The rising tide swallowed my rock and I swam.
There were boats. I swam underwater, coming up between swells for quick gulps of air. Another day darkened and fled. One arm and then another.
The tide washed me up on a small, barren island. I crawled above the tideline and fell into a dead sleep. When I woke, the tide was two days higher. I gulped down barnacles and mussels, and slept some more. I dove for crabs and shrimp. Finally I was strong enough to hunt.
I searched in the driftwood and found a long, straight stick. I lashed my knife to the end. The perch in the kelp didn’t see me coming. Nothing ever tasted more delicious than that first bite. I sucked every scrap of flesh off the bones.
I took off into open ocean, no land in sight. Somehow, by nightfall, I found a place to haul out. Each night, a different place. The days blurred into each other.
One evening the setting sun broke out from behind a cloud, filling the sky with red flames. “Nellie, look!” I cried, turning as if she were there by my side. But the rocks beside me were empty.
Tears pricked at my eyes. I blinked them back, furious with myself. I wouldn’t think about Nellie. That part of my life was gone. And I wouldn’t, I mustn’t, give my human side any room to take hold.
Day by day, from skelly to sandbank, from reef to spit, I made my way farther from humankind. Farther from the threat that lurked inside me.
One arm and then another.
One morning I speared my biggest catch yet—a fine black cod—and started lugging it back to my haulout. An eagle circled overhead. Before I could dive, it swooped down in a blur and ripped the fish from my hands, gigantic wings batting my face, bone-crushing talons only a breath away from my hands. It flew off with the fish dangling from its feet. My stomach growled.
I learned to brandish my knife and yell when eagles flew over, so they’d think twice and go scavenge an easier meal somewhere else.
My knife was my salvation: stabbing, slashing, slitting, spearing. Its weight in my hand gave me strength.
Mist gave way to rain, and rain to sleet. One night I fell asleep on a low island, blind to the clouds gathering on the horizon. In the black of night, a storm surge swept me off the rocks and into the raging sea. I swam in the swells until morning, gasping for air. I finally landed on a higher haulout, and swore I’d never let it happen again.
Now, day after day, I studied the clouds and the currents and the birds. I watched for patterns in the waves. I learned to feel the air’s pressure in my head and on my skin. In time I could tell a storm was coming days before the first drop of rain.
Why had I never asked Mam to teach me how to find haulouts? The good ones were few and far between, and if I failed to find one, I had to swim through the night. It was even harder getting enough to eat. Growing up, I’d thought I was a good hunter. Mam had always praised my skills. But I’d only been nabbing easy prey near shore. Now the easy prey wasn’t there.
I studied the paths the fish followed, the depth and currents each liked. When I saw gulls diving, I rushed over to hunt alongside them, dodging their beaks and squawks of complaint. When fish leaped in high, frantic arcs, it meant orcas were on the hunt. I waited until the great black fins swam away. Then I swam out and scavenged what was left in their wake.
The Moon waxed and waned and waxed again.
One arm and then another.
I was swimming far from land when the water brought the beat of flippers. At first I thought it was seals, but their motion was too wild and rough. Then they swam into view. Not seals: sea lions.
I kept swimming. They’d ignore me; I wasn’t food for them.
A bull broke away and swam over to get a better look. Even though he was young, he must have weighed fifteen times as much as me. He circled once, twice. Then his nose bumped me and I gasped as his entire length grazed my side, rolling me over and over like a log.
I sighed in relief as he swam away. Stupid sea lions and their games!
But when he reached the others, they turned and stared at me with cold, inquisitive eyes. And then the ocean swirled white with froth as they zoomed over to investigate. There were about a dozen of them. I stayed still as they zipped around me. They swam closer and closer, until they were slipping by with just a sliver of space to spare.
As long as they stayed playful, I’d be all right.
Then one of them brushed me with his whiskers. The contact set something loose. The big one barked and now the game changed.
A huge bull surged up from below. This time he didn’t swerve away. I gasped as his head pushed up fast and hard under my feet, sending me flying into the air. Instinctively, I yanked in my knees and wrapped my arms around them for protection. The instant I splashed down, another sea lion was tossing me back up again.
I was their toy.
Sea lions are competitive and soon they were seeing who could toss me the farthest. They slammed me from side to side, whacking me with their flippers. Every blow was a bruise. I tucked my chin to shield my neck and wrapped my arms around my head. It wasn’t enough. I had to escape before they broke my bones, or worse. I shouted and punched out, but my arms were useless against their bulk. I was lost without sharp teeth and claws—
Claws!
In a single, smooth motion I reached down to my calf and pulled the knife free. When the next sea lion swam up, I struck out. A long, straight gash blossomed along his side. He stopped, stunned—and then I was slashing out in every direction, forcing the beasts back in a widening circle. The big bull gave me an icy stare and dove. He’d be coming at me from below. I felt him rising, fast, and I spun and thrust the knife straight down—felt the blade sink deep—
There was a bark, hard and commanding. In a flash the sea lions were gone.
And with them, my knife.
I was alive, but for how long?
I dragged my battered body to a haulout. Without my knife I had to learn how to hunt all over again.
I picked apart the empty sheath until I had a pile of cedar strips at my side. I thought of the net on the boat, and wove and unwove and wove again, until I’d mastered the diamond pattern. When I was done, I had a net compact enough to strap to my calf, but big enough to scoop up shrimp or small fish for a meal.
I had to be faster, smarter, stronger. My arms grew more muscular. My legs pushed me farther with every kick. Each day was all there was. My hair grew so long, I tied it back with a cedar cord.
The Moon waxed and waned, again and again. And I was still alive.
Mam had thought I couldn’t survive on my own. I’d proved her wrong. Here I was, swimming from sunrise to sunset, hunting and finding good haulouts and staying alive. And I was doing it all by myself.
By myself . . .
Now that it didn’t take every waking breath to survive, there was room in me to feel.
I sat on a crag at dusk, my belly full, the sky clear—and the loneliness came again, dark and deep. Was this my life now, forever? I couldn’t risk going back to humans or my human side. And as for my clan, I’d never make it that far north in longlimbs. I’d stopped looking for webbing between my fingers. The Moon didn’t see me. Why should she? I counted my sins over and over again. I cheated to get to Moon Day. I fought with Finn at the rites. I broke a Moon vow.
And so I was alone.
But I needed to hear voices! Something more than a few words in birdtalk now and then with a grumpy grebe. At night I sat with my feet in the surf and sang the old songs.
“The waves lap softly at the shore.
That’s where the selkies sleep,
No farther than a splash away
From oceans winding deep.
“A man is fettered to the soil
And fish hold to the wave,
But both the shore and rising swell
The Moon to selkies gave.
“The day is landing like a bird.
She tucks her wings in tight.
Moon keep you cradled in her cusp.
Good nig
ht, my love, good night.”
I was swimming past an island at dusk when I heard snorting. A herd of seals lay sprawled across the tideline. I swam closer and sat in the shallows, watching. Stupid, dumb creatures, and yet . . .
Their pelts were gray and black and tawny, speckled like pebbles on the shore. They arced up to look at me, heads and tails lifting in a familiar curve. They twitched their whiskers. They scratched their plump bellies with lazy flippers. Seeing that I wasn’t a danger, they stretched out long again.
I scooted even closer. Then I slipped up on shore and lay down alongside them, my body stretched out long near their bodies, my feet in the water near their tails. Listening to them breathe.
Pretending.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my clan. Even though Jack’s words still haunted me, and the Moon didn’t see me; even though I had no pelt, I longed for them so much it hurt. Where were they now? Had they reached the far north? Where were Lyr and Grandmam, Cormac and Maura and Mist? Where was Mam? Where?
I started asking birds for news. When auklets floated by, or gulls strutted along shore, or geese flew high overhead, I’d call, “Where does the wind carry you?” And then quickly, since most birds have such short attention spans, “See selkies?”
Once an oystercatcher squawked about a clan to the west. I swam for half a day. But when I got there, all I found were dolphins poking around in the kelp. Couldn’t the stupid bird even tell a dolphin from a selkie?
I almost stopped asking the birds. Each time my hopes were dashed, I ended up lonelier than before.
I needed to find another bird as clever as the puffin on Spindle Island. The birds I spoke with cared only about their own stomachs and mating and nests.
I found their nests. I ate their eggs.
By day, I couldn’t stop scanning the waves for my clan: their sleek backs, the curve of their heads. I strained my ears for the sound of their voices. But at night . . .
At night my dreams betrayed me. Instead of the clan, I saw Nellie, bounding across the rocks like a deer, waving and calling out to me in a bright, clear voice. We ran side by side down the hill. We sat in the tree cave, sunlight dappling our arms. And Maggie—in my dreams, she was always walking out of the house to sit beside me atop the cliff, her hand settling on mine.
The Moon waxed and waned.
One arm and then another . . .
Chapter Fifty-Four
The Cove
I was swimming through sun-flecked water. Fat drops of light drifted down past me, swirling together into long, silver streaks. And then the streaks flicked their tails.
Salmon!
They were big and fat and as long as my arm. What a meal one would make! They were too big for my net, so I noted the current they were riding and how fast they were swimming. Then I kicked up, looking for land. With luck I’d find a stick right away, sharpen the tip, and come back before the salmon had moved on. I could almost taste the flesh now, pink and sweet.
A curve of land appeared on the horizon. The current swept me along, and the curve grew and grew until it became an island. I stroked along a wall of rock, looking for a place to haul out. There were gaps in the wall where wind and rain had etched through, leaving windows. On the other side, the calm waters of a cove sparkled in the sun.
I rounded the point and stopped, stunned. That cusp of beach, that flat-topped boulder as big as a throne—this was the island where I first saw a human! And that gap in the rocks, that was where I saw the boat with its blood-red beak.
I slid ashore and ran to the boulder, leaping easily to the top. This was where I’d made the stone spiral with the golden tail. A wave of dizziness washed over me. The past and present were swirling around each other like shining salmon, until I couldn’t tell what was light and what was fish.
I jumped off the rock and dashed to the cliff. One rough handhold and then another—it only took me a moment to reach the crevice where I’d hidden from the man. I ducked to squeeze in, but my shoulders were too wide. Had it always been this small?
I sat on a ledge, my legs dangling down. There, that spot in the cove—that was where I’d seen Mam’s head rising. Mam, and then every other member of my clan. They had all come back for me.
The salmon had been running that morning. They were running now.
I could almost hear Lyr’s voice: Not you, pup. We’re going too far for you today.
No, I thought, setting my jaw. I jumped down and started searching in the driftwood. It wasn’t too far at all.
I found a long, straight stick and sharpened the tip with rocks. I lashed it to my leg and swam out and found the current. The salmon were right where I figured they’d be. I slipped into the silver stream, echoing their movements, and when I’d drifted close enough, I struck. It was easy. The hard part was lugging the fish back to shore.
What a feast I had that night! I stuffed myself to bursting and shared the rest with the gulls.
I stayed on the island another day, and another. The salmon moved on and still I stayed. I told myself it was because the hunting was good, and the cove was sheltered, and the cliff offered a good lookout. But that wasn’t really why.
For eleven years, after every long journey, my clan swam back to these waters to find Mam and me. Now a year had passed since they left. In the dark of night, I gazed out across the black waves to the north, trying not to hope.
When it finally happened, it wasn’t night after all. It was morning, and the fog lay low across the water, and the call of the gulls came like voices from another world. I was on the rocks, finishing a lazy breakfast of mussels and seaweed, when my skin tensed.
There was a faint disturbance in the air. It grew to a hum, and then a motor’s throbbing pulse.
I dashed and crouched at the base of a crag.
A fishing boat chugged out of the fog. It motored past, the stink of its engine filling the air. The fishermen didn’t see me, but I saw them: the weatherworn faces staring straight ahead, the cables, the huge spool of net.
When the air was quiet again, I climbed the crag and looked around. The fog was thinning. An auklet flew low, and wind shivered the water, but there was no sign of the boat. My fists relaxed.
Then a movement far out in the waves caught my eye.
There! A head was rising, round and sleek and silvery gray.
A seal, I told myself. I tried to squash down the hope in my chest, but it kept forcing its way up, an air bubble bound for the surface.
Just a seal.
The head tilted to one side. I knew the expression that went with that tilt, the laughing eyes, the wry twitch of the whiskers. My feet snuck closer to the edge of the crag. I lifted a hand and waved.
She was looking in the other direction.
Another head slipped up and swam to her side. This one was black. One black, one silver . . . My heart caught in my throat. It was them! It had to be!
“Mam!” I cried out. “Lyr! Over here! It’s me!”
Now they were spinning around each other. Black and silver twined through the crests. My body remembered those swift spirals, so tight, flipper and tail felt like my own.
The song! I needed to sing the calling song! I drew in a deep breath—
Far in the distance, the boat’s motor growled. At any other time, that sound would have sent me scrambling to hide. But my body was pulling toward Mam and Lyr with such force, I could hardly keep my feet on the crag. If I didn’t go after them now, I’d lose them forever.
I sliced into the water and raced under the waves, straining my ears for their undersea voices. Fish fled past me, away from tooth and claw. I was getting close. Close to warm pelts and bright eyes and hearing them say my name. They had come back! They’d come back looking for me!
There was a streak of silver right in front of me. She was coming out of a twirl. We burst through the waves at the same moment, my arms opening wide—
The eyes looking back at me were blank and startled. It was a seal. Only a seal.
<
br /> Disappointment slashed through me, so sharp, it cut something loose. Fear, anger, despair—it all came crashing outward in an unstoppable wave—pounding through my heart, lungs, throat—and it ripped from my mouth in a wild, anguished howl.
The seal startled backward and dove. But I couldn’t stop screaming, and now it was both in me and outside me, singeing the air with its harsh smell—
The smell was smoke. The howl was a motor’s roar.
“Hang on!” cried a voice. A human voice. “We’re coming!”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Netted
The scream froze in my throat. A fishing boat pierced through a bank of fog, racing toward me.
My survival instincts took over, stark and clean. I dove straight down. If they couldn’t see me, they couldn’t catch me. With luck, they’d follow the seals instead.
The water pulsed and pounded with the motor’s unearthly roar. A dark shape passed overhead like a gigantic shark. Another moment and I’d be safe.
Something snagged my hand.
I tried to jerk it back, but now the thing was wrapping around the rest of my body. Tentacles pressed into my flesh. Except it wasn’t tentacles, it was rope, twisting together in hundreds of little gaping mouths—a net. The more I struggled, the tighter it held me. My lungs were bursting—
And then there was nothing. Only silence. Perfect, dark, and still.
Through closed lids I saw light. A beautiful, silvery light. My body hung limp, a deadweight, and yet somehow I was rising through the water toward the Moon.
The water fell away. The light was a red stab of sun.
Rough hands grabbed me, pulled me up, laid me down. The deck shook under my back. The motor pounded through my skin and into my blood until there was nothing but that relentless beat. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t open my eyes.
Bodies crouched and crowded around me. Voices barked.
“Can’t find a pulse—”
“Get on the radio and—”
Fingers tightened on my wrist. A pause, and then a different kind of voice, slow and sad: “It’s too late.”
The Turning Page 19
