by Nina Mason
Or so Cuan had been told by the elders of his clan all the thirty-one years he’d existed in his present incarnation. Even so, for reasons he failed to comprehend, he took more pleasure in soft curves and supple swellings than flat chests and firm muscles—a discovery he’d made quite by accident one afternoon while out exploring the coastline on his own. He happened upon a group of sea nymphs and, as he’d watched them frolicking naked in the surf, his curiosity soon gave way to arousal.
Cuan bit his lip as grief and guilt wrapped their tentacles around his heart. He had enjoyed his time with Meredith so much it hurt his heart to leave her when the breeding season ended. Why, though, when she was inferior to his fellows?
He blinked the dangerous question away and redirected his thoughts to his destination. At the cove, he could soak up the sun while playing his harp—a cleasaiche with solid-gold strings—for the birds and the seals. Maybe, if the gods felt generous, Robharta the selkie would appear and extend to him once again the friendship of her thighs. What firm, lovely thighs they were, too, especially when she parted them to reveal the tantalizing pink anemone dwelling in between. The thought sent a thrill swimming through him, making his mating organ eager to protract.
In the distance, through a murky screen of aquamarine, he spotted the base of the dog-shaped rock guarding the ocean loch. Swimming around the mass, he soon reached the windswept cove. As he dragged himself out of the surf, he grimaced under the swift-yet-painful shift from gills to lungs. A sizeable herd of sunbathing seals occupied the rocky beach’s largest boulders. A variety of seabirds—stormy petrels, fulmars, shags, gulls, and puffins—crowded the surrounding cliffs. Overhead, a golden eagle wheeled lazily on the wind while hunting for his next meal.
Cuan humped up the beach, found a spot on a warm rock, and looked about for Robharta. Seeing no sign of the selkie, he began to play his cleasaiche, coaxing from the golden strings a haunting lilt Meredith had taught him.
“There was no music in my harp,
My fingers knew naught but pain,
Then your kiss, that wondrous barb,
Brought song to my life again.
“Vair me oro van o
Vair me oro van ee
Vair me oru o ho
Sad am I without thee.”
The seals and seabirds quieted to listen to his song. He was only too happy to serenade his fellow creatures—and to have the chance to play the songs of his heart. He also was glad for the solitude of the island, the warmth of the sun on his skin and scales, the soft touch of the breeze in his heavy hair, and the sigh of the sea in his ears.
Under the waves, the rattle and hum of trawlers, tankers, and dredgers destroyed the quiet. Thankfully, there were no Thunder Isles in Clan MacMuir territory.
Not yet, anyway. But, knowing humans, it was only a matter of time before they built their awful drilling platforms in the Minch as well.
Having finished the song, Cuan set down his harp and stretched out on the sun-warmed rock. He would not be sorry to remain where he was for the rest of his days, reveling in that glorious sense of freedom he only experienced on dry land. As he soaked up the sunshine, his heart felt as light as the clouds drifting across the vivid blue sky. Though he was only a short swim from Tír fo Thuinn, the underwater dwelling place of his clan, this peaceful cove felt like a whole other world—a world where there was no need to pretend he was not like the others.
Had he legs, he would scale the cliffs and race across the miles of purple heather to the island’s northern edge. He loved to run, loved the feeling of power and control dashing across solid ground afforded. Regrettably, he only sprouted legs at springtide—the breeding season, which was fast approaching.
The thought brought Meredith to mind again with a painful pang. He could talk to her and be natural with her. In their three months together, she’d taught him the English alphabet and how to read, among other things. He’d told her he had no use for such knowledge, since written words served no purpose under the waves, but she would not be deterred. She said he was like a sponge when it came to languages, which he’d taken as an insult—sponges were stupid creatures, after all—until she’d explained herself.
“I simply meant you absorb your lessons more quickly than most.”
The memory warmed his heart and brought a smile to his wide mouth. The smile broadened when he saw Robharta the selkie flopping toward him over the rocks. She came up beside him, plopped down, and fixed him with her soulful brown gaze. “I was hoping I might find you here, friend Cuan.”
“I had the same hope, friend Robharta.”
A bonny nymph with milky skin, luscious breasts, and hair as thick and black as his own emerged from the seal’s leathery pelt like a babe from its mother. As desire shuddered through him, he extended his erection. Wearing a seductive smile, she sat astride him, taking his organ into hers. After they’d both achieved release, she climbed off him and stretched out at his side. As his euphoria retreated, guilt began to prey on his insides like round worms. If his comrades learned he’d coupled with a selkie for pleasure, they’d shun him—a fate worse than death. For in death, at least, there was honor and the promise of rebirth. Being ostracized brought only loneliness and shame.
Robharta must have sensed his unease because she pushed up on one elbow, set her webbed hand on his chest, and looked into his eyes. “What troubles you, friend Cuan?”
“Laying with a female for pleasure is wrong.”
Her dark brows drew together over her soulful brown eyes. “According to whom?”
“Arbach the druid and the elders of my clan.”
She looked around. “I do not see them hereabouts. I see no one here apart from gulls and seals and puffins. I shouldn’t think they would tell your elders—or anyone else, for that matter.”
“Be that as it may...” He looked away from her gaze. “Doing so goes against the creed I have—”
“Cuan! Where in the name of Hades are you?”
The voice calling to him from the lapping surf belonged to Shan. Alarmed, Cuan said to the selkie, “Hide yourself. If he finds us together, it will bring me trouble.”
Robharta snatched up her pelt and ran toward the cliffs. Just as she disappeared from view, Shan’s head rose above the top of the rocks lining the shore. Water logged black hair framed his chiseled features and muscular shoulders.
“I should have known I’d find you here.” Shan sounded winded and slightly exasperated.
Cuan sat up straighter. His best friend, the only one who knew of his solitary sojourns, would not have sought him out on a lark. “Why have you come? Is something amiss?”
“You could say that,” he replied. “My father has called a council of war.”
Worry quickened Cuan’s pulse. The chieftain only called such meetings when something endangered the clan or its territory. “Why? What has happened?”
“That, I do not know,” Shan replied. “I only know we must get back right away in case he calls upon the fiana to deal with the threat, whatever it might be.”
The fiana was the clan’s fighting unit, to which Cuan and Shan belonged. Forgetting the selkie, Cuan hauled himself over the rocks to where his friend treaded in place and slid into the sea, enduring the transition from lungs to gills. The water felt cold against his sun-warmed flesh.
Saying no more to each other, they swam as swiftly as they could back to Tír fo Thuinn, arriving at the central castle just as the other warriors were assembling for a briefing.
Luckily, they’d not been missed. Warriors were forbidden to leave the cave except to hunt, lest they be needed for battle. Exploring on their own also increased the risk of being seen by the humans who dwelled on the nearby islands. Stories of the Blue Men of the Minch abounded, but, as yet, no proof of their existence had been found, and Chief Murtagh was determined to keep it that way. If humans learned blue-gray mermen really lived beneath the Charmed Isles, they’d only kill them like they killed each other. Or worse, lock them up in one
of those awful prisons they called aquariums.
You are to rendezvous with the whales at Vaternish Point. The strait is narrowest there and the whales will block the passage to prevent the ketos from entering our part of the Minch.
Murtagh’s instructions inside his head filled Cuan with excitement. The mention of the sea monster especially hooked his interest. He’d never encountered a ketos before, but he’d heard—from Seanchai the bard and some of his fellow warriors—that the fire-breathing basilisks were the most terrifying creatures in all the seven seas. With their great gnashing fangs, armor-like scales, and razor-sharp claws, they could cut down a whole fleet of ships with a single swipe. Far from being afeared, he welcomed the chance to confront such a formidable beast.
When the briefing was over, the warriors formed a circle and, while treading their tails to maintain the sacred formation, said their usual prayer to Oceanus and Tethys, the gods protecting all the waters of the earth.
“O Great and Glorious Oceanus, lord and master of the seven seas, hear us this day. Your dominion is being befouled and your children killed by those who would selfishly exploit the abundance you mean to provide for all.
“O Good and Generous Tethys, mother of the Oceanids and source of all life, guide and protect your children, and with your husband stop those who would willfully harm your watery province and all the creatures that dwell therein.”
After the prayer, Cuan went to his room and put on his gold torque, seal-leather cuirass, and bronze wrist bracers inlaid with polished bits of coral, sea glass, and walrus ivory—the battle gear of a warrior. When he was dressed, he took up his coral trident before rejoining the others.
Fifteen minutes later, he was swimming in formation alongside Shan, Each-Mara, Ronan the weapons master, and all the other warriors of Clan MacMuir’s fiana. Chief Murtagh and his bearded officers, with their long black hair billowing behind them on the current, led the procession.
When they reached Vaternish Point, Murtagh gave the signal and all surfaced. The instant Cuan’s face hit the air, his gills began to close. As he drew a deep breath through his mouth, the air burned his bronchial passages. The sun was shining, but the wind was brisk and the water choppy. Bursts of icy spray erupted here and there. He shivered, glad for the protection of his cuirass.
When the water around him began to vibrate, he tightened his grip on his trident. A strange, deep droning sound filled his ears and echoed back from the cliffs. As the rumbling grew louder, he spun around in search of its source. Disappointment bit him hard when he saw the monster approaching from the south. It was not the terrifying fire-breathing serpent he’d been hoping for. Och, no. Their foe was a ship with a bulbous bow and a long, flat deck. He’d seen many similar vessels in these waters before, though none quite so immense. Painted along the side, white on black, was one towering word.
Ketos.
As the behemoth drew closer, engines rumbling like thunder, there was an explosion of flapping wings from the cliffs of nearby Ronay. The seals, frightened by the sound, began baying and humping toward the sea.
A few feet away from the warriors, Chief Murtagh was balancing high on his tail, facing the tanker head on. As the carrier came to a stop, the engine quieted. Men in knitted caps and pea coats gathered along the deck rail, their expressions ranging from hostile to surprised to curious.
Murtagh lifted to his lips the auger shell he used to amplify his voice. “Ketos, you sail a perilous path,” he called out to the sailors. “Turn back now or you shall know my wrath.”
A man with a thick ginger beard and a Highlander’s brogue answered through an amplifier of his own: “Who the fuck might you be, eh? And what’s with the Braveheart get ups? Is that blue crap you’ve smeared all over yourselves supposed to strike fear into our hearts?” Sniggering, he added, “Or maybe the cold water has turned you lot as blue as my bollocks!”
When raucous laughter erupted on deck, Cuan’s bowels knotted. He’d learned enough English from Meredith to recognize impertinence—a foolhardy strategy in the extreme.
“Which of you is the captain?” Murtagh demanded, his booming voice silencing their mirth.
“Who wants to know?” replied the red bearded man.
“I am Murtagh. Chieftain of Clan MacMuir of the Charmed Isles…and the guardian of these waters.”
“Oh, yeah?” the man retorted. “Well, I’m Red Beard the Pirate, so la-dee-da.”
“Your presence in these waters violates your own maritime regulations.” Murtagh thrust his trident skyward. “You must turn back at once and go around the other side of the islands.”
“Have you lost your mind, Blue Boy? We need two bleeding miles to turn this monster around. Not that I have the least intention of doing anything of the kind.”
“If you do not turn this ship around,” Murtagh said, his countenance darkening. “I shall call a storm to run her aground.”
Cuan glanced at Shan, who now bobbed beside him. “Why does your father not want these men to pass through our territory?”
“Ketos is an oil tanker,” Shan replied. “Not as big as some, but too big for these waters.”
Oil, Cuan knew, was found under the floor of the ocean. Humans took it the way they took everything else they wanted. Even so, he had no idea what it looked like, what they wanted it for, or what the function of a “tanker” might be.
Just as he started to ask Shan to explain, a deafening crack rang out, calling Cuan’s attention back to the tanker. The bearded man was pointing something toward the water—a small dark object that glinted in the sunlight. As Cuan squinted, straining to make out what it might be, the device discharged with another ear-splitting bang.
A high-pitched cry rose from the water. The whales begin to agitate, stirring up the sea. Cuan shifted his tail, fighting the onslaught of waves. Whales were peaceful creatures. Firing upon them was a serious violation. Were these humans utterly unscrupulous?
Aye, well. Did he really need to ask?
Murtagh, shaking his trident at the sky, cried out, “In the name of Glauckos, god of the sea and father of our race, I command thee wind to rise!”
A howling squall kicked up and buffeted the ship. The deckhands scurried about like sand fleas. When the chief gave the signal to attack, the warriors surrounded the ship. Eyes lifted, hair whipping their faces, they called out to Zeus: “Thunder your anger; lightning, your might. Bring to us clouds, darker than night.”
Thunderheads rolled in, dousing the sun. The sea swelled and churned, tossing the tanker like a skiff. As her hull creaked and groaned, the warriors swam circles around her while chanting: “Louder and louder we call to thee: Strike a deathblow to our enemy!”
A mighty wave, big as a mountain, rose up and crashed down upon the deck. As the seamen hit the water, the mermen set upon them. Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed. The wind howled.
Ketos’ engines bellowed as the helmsman attempted to turn her. The monstrous ship lurched. A deafening crunch reverberated back from the cliffs. The hull shrieked like an injured whale as it scraped along the submerged rocks.
The ship moaned as she pitched and rolled, exposing flashes of her rust-red underbelly. Black sludge oozed from a fracture in her hull. Alarmed by the sight, Cuan cast around for Murtagh or one of the officers.
Before he could catch an eye, the conch-blower sounded the retreat. All submerged apart from him. He treaded water for a minute, torn about what to do.
“Come on, Cuan,” Shan shouted as he surfaced. “What in the name of Hades are you doing?”
“There’s a leak in the hull,” Cuan returned, pointing. “Do you think we ought to alert your father?”
“The hull is mostly empty.” Shan sounded as unconcerned as he looked. “We would never attack a full tanker, as the risk to those we are sworn to protect is too great. So, there’s no need to trouble my father with your needless worries. Now, come on, before we miss the victory celebration.”
* * * *
Corey Pa
rker rose from the big blue sofa that doubled as her bed with a glass of wine in her hand and a random thought in her head: If apartments were swimwear, mine would definitely be a bikini. A barely-there G-string with an itsy-bitsy kitchen and a teeny-weeny bath.
Although tiny, her studio boasted arched doorways, coved ceilings, hardwood floors, and a cheerful Spanish-tile fireplace. Better still, French doors opened onto a balcony offering a spectacular view of Naples Island and the Long Beach Marina. The view made the postage stamp worth the exorbitant monthly rent—almost half of her take-home pay as corporate communications director for Conch Oil.
She stepped out onto the balcony and filled her lungs with fresh, salty air. Ready to drink away the stress of her day, she took a sip from the wineglass in her hand, savoring the oaky undertones and soft citrus finish of her favorite Chardonnay. The balmy sea breeze was just as pleasant and calming. A short distance away, silver moonlight winked at her from the rippled surface of the Pacific Ocean.
Winking was okay, as long as the water came no closer. She used to love the sea, but after it claimed both her parents, she kept her distance.
“I’ll claim you one day, too,” it seemed to whisper. “Just like I claimed them.”
Corey took another gulp of wine and stepped back from the railing. She had only watery impressions of her mom, who’d drowned when her daughter was seven. She hailed from Eynhallow, a small, now uninhabited island in the Orkney archipelago off the northern tip of Scotland—where “the North Sea kissed the Atlantic Ocean,” as her mom used to say with the sweetest of smiles. She always smelled of the beach and had this mesmerizing voice that was soft, deep, and marked by abrupt rises and falls.
Eynhallow, according to her mother, an avid storyteller, was once the summer stomping grounds of the Finfolk, a race of tall, dark people with brooding faces and magical powers. Apparently, the Finfolk wanted nothing to do with Christianity, not unlike Corey’s mom, who kept an altar to a Norse goddess named Freya in the corner of the living room in their waterfront house in Marina del Rey. Freya, amusingly enough, drove a chariot pulled by a pair of tabby cats.
