“I’ll come back a year to this day,” said Mam. “And every year after until you’re ready to come north. Is this where I’ll find you?”
I looked at Nellie. “Let’s meet at Spindle Island,” I said. “There’s a small cove hidden below a house on the eastern shore.”
Nellie grinned.
“I’ll come, too,” said Finn. “We’ll have lots of exploring to do!”
I blinked back tears as my clan swam away.
Now that there was room to think, I knew they wouldn’t have hurt Nellie. That instinct was in them—I’d felt it, sharp in the air—but they didn’t give in to it. Somewhere there might be clans that wouldn’t hold back, that would do anything to make sure the folk survive. Not all selkies were the same, any more than all people. And the rage I’d felt on Spindle Island wasn’t a human rage. It was blind fury, pure and simple. Anyone could feel it, selkie or human. I’d have to make the same choices about who I wanted to be, what feelings I’d let rule me, whatever form I was in.
The puffin nudged her head against my arm, waking me from my thoughts. “Me bring,” she said proudly.
I stroked the feathers on the back of her neck.
It was Nellie who found words. “You bring. You friend.” I could tell she’d been practicing her birdtalk.
The puffin chuckled. “Eel bottom!” she exclaimed, and we all started laughing. The puffin laughed so hard, she had to flap her wings to keep from falling over.
Then it was time for her to go. She flew up to my shoulder and nuzzled my ear. It was a short hop to Nellie’s shoulder for another nuzzle and a gentle grunt good-bye. We watched her fly away, a sturdy little bird above a great, wide sea.
A gentle breeze brushed my skin. Nellie sighed with both contentment and loss. I knew, because I felt both, too.
“Now,” I said, bracing myself. “Tell me everything.”
Nellie took a deep breath. “Grandpa and I went to the big island to get online and talk to my mom and dad. It got complicated and we had to stay overnight. The next day I kept telling Grandpa to hurry, because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. We got back, and everyone was buzzing about how Maggie had had a stroke and Jack rushed her to the hospital. Then Grandpa asked about you, and no one knew what he was talking about! He started yelling—you should hear Grandpa when he yells—and Jane drove us out to Maggie’s so fast, the car was skidding all over the road.
“We got there and banged on the door and called for you. I was hoping your mom had come to get you after all. But then we went inside. . . .”
There were tears in her eyes.
“We went inside, and the furniture was all shoved around, like there’d been a fight. And your stone selkie was lying on the floor. You’d never have left her like that. So I told Grandpa—not that you’re a selkie; I’ll never tell anyone that! I told him I was afraid you ran away or swam off to sea. And I know you’re really strong, Aran, but we were worried you’d gotten hurt somewhere. The sheriff came and searched the whole island, and the Coast Guard put out bulletins and searched the rocks and reefs. They were”—she gulped—“they were searching for your body. But I hoped and hoped and hoped you’d somehow found your clan. And now—look at you!”
I gave a deep sigh. A wave splashed over my feet.
“And Maggie?” I said.
“She’s back in her house. She got better enough to go home.”
“She shouldn’t be alone,” I said.
Nellie nodded. “That’s why Grandpa got a little car. We check in on her every day, and at night Jack—”
“Jack?” I tensed. “She shouldn’t—”
“It’s better,” said Nellie. “He was so scared from her almost dying, he swore that if she lived, he’d never drink again. Maggie says he’s keeping his promise. I guess he’d bought a boat—”
“A fishing boat,” I said.
“And he took it back, and got a smaller boat instead. Now he takes tourists out fishing and around the islands. He’s home almost every night.”
“And Maggie’s really okay?”
Nellie’s face grew more serious. “She’ll never be all better again. But she’s hanging on. With luck, for a while. And what she wants most in the whole world is to see you again.”
I swallowed. I didn’t trust Jack, or think he’d be glad to see me back. But I wasn’t going to let that keep me from Maggie.
I looked at the lights on the far shore. Somewhere out there, Maggie was waiting.
“There’s just one thing we have to watch out for,” I said. “We can’t let this Donahoe man hear about me.”
Nellie startled. “What?”
“In that place they kept me, they said these people, Dr. Donahoe and Penelope, were coming to take me away. They were already in the building. I heard their footsteps.”
Nellie burst out laughing. “That’s us!” she said. “Grandpa’s whole name is Dr. Robert Donahoe. He used to be a doctor until he gave it up for painting. And Nellie’s my nickname. My whole name is Penelope. You know, like the weaver in The Odyssey.” I shook my head. “It’s a great book,” she said. “We’ll read it together.”
Her eyes grew serious. “We came to the hospital as soon as we heard. And then you were gone! Grandpa was shouting, and I didn’t know what to do until I saw the puffin. But I’m glad you ran away. From Spindle Island, and then from the hospital. Otherwise you might not have that.” She gazed in admiration at my pelt. “Black is the best. Oh, Aran, how can you bear to have it and not put it on?”
“I’ll spend time in sealform, too,” I said, snugging it under my arm. “The cove near your house will be a good place for turning. No one will see me there.”
The breeze carried a whiff of pine from shore, brisk and green and full of life. And then something else—a soft, thrumming beat.
A boat was heading our way, a light shining atop the mast like its own little moon. I leaped to my feet.
“Ready?” I said.
Nellie stood beside me, her hand reaching out and holding mine. “Ready.”
And then we were jumping and waving and hollering, hailing the boat to come carry us home.
Author’s Note
Stories are places where worlds meet. That’s what Aran says, and that’s what I believe. We find each other through stories. Some of the most powerful come from myth and folklore. Even when I was small, their magic took me deep inside myself to a place that felt truer than true.
The first inklings of this book came to me on a trip to Ireland. My family was on a boat to the Skellig Islands. Seals bobbed up to stare at us and dolphins leaped alongside. Then the crags of Little Skellig rose from the waves. A picture flashed into my mind of selkies lounging on those rocks in longlimbs. It was so vivid I can still remember every detail: the pelts piled at their feet, their faces raised to the sun. Soon we landed on Skellig Michael. We climbed stone steps to the top of a pinnacle, and ducked into beehive-shaped huts where monks lived about 1,400 years ago. It felt ancient, elemental, and profound. The next morning I sat down to write, and a few pages about a selkie boy flowed from my pen. I tucked them away.
Later that year, we visited a place we love: Washington’s San Juan Islands. We sailed the boat my husband built, landing on lonely beaches and greeting the seals. Orcas breached offshore. Scattered islands, mist and sun, the heartbeat of the waves: this, too, was a perfect place for a selkie boy! I found my earlier scribbles and began to write.
Celtic folklore and music wove their way through these pages. “The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry” is a classic ballad. I’ve taken lines from several versions and changed a few words. The book Aran steals from the aerie was inspired by The People of the Sea: A Journey in Search of the Seal Legend, by David Thomson. My fascination with selkies owes a debt to The Secret of Roan Inish, a movie based on Rosalie K. Fry’s book Secret of the Ron Mor Skerry. “The Tale of the Selkie Wife” is my retelling of a traditional story; “The Tale of Westwood Pier” is my own.
Research is one of t
he best parts of writing. At a seal haulout, I watched pups ride on their mothers’ backs. Visits to the Seattle Aquarium, the Oregon Coast Aquarium, and the Oregon Zoo helped me picture Aran’s undersea world. I hope you’ll have as much fun exploring seals and ocean life as I did. Online, you can listen to a puffin grunt, watch seals twirling in kelp forests, and see orcas on the hunt. Myth and folklore are rich with tales of the moon, the sea, and beings who can shift shape between animal and human. Seal legends are told around the world, including the Pacific Northwest. You’ll find some links to the natural world and the mythical worlds on my website at emilywhitman.com.
Seals, orcas, fish, mollusks, birds: everything depends on a healthy ocean to survive. But the ocean is in danger. Ocean warming, acidification, pollution, overfishing, plastics, and dead zones are serious problems. We share our world with all living things. I hope you’ll find out more about the ocean, its wonders and the dangers it faces, and what we can do to make a difference.
The world is full of magic. When my son was young, he’d run along a beach and seals would follow in the surf. He’d be collecting pebbles, unaware of the seal slipping ashore a body length behind him.
Maybe they were selkies.
We’ve all got ocean inside us. Beautiful, mysterious, and untamed. Like Aran, we are two everythings.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thank you to my editor, Martha Mihalick, who saw what it needed to be true. The Moon must have helped this book, and me, find our way to you. Thank you to Katie Heit and the whole team at Greenwillow Books and HarperCollins—I’m so lucky to be working with you! Vashti Harrison’s gorgeous cover perfectly captures the spirit of the book. Thank you to my amazing agents—Nancy Gallt, Marietta Zacker, and Erin Casey.
Thanks to Dyanna Lambourn, marine mammal research biologist with the Washington Department of Fish & Wildlife, for an invaluable visit to a blind overlooking a seal haulout on Gertrude Island. I’m grateful to the Helen Riaboff Whiteley Center for a writing retreat in the heart of Aran’s world.
And thank you, thank you to all those who shared insights, knowledge, and support over the years I worked on this story. I’d especially like to thank Kate Whitman, Amy Baskin, and Elisabeth Benfey, wise in the ways of books and life; and Susan Blackaby, Andrew Durkin, Ellen Howard, Barbara Kerley, Annie Lighthart, Sam Lighthart-Faletra, Elena Pettycrew, Elizabeth Rusch, Holly Westlund, and Linda Zuckerman. Thanks to the students in my writing workshops—I’m inspired by our work together. All my love and thanks to my family: Richard, Kate, and Sam Whitman; my mother, Gerda Rovetch; and my sisters, Jennifer Rovetch and Lissa Rovetch. This book is dedicated to my father, Warren Rovetch, in memory. Now, there was a storyteller!
About the Author
EMILY WHITMAN is the author of two acclaimed books for teenagers, and this is her first novel for younger readers. In all her books, myth and magic are a part of everyday life. She has worked in bookstores and behind library reference desks, and now she teaches writing workshops. She lives with her family in Portland, Oregon.
WWW.EMILYWHITMAN.COM
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
THE TURNING. Text copyright © 2018 by Emily Whitman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
Cover art © 2018 by Vashti Harrison
Cover design by Sylvie Le Floc’h
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Digital Edition JULY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-265797-8
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-265795-4 (hardback)
1819202122CG/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
Greenwillow Books
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