

  Soren threw his arms around him. John patted his shoulder, trying to pull away. He felt there were a hundred people crowding into the ante-room outside the cell and peering through the door. He had no idea who they were, but this was no place for displays of affection. Not of the kind he would display anyway.

  “Can we—leave?” His voice dragged. The walls were whispering about love charms again. The air was beginning to bubble.

  “Yes, come on,” Soren said, leading the way. “Apparently, you murdered me, but since I’m walking around swearing at everybody, I think that charge is dropped. Are you all right?”

  “Maybe. Are you?”

  “I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Wait! What about your father? He’ll come! Howarth’ll fetch him! Where—”

  “John, stop!” Soren lowered his voice. “Father’s gone. Dead. The sea took him.”

  They’d made it into the street, but suddenly John had to sit down. There was nowhere to sit, so he put a hand on someone’s house front so he could lean on it. It wanted to tell him about a spell for better grouting. He groaned and rested his back against it instead. The street was loud with chattering, people or things, he wasn’t sure. The lantern kept swinging. Even the shadows seemed alive.

  So, Dalton was dead. Without getting his heart’s desire. Without seeing another seal-woman. John wished he could hate the man and be glad, but instead—To have someone like Soren’s mother. To fuck it up. To never get over that person. What had Dalton said? Anyone else will be ashes in your mouth. John’s own mouth felt like that. And Soren—back again. For how long? How long until he went into the sea again?

  “John, what’s the matter? Are you drunk? You don’t smell drunk.”

  “When you came, everything started talking. The walls, the salt. Those cobbles—”

  It was all too much. He bent over, head in his hands. He could see Soren’s feet, in a pair of ancient boots that had probably never known polish. The boots were preening because Soren was wearing them. Soren put a hand on his arm.

  “Come, John, we’re staying with Mr Howarth.” Soren’s tone was carefully neutral.

  “What? I’m not staying with him. He arrested me.”

  “Yes, but that was a mistake, and he has a spare room which he has kindly offered us. A spare room. Understand?” Soren kicked his ankle.

  “No.”

  Then Soren was whispering in his ear again. His breath, warm on John’s ear, made the rowan twig pulse faster and the wall chatter louder about grouting. “He has a tiny place on the front for seeing his mistress. One spare room. So, we’ll have to share. Come on, I’ve already figured this out.”

  “Oh, God, I really don’t care about grouting spells.”

  “No? I can’t say I care about them myself. John, for goodness sake, come on. Don’t you want to get to bed?”

  “Why couldn’t you trust me? I won’t take it. I spent a week trying to help you find the damned thing! Where is it, anyway? I hope you’ve got it somewhere safe. I’m not bloody looking for it again.”

  “It’s safe enough for now. You know, if this is what a few hours in a lock-up does to people, I think I’d better join a prison reform society.”

  “It’s not that. It’s you. I’ll be all right soon. Things are calming down.”

  “Are they?”

  “More or less.” He put his head back in his hands for a moment. “I want my pins. And everything else. They took them.”

  “Did they, by God?”

  John leant against the wall while Soren barked orders at someone. It was hard to tell which things were materials and which things were men. The men moved more,
though. That was key. That was the way to tell. At least Soren was easy to tell apart. He glowed like sea foam in the dark. And he stood still, which was a relief, and he had stopped talking, which was also good. John let himself gaze at Soren, feeling the rush of the world around them slowing and quietening.

  Someone brought John’s effects, but dropped them with a cry before they could hand them over. The spancel slithered up his leg and into his pocket. Several of its runes had got scratched and it was shivering with fear. The eye, less terrifyingly for the bystanders, rolled to meet him, feeling its way with magic. It ranted incoherently at his feet until he took it in his hand. The pins stood up on the cobbles like flowers waiting to be picked. They seemed to be hissing. He realised they were saying, “Masssster, masssster, masssssster.” They shouldn’t be able to talk. Not really, not in English, not out loud. People would hear.

  “That’s enough,” he said sharply, and everything went quiet again.

  Soren gathered the pins, making some comment about scientific equipment as he did so. John thought it sounded thin, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

  It looked as though Mr Howarth’s mistress had vacated her best room for them. It was at the front of the house, overlooking the sea. There was a huge bed, a small table and two chairs, an old sea chest, a crackling fire, and a fresh scent of lavender. Soren let people bring food and warm water, and then sent them packing, with orders that no one disturb them. Not for flood, fire or destruction. Not for death. Even Mr Howarth, who had arrived with a bottle of port, quailed at his tone.

  Soren helped him wash, and put food in front of him. He ate slowly, letting the world go back to normal, though probably it would never be the same again. Then he sat stroking an empty wine-glass that had held remarkably fine port, thinking how restful it was that the glass knew nothing of magic. It was innocent as a daisy.

  Soren was sitting at the table opposite him, talking softly, almost to himself. John began to pay attention, and to realise the import of what he was saying: Raskelf had a new master.