The other Selkies stood up to watch, and began singing among themselves. Singing it definitely was, ranging from notes so high they made Ian’s teeth quiver to others so low he mainly felt them through the ground under his feet. He moved as carefully as he could, aiming for a particular spot on the edge of the flat ground, and the Selkies followed, watching. Once he set the slab on the ground and turned back for another, the other Selkies went to the pile and began picking up more stones of the same size, copying him. As he and his two assistants set the second slab by the end of the first, he saw the other crews likewise placing stones end-for-end.
Ian wondered how much Speaker had conveyed to them about the tower’s construction. There was no need to leave gaps for the rains to wash out the guano; the rough-finished stones, not sealed with mortar, wouldn’t block water flowing. The question was how far up to start making the nest-niches, and how thick to make the wall so it would stand through storms and future rogue waves. Had Speaker thought of that?
By the time the sun was a quarter of the way up the sky, Ian and his crew had finished half of the first course of stones and all of them were visibly drooping with fatigue. A trilling call came from behind him, and Ian turned to see Speaker approaching with the water-skin in one hand and three skewers of roasted bluefish in the other. The working Selkies finished their tasks quickly and hurried past her, heading for the slope. He understood that they were going down to the sea, where they could rest in the water, and no doubt food had been prepared for them, too.
Ian sat down on the nearest slab and rubbed his tired feet while Speaker came up and sat down beside him. She wordlessly handed him the water first, and then the first skewered fish. It had, he noted, been cooked stuffed with broadweed, very like Mother’s recipe, and it was delicious. After a few bites, Ian pointed to the half-circle of stone slabs. “It will need a second, inner ring of stones to keep it strong,” he said, hoping she understood. “The labor is hard for your folk. How soon can they return? How long can they work?”
Speaker clutched her braid and handed him another skewered fish before she spoke. “More come soon. Fresh. Work another quarter-sun sky. Then more again.”
Ian understood. “Four shifts per day?” That was understandable.
“And night,” Speaker corrected. “Moonlight. We see clearly.”
“Eight shifts...” Ian marveled. “All day and night? But I can’t see well by moonlight, and I need to sleep.”
Speaker gave him a very human smile. “You show by day. We copy by night.”
Ian thought about that, and noticed a new crew of Selkies approaching. They were bringing more stones up from the slope. A further glance at the hill showed two Selkie-maids bringing more driftwood up to the fire, and two more carrying what looked like a metal pot and another water-skin: no doubt salvage from other shipwrecks. From further down the slope came the steady sound of stone chipping stone. He finished the second fish and reached for the third.
~o0o~
By noon, and a meal of steamed rock-crab, the first circle of stone slabs was completed. Ian was careful to leave a gap — wide enough for a man or Selkie to walk through, narrow enough that a single long slab could serve as lintel—facing the path to the slope. Ian explained, between bites of excellent crab, that the tower must have a doorway to let in the Selkies too if ever they needed shelter from a bad storm. Speaker nodded acceptance, explaining in words and visions that Selkies had no fear but welcome for the fresh-water-from-the-sky, and caught it in intricate cisterns on the other slope of the central hill, but they appreciated shelter from hard winds. The completed tower would also be welcome at birthing-times. Ian frowned at the thought of a Selkie-maid birthing her babe on ground covered with guano, and altered his plans for the tower so as to place the nest-niches only in the outside of the wall. Also, guessing that the Selkies would finish the inner rank of stones by the day’s end, he explained how the next course of slabs must lie crosswise atop the first, so as to clench the first two rings in place. In fact, he would start on that work with the fourth shift, just to show them how it should be done if indeed the Selkie crews worked through the night. “And I will tell also,” Speaker promised, as the third shift approached.
Ian also showed the fourth shift how to leave the nesting-niches—shorter slabs, matched even with the edge of the inside course, but leaving gaps to the outside—at every third crosswise stone. The Selkies caught the idea quickly.
As the sun sank into the horizon and Speaker’s trill sounded up from below, Ian gratefully followed the retreating shift across to the hill and down the slope, aching in every muscle but greatly content. The basic shape of the rookery-tower was set and solid. If the Selkies were indeed as clever as he thought, they could probably finish it for themselves, and further such walls as well. In the long shadows of dusk the little cooking-fire twinkled brightly and Ian dragged his weary footsteps that way.
Speaker sat by the fire, and next to her was another female, much older, likewise with a lumpy braid in her hair—Mother? Teacher?—who was dipping her fingers into a cupshell full of what appeared to be ointment, and rubbing it on the foot of a weary-looking male Selkie. Ian winced in sympathy, thinking of the stress and pain that hauling and laying stones would cause to a foot never made for walking.
He came up to the fire and sat down beside Speaker, who wordlessly dipped an empty cupshell into the bubbling iron pot and brought it up filled with what appeared to be stew. She handed it to him, and he saw that it was indeed a delicious-smelling stew of fanshell-meat, cuts of assorted fish, broadweed and sea-celery. Ian blew it cool, sipped a mouthful, and found it flavored as well with touches of nameless spices. He couldn’t remember ever eating a finer dish. Speaker handed him another water-skin, lest he burn his tongue eating too fast, then took up a pair of sticks and pulled the pot off the fire. She and the other Selkies took up shells and fed themselves a few mouthfuls of the stew, treating it like a rare and odd experimental dish. Ian wondered, as he emptied his shell and reached to refill it, if the Selkies normally ever ate cooked food. If not, then where had Speaker—or possibly her teacher—learned of it?
When the pot was emptied, and Ian thoroughly full, the Selkie laborer got up and limped away toward the sea, leaving Ian alone with Speaker and the older female, who looked at him expectantly. He could understand why; yes, he had questions he hoped they could answer.
“Whence came the Selkies?” he asked. “How did your folk begin? Were your ancestors brought here by the Star-folk, as our legends say that ours were?”
Speaker glanced at Old Woman and clutched her braid before she answered. “Legends. Tell us. We were made here. From landsfolk... Humans.”
Ian gaped at her. “...How?”
Speaker frowned in concentration, picking precise words. Old Woman stroked her own braid encouragingly. “Very long ago,” Speaker managed, “In the Very Bad Times on land...”
Ian knew she meant what humans called the Ages of Chaos. Oh yes, there were many legends about those days.
“Some feared...all land...would be ruined.” Another glance at Old Woman. “Some say...landsfolk sorcerers...changed some landsfolk...to Selkies...so some would survive. Others say...it was the Beautiful Ones...who changed them...same reason.”
Ian nodded slowly, seeing what sense this made. It explained why there were no other warm-blooded creatures in the sea. It would also explain another old tale. “Legend,” he said slowly, “Tells of a fisherman who had a Selkie wife. She gave him three children. When they were old enough, she went back to the sea.” He bit off his next question, replacing it with: “Is that tale true?”
It was Old Woman who answered: “True tale. True.”
Ian’s next question was inevitable. “What became of those children?”
Old Woman only raised a hand and pointed to him.
Speaker confirmed: “MacRae. And others.”
Ian let out his breath in a rush, understanding everything now: his sea-sense, his love for
the sea—though his brothers hadn’t inherited that—and the Selkies watching his family for so long. And why they had come specifically to him for help when they saw the wave approaching, knowing what it would do, knowing he had the skills to save them.
“I will never leave the sea,” he promised, then amended: “But I can’t stay here, not after the cold weather comes. I must go back to the shore then, to the round house on the mainland.”
The two Selkie women nodded in grim understanding. “The birds...come then,” Speaker said. “The rookery. Finished?”
Ian looked up at the two visible moons rising, listened to the steady clinking of unseen Selkies chipping stone, and glanced at the line of human-like silhouettes carrying stones up the hill—so many of them, straining to do labor their bodies weren’t designed for. He was awed by their dedication. But how long could they keep at it?
“I’ll know by morning,” he said. “I think... the tower at least. Other nesting-walls... I don’t know.”
The Selkie women exchanged another look, doubtless calculating how many birds that would house, how much the interlocking life of the sea would be diminished. “Rest now,” Speaker told him. “Rest well. Dawn comes soon.”
Ian dutifully got up and paced carefully down to the skiff, noticing that his clothes had been spread out on the farther gunwales, and were dry. The Selkies had thought of everything. He smiled as he crawled into the tent and wrapped the blanket around him.
Sleep fell on him quickly.
~o0o~
Dawn brought waking to many surprises. For one thing, the hill and the slope to the sea rang with sound: many trilling voices, the constant clink of chipping stone, and a moderately distant cawing of hopeful birds. Ian pulled himself out from under the sail and saw an altered landscape.
There were many more Selkies than he had seen yesterday—hundreds of them—and not all of them looked the same. Taller and heavier and darker ones were dragging flat rocks up onto the slope, where a horde of smaller and pale and slender ones hammered and chipped the stones into fairly smooth-ended uniform slabs which their larger cousins—with, he noted, feet wrapped in tough sedge—then carried up to the crest and along the path to the tower. The slope was no longer bare stone, but dusted with rock-chips. As Ian stretched his stiff muscles, he toyed with the thought that if the sea never brought back the pebbles, nonetheless, by the end of summer the slope might end in a beach of coarse sand.
That thought brought his attention down to the sea. The water looked cleaner this morning, though quiet and calm, but there was what looked like a stone-ringed tide pool to one side, and there hadn’t been one before. As he pondered that, the Selkies noticed him and set up a cheerful trilling that was enough like a salute to be embarrassing. Ian waved briefly, then turned away toward where the cook-fire had been last night.
Sure enough, the fire was burning merrily and the driftwood pile beside it was higher. Speaker sat nearby, holding three skewers of fish in the fire. She smiled and waved him toward her, and he hurried that way.
As he chewed on his welcome breakfast, Ian asked where all the new Selkies had come from. “Everywhere,” Speaker said, gesturing vaguely toward the sea. “Summoned. Come to help.”
“Did you call every Selkie in the Bay of Dalereuth?” he chuckled.
“No. Only one in four.” She sounded perfectly serious. “More come soon, from the far south waters, from the deeps to east. More come...to work, by turns...to end of summer.”
Ian nodded, quietly amazed at the sheer extent of the unknown domains of the sea. “Why did they build that tide pool?” he said, pointing with an emptied skewer.
“Food stores.” Speaker gestured out to sea. “Look.”
Ian looked out at the quiet waters, and after a moment saw heads bobbing. As they drew closer he saw that they were a line of half a dozen Selkies, swimming laboriously, towing something behind them. They came up to the edge of the slope beside the pool, and he realized that they were towing a net which was full of fish. With a neatly coordinated effort, they lifted the net and dumped the live and wriggling fish into the pool. “Oh, of course!” he laughed. “You need large stores to feed that construction crew!” ...And they can’t hunt while they’re working.
The fishing crew swam back from the pool, took the net and spread it out at the bottom of the slope. As they began picking it over, pulling out bits of weed and searching for snags, Ian recognized that net. He gave a pained look at the skiff and saw that, yes, it was empty. “Well, you’re welcome,” he grumbled. “’Tis good to know that I’m still of some use, now that you have your tasks so well in hand.”
“Much use!” Speaker said urgently, clutching his arm. “Difficulties. Only you can solve. My people...never...have built with stone. We need you!”
“All right.” Ian picked up another filled water-skin—this one, he realized, made of a very large fish-bladder—and paced off to the rookery site.
~o0o~
Three days later, the rookery-tower was finished. Ian took a long look at its ragged but stable top, then led his crew along the crest of the island to look for other spots to fill. There were, he saw, other crews already working. For a good two hundred meters to either side of the tower were small groups of Selkies busy with slabs and smaller rocks, or even baskets of pebbles, filling the narrow cracks between boulders, leveling gaps, laying slabs and building small rookery-walls. Oh yes, they had learned quickly.
At the end of third quarter-shift, with his small wall half-built, Ian was surprised to see Speaker coming toward him, a basket on her arm. Saying nothing, she led him not down to the fire but into the finished tower.
The first thing he noticed was that the floor was covered with fresh feather-sedge, soft and springy. The second thing he saw was that they were alone. Speaker sat down in the middle of the tower, set down the basket and pulled away the broadweed cover, revealing a freshly-steamed crab, a small water-skin, and more broadweed. “Feast,” she said. “Celebrate.”
They ate and drank in companionable silence while Ian idly studied the inner wall of the tower. It was sturdy and sound, right enough, and would stand through anything except possibly a bigger wave than the one that had brought him here, which he couldn’t imagine. He hadn’t counted the nest-niches, but there had to be well over a hundred. There were close to another hundred already in the gap-nests and small walls outside.
“We’re going to do it,” he said, as he turned to hand the last crab-leg to Speaker.
Then he saw she was clutching her braid, and smiling. An instant later he felt/saw the image in her mind. It left him gaping in amazement. She smiled, set the crab-leg aside, reached out and ran her long-fingered hand down his chest. That one touch was enough to break his paralysis.
Yes, he thought. Yes... He lay down on the feather-sedge, and she lay down beside him. He noticed that she smelled of the sea, and after that there were no words for a long time.
~o0o~
When Ian wakened it was near sundown. Speaker sat beside him, eating the last crab-leg. “A fire, a meal, and a bed”... he recalled. It seemed perfectly fitting that they were lawfully mated, and that they would lie in a tower he had built—as his ancestors had built the little round house on the shore. Could he live here, always, among the Selkies?
No, he remembered. He wouldn’t survive the winter at sea, in a roofless house, with no winter clothing nor blankets nor a steady fire, and not when the birds would need the land.
“I must go home at the end of summer,” he told her, feeling his heart ache.
Speaker pondered that, then reached into the basket, pawed the shore-weed aside and brought out a little box made of two halves of a fanshell. She opened it to reveal two small strings and a little blue pebble. It was a clear, glittering blue—unmistakably a sorcerers’ stone.
“You touch,” she said. “Only you.”
Understanding, he picked up the little stone and held it in the palm of his hand.
At first all he felt wa
s Speaker’s presence, and awareness of the other Selkies some distance away, and the sea beyond that. Then the sensitivity deepened, and he felt a sense of immense time and a vast weight of water—and a thin feeling of another person, quite young, washed away by all that water and time.
Where did this come from? Ian wondered. How did you find it?
Old shipwreck. Speaker gave him an image of a ruined ship, long covered with weeds and sea-worms and shellfish, a dark space inside it, skeletons and small blue gems clustered in one tilted corner. Old knowledge. A trilling song played through his mind, a teaching-ballad about the blue pebbles, and a faint image of the legendary Beautiful Ones. It wasn’t very distinct, and Ian understood that there was some knowledge the Selkies must keep for themselves.
Ian remembered, amused, that he was thoughtlessly naked. Pockets, he remembered, were not very trustworthy at sea. The small strings were too short to fit around his neck, and anyway, there was no hole in the pebble. How shall I carry it? he wondered.
For answer, he felt Speaker running her fingers through his hair. He heard her chuckle.
~o0o~
It was five years later that Anndra MacRae returned to the old town, marching in along the shore road. He stopped first at the tavern, and measured out his coins carefully before ordering a modest cup of mulled wine. The main room was crowded, as might be expected at the end of winter, and his there were three other men—with the unmistakable look of fishermen—at the table with the nearest spare seat.
“So, how’s the fishing?” he asked over his cup.
“Good. Aye, very good,” the three agreed. “Have ye lived here before, then?”
“Oh, aye,” Anndra laughed. “I’m Anndra MacRae, and I was born here. Do none of you recognize me?”
The three men fell suddenly silent, glancing at each other, and one of them made a surreptitious protection-sign. “MacRae?” another ventured to ask, “Any relative of Ian?”
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