Among the Unseen

by Jodi McIsaac

  “Good morning,” he said, trying to ignore the aches in his body. “Are you okay?”

  “I…I don’t think so,” she said. She tried to sit up, but winced in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I feel…awful,” she said. “I think I need to get back into the water.” She got to her feet shakily and wavered on the spot. Without looking back at him, she walked out of the cabin and down the few steps to the shore. She slid back into the sealskin and pushed herself into the water.

  Irial wrapped a towel around his waist, grabbed a handful of the seaweed the selkies had given him to help his body adapt to the cold Atlantic waters, and stumbled down to the shore. A few yards off, Syrna’s head bobbed out of the water.

  “Do you feel better?” he shouted. The seal shook her head.

  He stuffed the seaweed in his mouth and chewed it slowly and methodically. Then he braced himself for the first icy step into the ocean. He could feel the seaweed working its way through his system, and gradually the water began to feel warmer. He swam out to Syrna. He didn’t understand why they preferred to live as seals when they could be beautiful naked women, but then there was a lot about selkies he didn’t understand.

  “I feel dreadful too,” he said. “We must have caught the same bug.”

  She gave him a strange look, and then turned and swam away. Irial followed her, struggling to keep up. They swam over to a gathering of dozens of selkies, who were lying on the flat, smooth rocks that jutted out into the water. He was surprised to see that many others were lying on the beach—usually they didn’t get so close to the humans who lived on the island. Syrna climbed awkwardly onto the rocks and started talking with her kin. He couldn’t understand their way of speaking, but something was definitely amiss. He pulled himself out of the ocean and tried to find a warm patch of rock to soothe his aching body. He sat and waited, uncomfortably aware that many of the seals’ heads had turned to look at him. After many long minutes, Syrna waddled over to him. She stretched out of her sealskin but did not remove it completely. It fell grotesquely around her shoulders, keeping the rest of her body covered.

  “What’s going on?” he asked as soon as her head had emerged from the skin.

  “It’s the same with all of them. They feel as sick as we do.”

  “But they all seemed fine yesterday,” he said.

  “I know,” she answered. “I mean, I’ve been feeling more weary than usual lately, but nothing like this.”

  “Do they have any idea what’s causing it?” he asked. “Something in the water?”

  “Maybe. We don’t know.” She lowered her voice and leaned in close. “I should warn you—some are saying that perhaps you brought the sickness here.”

  “Me? But I’ve been here for months, and this has just happened.”

  “I know. I told them it was highly unlikely, but I just thought you should know.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered, but he knew what it meant. Another place he wasn’t welcome.

  “Just wait a bit,” she said, as though she could read his thoughts. “It might pass quickly, and then they’ll realize it has nothing to do with you.”

  It didn’t pass quickly. Two weeks later, Syrna came to him in the middle of the night. He was lying curled up under a pile of blankets in his bed in the cabin, shivering so hard his muscles ached. Never in his life had he felt this sick for this long. He felt Syrna’s flipper on his shoulder. Even in her seal form, he could tell she was not well. She had lost her round, plump figure, and her skin hung loosely where once it had been taut. A green fungus was spreading over her black skin. He looked at her blearily, watching as with great effort she pulled her head out of the sealskin and spoke to him.

  “You have to leave,” she whispered. “Now. They are coming for you.”

  “What?” he mumbled. “Who?”

  Syrna glanced around nervously. “Sri has died,” she said. “They’re blaming you.”

  Irial struggled to sit up. Sri was one of the matriarchs of the selkie colony. Half of the selkies here were related to her. This would not end well for him.

  “Where will I—” he started to say.

  “You must go find help—for all of us,” she said. “You said you knew the Merrow. Of all the Unseen, they are the closest to our kind. Perhaps they will be able to send help.”

  Irial nodded and stood up shakily. “Be well, Syrna,” he said. “And thank you for your kindness.”

  “Good luck,” she whispered, before slipping back out into the darkness.

  Part of him wanted to just stay in bed, to let them find him and do whatever they wanted to him. But he forced himself to stand up and dress. He crept out of the cabin, glancing over his shoulder at the dark waters of the Atlantic. He would have to cross the island, swim to the mainland, and then travel south along the coast to where the Merrow had their underwater kingdom. It seemed like an impossible journey in his weakened state. But the only people here who could help him were human, and he had sworn to stay away from them. He followed the dirt road that cut through the island, which was divided into tiny square fields by a giant checkerboard of ancient limestone walls. He occasionally stopped to rest on one of the low walls, which had marked property boundaries in these parts for centuries. Cottage lights winked at him, taunting him with the promise of comfort, but he gritted his teeth and carried on, trying not to think of the warm welcome he would receive from a human woman. He cut through a stony field to avoid a house by the edge of the road and collapsed against a large granite boulder that seemed as out of place in these parts as he did. As he struggled to catch his breath, a gray mare, ghostlike in the moonlight, sauntered up to him from across the field.

  “Hello, beautiful. I don’t suppose you’d let me ride you?” he whispered sardonically. To his surprise, the mare sank down on her front knees and prodded him with her muzzle. Irial stared at her for a moment, and then grabbed a fistful of mane and hauled himself up onto her back.

  “Need to get to the Merrow,” he murmured, not sure if she could understand him. He knew they needed to go east to cross the island, but she was taking him north. He tugged on her mane to try and direct her, but she just snorted and continued on her chosen path. He gave up. At least he wasn’t walking anymore. He held on tighter as she started to canter, jumping the low rock walls that were meant to contain her. Then they started to climb, and he realized she was heading for the ancient stone fort that stood in a semicircle on the edge of the island’s westernmost cliff. He shuddered. Was she going to throw him off? The mare carefully maneuvered the rough steps that led to the prehistoric fort, keeping to the well-trod human path. The fields surrounding the ancient stronghold were littered with razor-sharp chunks of limestone that had been embedded in the ground like a sea of spears with the express purpose of discouraging any attack made by horse.

  When they reached the top, she stopped, and he slid from her back into a heap on the ground. They were surrounded by a great curved wall on three sides, the fourth open to the chill air and a three-hundred-foot drop to the ocean waves that crashed below. The wind ripped through him like a thousand knives, and he curled into a ball. The mare prodded him again with her muzzle, and he stood reluctantly, trying to use her body to block the wind. “Why are we here?” he asked. And then he saw it.

  “A púka,” he breathed. The púka was in his horse form, a majestic black stallion, with a gleaming coat and eyes of red fire. But the fire in them had dimmed, and the púka lay on his side, his breathing heavy and labored. His flanks were covered in patches of white foam; his mouth was lined with dried blood. Irial looked back at the gray mare, who was nervously pawing the ground.

  “I’m a friend,” he said to the púka. “Can you speak? Can you take another form, perhaps?” The púka just looked at him out of dim red eyes filled with fear and panic. “This isn’t right,” Irial muttered as he ran his hands over the creature’s body, looking for some sign of injury. “You should be able to speak to me.” He h
ad only ridden a púka once, but he’d never forget the experience. At one time the púka had been legendary in this land for offering wild late-night rides to weary travelers. If you were lucky, you stayed on the púka’s back until the end. If not…well, you never knew where you might end up. He hadn’t thought there were any more of them, and he wondered if this was the last. A chill ran up his spine. Maybe the púka was suffering from the same mysterious illness that was plaguing him and the selkies.

  “Can’t you speak to me?” he moaned. “The selkies are sick too; I’m trying to find out why. I need to get to the mainland.”

  At this, the púka raised his head a little. His body spasmed, and Irial could tell he was trying to stand. “No, stay down,” he urged. But the stallion would not obey. He lifted himself up on his front legs, and then, with a monumental effort, he got to all fours. He let out a snort through his nostrils, and a plume of smoke drifted from them. Irial approached him hesitantly, slowly reaching out a hand to grasp the wild black mane. His grip tightened automatically, and he flung himself onto the púka’s back. Then, before he could register what was happening, they were moving in a blur of sound and color, the wind rushing in his ears like the roar of the ocean. Irial could not make out where they were or where they were headed. He closed his eyes and hung on for dear life, wishing the journey would end quickly.

  And then it did.

  He landed roughly on the ground, rolling several times before coming to a stop. For a few moments he just lay there and tried to catch his breath, every bone in his body feeling as if it had been shattered. He gathered his wits and looked around, trying to figure out where the púka had left him. The black horse was nowhere in sight, which worried him. If he couldn’t find it, he couldn’t help it—even if he somehow managed to help himself.

  As he circled around in the moonlight, he started to recognize his surroundings. He had been here before. He was in a small circular meadow, just enough space to hold maybe a dozen humans…or a hundred pixies. The trees were unnaturally thick around the meadow. It was perfectly quiet, but Irial knew it was not always this way. “Faelon?” he called out into the surrounding trees. He paced around the meadow. “It’s Irial. I need your help! Faelon? Is anyone there?”

  He did not even know if Faelon was still the leader of the pixies, as he had been when Irial last visited this place. But surely one of the sentries or night-dancers would hear him. The last time he had shown up unexpected, a whole troop of pixies had surrounded him and brought him to their king for questioning. Ultimately, they had allowed him to stay, at least until that unfortunate encounter with the woman hiker. The pixies could easily hide themselves from human eyes, but Irial was like a homing beacon for human women. He shook off the unwelcome memories, but his eyes kept straying to the barely discernable mound at the edge of the meadow where they’d buried her.

  It was no use. He could not venture into the forest now; he was beyond exhausted and would only get lost in the pitch darkness beneath the trees. He would have to wait until morning…if he survived that long. He fell down onto the soft grass and was asleep within seconds.

  When he awoke, his clothes and hair were damp with dew, and for a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to the Otherworld. The dewdrops sparkled in the early morning sunlight like a generous dusting of pixie magic. But then he felt the aching in his body, the same sensation that had plagued him for the past two weeks. He sat up gingerly, and headed toward the pixies’ hidden home in the forest. But as he approached their hideout, he started to feel uneasy. They should have seen and heard him by now. It hadn’t been so long since his last visit that they would have forgotten him, so it was unlikely they’d mistake him for a mere human. “Faelon?” he called again. He stopped and looked around. Had he gone the wrong way? No, he was sure this was it. The tall oak to his right was where Faelon held court, and the bushes that came up to his knees were the ones the pixies often decked out with glowing lights for evening soirees. But the place was empty and void of any sign of life. “Hello? Is anyone here? Faelon! Caldes! Dathel!”

  Just then he heard a rustling in the leaves, and his body relaxed. But instead of the flutter of wings and the sound of high-pitched voices, the sounds that emerged were distinctly human. An old woman with long white hair that fell to her waist walked out of the forest. She was bent over, carrying a basket filled with herbs and plants and chunks of bark. Her hands were dirty, and one nail was bleeding.

  “They’re all gone,” she said.

  The woman was obviously human, and Irial’s instinct was to turn and run. But she spoke as though she had answers.

  She let out a dry laugh. “Don’t you worry about me, boy. I’m far too old to be attracted to the likes of you, though I’ll still keep my distance, if you don’t mind. As long as you don’t lay your hands on me I think I can resist.”

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Maggie,” she answered. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked closer at him. “You don’t look too good.” She scowled. “Another one. I was afraid of this.”

  “Another one?” he repeated. “Who else?”

  She waved a hand at the forest around them. “The pixies. They left the day before yesterday. Thought it was maybe a curse on the land. I don’t know where they were heading or how far they’ll get—some of them could barely fly anymore.”

  “How do you know? You’re a human…Did they let you see them?”

  “I am human, yes, but I am also one of the fili,” she answered. “So some of your kind—the magical kind, that is—show themselves to me from time to time. You might as well come with me. I’ve been collecting more herbs for Martin; perhaps they’ll help you.”

  “Martin?” Irial didn’t move.

  “You’d know him as Logheryman, if you know him at all.”

  “The leprechaun. He’s sick as well?”

  Maggie nodded tersely, and then headed back through the woods. At another time he would have been able to race ahead of her, but now he struggled to keep up. The forest was dense, and he moved slowly, leaning on tree trunks for support and climbing awkwardly over fallen logs. Every once in a while Maggie would veer from her path and stoop down to collect a handful of some type of plant or flower—they all looked the same to him, but she examined each leaf, petal, and stem closely before adding it to her basket. Finally, when he thought he could go no farther, they emerged into another clearing, this one with a small house at its center.

  “Is this where you live?” he asked, leaning heavily against the closest tree trunk.

  “No,” she answered. “’Tis Martin’s house. Come inside and I’ll do what I can for you.”

  He made his way through the front door and collapsed on the sofa in the front room, unable to keep a moan from escaping his lips. Maggie clicked her tongue in concern and tossed him a blanket from across the room. He knew she didn’t want to get too close, and he was glad for it. He needed her help, and she wouldn’t be able to give it to him if she were driven mad with desire, which could very well happen even though she was old enough to be a grandmother.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m going to check on Martin.” Then she disappeared into the back of the house.

  Irial stared at the white ceiling of the simple cottage. They were all sick—the selkies, the púka, the pixies, and now the leprechauns—or at least a leprechaun. Even if he did make it to the Merrow, he suspected that they, too, would be suffering from this mysterious illness. But Maggie seemed fine, even though she had obviously been caring for the leprechaun. Were humans somehow immune? But what kind of sickness would affect only those from the Unseen world? And how had it spread so quickly? He was shivering under the heavy wool blanket. Could he have caused this? As far as he knew, he was the only one who’d spent time with all the various afflicted species of the Unseen. But no—he hadn’t seen a púka in years, let alone the one who’d given him a ride the previous day, and though he had heard of Logheryman, he had never before
met him or any of his kind. He struggled to piece it all together. Then a sharp voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Martin! You get back in that bed this instant!”

  Irial turned his head in the direction of Maggie’s voice. A thin, grizzled man who he could only assume was Logheryman was limping his way toward him. Dressed in a threadbare robe, he was leaning on a carved wooden cane. His face was gaunt and unnaturally gray, and his hair looked as if it had been falling out in chunks. He wavered and almost fell, but Maggie pulled his arm around her shoulders, muttering about “fool ideas” and “stubborn leprechauns.”

  “The time for looking after me will soon be over, my dear,” Logheryman said as he allowed her to lead him to the large armchair across from Irial, and then arrange blankets over his lap. He laid his head against the back of the chair, as though holding his neck up required too much effort. But his eyes were clear and cogent when they settled on Irial.

  “A gancanagh, she tells me,” he said. Irial nodded. Logheryman regarded him silently for a moment before continuing. “Where did you come from?”

  “The selkie colony on Inis Mór,” Irial said. “It’s the same there—they’re all sick. I came to find help. I was trying to get to the Merrow, but the púka brought me here…well, to the pixies.”

  Logheryman raised a gnarled eyebrow. “The selkies as well? And the púka? Is it ill?”