“Was anyone seen leaving the kirk?” I asked.
“Nay, and we watched ’til dawn,” she admitted, making me glad that my cottage was beyond eyeshot of her own. I wasn’t afraid of gossip in the normal way of things, but would just as soon not have people know that I had a male visitor coming and going at all hours of the night.
“Does the kirk have a basement—a crypt perhaps?” I asked.
“Aye,” she said slowly, horror beginning to fill her eyes as she considered. “There was a crypt, and also they say it was part of a sea cave used by vile creatures until they bricked it off.”
I chose to misunderstand. “That’s probably it then! Smugglers are using the kirk again. They likely knocked down the wall and are coming and going from the caves on the shore.”
“Smugglers?” This arrested her panic and I could see her turning the new idea over in her head as she examined it on all sides. The notion lacked some of the drama of the Devil or sea monsters making an appearance, but it was a lot less frightening.
Unfortunately, I didn’t believe my own suggestion. Not unless the finman was smuggling something. Evil, if not the Devil himself, was definitely abroad at night and I feared that I knew what it was looking for.
But then so was Lachlan about in the night, and also in sea caves as he hunted his prey. I’d thought he intended to go immediately to “consult with others” about what we had found, but perhaps he had made a stop at the kirk on the way. Or perhaps he hadn’t. Until I knew which it was messing about in the church, I would have to be crazy to visit the kirk, though the urge to rush out and confront my fear was strong. My mind had somehow not accepted the idea that this time the monsters were real and not just phantoms of the imagination. At least in the daylight, I wanted to strike at them before they crept up behind me in dreams.
“I’ve read about the smugglers in Cornwall,” I said, fingering a bolt of cloth. It was poplin, but in a nice shade of blue. I had a few frivolous frocks, but they were old. I had not dressed in gay inconsequence since my marriage. “They actually had everyone convinced that there was some demon driving a coach with a team of headless horses. It was quite clever of them. They went on their way unmolested for many years…”
“Ye’re not going tae the kirk, are ye?” Mistress Mac-Laren demanded, sensing my curiosity.
“Not today,” I agreed, letting go of the fabric. “It’s too foggy. And I would as soon give the smugglers time to shift their wares before I explore. I’ve no desire to meet one face-to-face.”
“Aye?” She sounded incredulous.
“I don’t care about smuggling, per se. Most of the taxes on imports are iniquitous, and who can blame a man if he has to do a little extra to help his family?” I shrugged and finally saw a faint smile of approval touch the postmistress’s thin lips. Smuggling was an enterprise that fishermen had engaged in for centuries. Most people saw it as a way for poor families to supplement their income and to put one over on the English. There was also the added allure of limited danger hereabouts: The long arm of the Sassenach law rarely extended to Findloss; its nearest limb of any type was an elderly man with a wooden leg in Glen Ruadh.
I bought some honey and dried plums for the scones I decided to bake; the honey from the local hives is a bit strange to me, being made from the pollen of sea grasses rather than the blossoms of fruit trees or flowers, but I have come to enjoy it on my porridge and bread. I waited while Mistress MacLaren fetched the requested items and then departed from her relentlessly grim company. I did not ask about the faded photograph of a young man in uniform that she kept on the counter, though I had seen it before and wondered. Because of the Great War, Findloss is also haunted by the ghosts of the Lost Generation, the boys who had gone off and not come home. A full third of many highland regiments had been killed and many more maimed while fighting honorably in a war that many considered dishonorable.
I knew from past conversations that Mistress Mac-Laren had lost a son, a brother and two nephews all at Vimy Ridge on Easter Monday in 1917. Poor woman. When fate decides to bludgeon you, all you can do is duck and run and pray the cudgel is short enough that you can escape. Sometimes you get away; sometimes you don’t. Knowing how my own losses had affected me, I bit my tongue when she was especially sullen or nosy. We all grieve differently, and she offered no true incivility.
The death-cold cloak of storm and mist had parted by the time I left the shop, and when I looked seaward I could see the weekly mail steamer coming our way. When I say “weekly,” I mean that according to Murray’s Diary it endeavored to come every seven days. It was often delayed by bad weather, as I’d pointed out to Lachlan.
The distant whistle shrilled again as I tucked my small parcel into the bicycle’s basket, and I noticed a small boat setting off from the chafed jetty where the larger fishing boats were usually moored. Securing a mooring between the two vessels would be tricky because the sea remained rough, but I had no doubt that the harassed men would manage in spite of the turbulence. Angry seas were nothing new to these fishermen, and they did this every week—or ten or twelve days, or whenever tide and fog permitted.
The whistle sounded again, shriller than birds, which called to mind the sound of the calliope I thought I had heard the night before. Had it perhaps been a ship at sea and not the storm winds singing through the pass that had frightened me? The throbbing in my leg said no. Something unnatural had been abroad last night. Something evil, and it had come close.
I shrugged deeper into my cape and realized with surprise how much I had come to appreciate the usual quiet of Findloss and how much I resented losing it, now that it was threatened. I was beginning to feel knit into the fabric of this country, albeit on the very edges. Perhaps it was the blood of my ancestors at last awakening in my veins. Maybe it was just finally being free to make my way in the world.
Wind blew back my hair with a salty breath that was unique to this village. I marveled again that though raised in a city, most days I did not miss the bustle of the exciting annoyance of my earlier and more materialistic life in the United States. Industrial progress no longer seemed as much like progress to me. I did not like the noise and agitation that came with the convenience of my old life enough to wish its return. Like Lachlan claimed of himself, I lived in two worlds and probably couldn’t stay in either. What would become of us? Where do people go when home isn’t home anymore?
I looked seaward, but the ocean offered no answer. The tiny bit of aureate light that slid between clouds brought no real warmth, and the sun’s routine creepings toward the western horizon—growing shorter every day—seemed suddenly sinister. Did Sol, like the tide, conspire with the finman? Evil surely went about in the day, but it was most active in the dark. There seemed an increasing number of dark hours where wickedness could hold sway.
Chapter Ten
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging sea.
—Rudyard Kipling, “Seal Lullaby”
I prepared a pot of tea and baked some scones, and enjoyed them; though, since I am not British enough for tea to be a panacea, the ritual calmed me only slightly, even with a dram of whisky added to the pot. Some of the local whisky is appalling, unsafe unless you are a ruminant with more than one stomach to spare for digesting toxic things. I paid extra for something drinkable, but used it sparingly. I simply couldn’t afford to be an alcoholic.
A part of me was watching the sun creep westward, waiting impatiently for Lachlan and his promised charm of protection, though this wasn’t reasonable; he had never come to visit the cottage except in full darkness.
The sleet that attacked at sunset was sudden and fierce, and I lost heart that Lachlan would come, but appear he did, just before the midnight hour. On his shoulder was a fresh wound that I knew could only be caused by the bite of a shark. Or maybe a finman.
I did not immediately ask questions, just went to fetch linens and some hot water for cleaning the wound. Once again
he’d been out in the cold without a shirt or overcoat, but this state of semiundress seemed almost normal now. Certainly it was no hardship for me to look upon him.
“Take off that plaid before you freeze,” I said, handing him a large sheet of toweling and turning my back politely until I heard the sodden wool hit the hearth.
“I am modestly draped,” Lachlan said, and I thought I heard some amusement in his voice. This surprised me, given the depth of the bite and how much pain he had to be feeling.
“I understand from my most recent reading that drinking from a selkie’s footprint can cause a person to shape-shift.” I said it lightly as I set about washing the jagged tear that was healing even as I dabbed at it. That was fortunate, because I am fainthearted and don’t do well with the sight of any blood other than my own. Setting stitches would have been out of the question.
Lachlan didn’t laugh at the superstition as I had hoped, and his next words indirectly confirmed my belief that he was a seal man. “Nay. But it might just be possible that a bit of…anesthetic might linger there. And if the drinker were someone who had previously been exposed, they might be affected in the mind.” His face was very close to mine and I could feel his breath on my cheek. As ever, his body was warm. He also smelled heavily of clove, and I realized that it was his blood I was scenting. A part of me wanted to taste that, and the thought made me a bit dizzy. I had to put out a hand to steady myself but opted for a lower arm instead of the chest.
“I shall be careful what footprint I slurp from,” I joked, then changed the subject. “Mistress MacLaren tells me that the Devil was seen in the kirk last night. I don’t suppose that it was you checking on church records as we discussed.”
I felt the weight of his eyes as they settled on my own. “Nay.”
“Then I suppose we had best have a look at it tomorrow and speak to a few people. Perhaps someone else in the village saw something useful.”
I guessed that this suggestion probably wouldn’t be met with enthusiasm, and I was right.
“I will gae out and ask questions when I deem it prudent. Ye’ll stay here and not gossip wi’ the villagers wham may be dangerous tae ye. Wi’ this hanging aen the door,” he added, leaning over and pulling something from under his sodden plaid. He laid the small wreath of sea wrack and a metal spike on the table.
I was tempted to ask what else he had had under his kilt but refrained. I also decided against arguing with him about the kirk. I was beginning to believe that Lachlan was from the kick-over-the-wasp-nest-and-see-what-crawls-out school of investigation. No fan of Conan Doyle’s detective was he; subtle examination and clever interrogation were clearly not his forte. But why should they be? After all, he was a hunter on the trail of deadly prey and intended to kill, not question it. Yet I had a feeling that something subtler might work better, at least as far as questioning the superstitious villagers, and I was very curious about the church now and wanted to see it before Lachlan pulled it down stone by stone, or whatever else he had in mind.
Lachlan wouldn’t like hearing this intention, though, so I decided that it would be better to seek forgiveness than permission. “Did the finman attack you tonight?” I asked, keeping my gaze on his wound, for fear he might read the intentional disregard of his advice in my gaze.
“His minions, aye. There were twa sharks waiting near the shore. They were big nasty brutes. I had a bit of a battle killing them.” I looked at the size of the bite. Its diameter was twice the length my hand. Then I tried to image how large the shark that had bitten him was. My mind faltered when it came to imagining how Lachlan might have killed two sharks of this size. What sort of seal man was he?
“And they weren’t just…passing sharks?” I asked.
“Nae. Hae ye ne’er noticed the talk among the villagers? There are nae sharks in these waters. My people have made these seas safe for the sea pups and their mithers that come tae the beach fer birthing.”
I had heard something like this before. “Someone must be getting desperate then.”
“Aye. I’ve inkled and spoken wi’ others frae nearby clans, and ’tis believed by the merrows that the finman may have tae find his heart by the winter solstice or perish.”
“What will happen on your way…back? Will there be other sharks waiting to attack you?”
“ ’Tis the maxim of the wise man tae never return by the same road he came—providing there is anither road free tae him. This I shall remember, since I hate tae slay the beasts of the sea wham are but innocents enslaved.” He changed the subject. “Have ye read anything else of interest in Fergus’s cursed books?”
“I have been reading some about pookas.”
Lachlan snorted. “Be glad I am nowt a pooka.”
“Why?” I asked, genuinely curious and glad that Lachlan seemed in a mood to talk. This was not his normal state, and I felt that I’d best take advantage of any loquaciousness.
“Because in general they’re rather nasty and hae an indefatigable sense of humor. Their relentless cheer and pranks are exhausting and can lead them intae trouble. It nearly also leads tae humans being deid.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said. “I was also reading about brownies and wondering how I could go about getting one, since there is no such thing as a housekeeper in this village and I would love someone to spin some yarn for me. I’m actually a pretty capable knitter.” No one would admit it to an outsider, but I had noticed that the few women who still spun their own yarn took down their spinning wheels at night so that no supernatural being might use them. Until I met Lachlan I had told myself this was just more local nonsense. Now I was less sure.
“That’s just silly superstition,” Lachlan said with a sniff.
“Is it now?” And then I laughed. The sound was weak and tentative, but quite real. “How am I to know what is real and what is not? You are all fable to me.”
“Sweet reason, woman. Magical house keepers?”
All I could do was shake my head and reach for some strips of linen to tie over the makeshift bandage, which was hardly necessary now. “I rarely see you during the day. Is it because the sun hurts you?” I asked, since he remained in what seemed for him a fairly garrulous mood.
“Nay. There are twilight people and Night Side people, but very few fey gae about aen the day anymore. There’s too much ill will and cold iron aboot. I had an uncle wha used tae visit a lady friend in daylight, though he was warned tae stay away, but he tempted fate once tae often. I think he was more than a bit mad frae the contamination in this warld and none tae gifted with sense tae begin with. It happens sometimes when we are tae lang alone. He was hunted down and his skin taken.”
“Every family has its black sheep—or seal,” I added with a small grim smile, making note that in spite of the harsh tale my mood had lifted. In fact, I felt a bit intoxicated and suspected it was the prolonged contact with Lachlan. “Ours was Uncle Milo—though he was not a blood uncle, so the title is only a courtesy. He was an elixir salesman and dishonest enough to have you counting your fingers after you shook his hand. As the saying goes, he would steal candy from a baby—or in this case, a niece—and then resell it as soon as he found another buyer. That was usually my cousin, Torquil. I think he may have been a bit mad too. Certainly he had no grasp of what was acceptable behavior in our home.” He had, for instance, once tried to reach under my dress. I had poured my milk on him and threatened to tell my father. Now, as an adult, I sometimes wondered if Milo had not perhaps been doing things to Torquil. If he had, it warped my cousin into a sadistic and dishonest man.
“And where are this Milo and Torquil now?” Lachlan’s voice was gentle, but I was not deceived. Somehow he had guessed that there was more to my story and was angered on my behalf, even though in that moment I felt no rage myself.
“On the road to fame and fortune, or so my aunt says. I haven’t seen them in years and likely never will again.” I had finished wrapping Lachlan’s shoulder. The temptation to drop a kiss on his wou
nd almost overcame me, but I managed to step back without doing anything foolish. My breath was a bit rapid, but I could always blame that on the sight of the injury if Lachlan said anything. “There! That’s tidy now. And I didn’t faint on you—so there.”
“I thank ye. I can tell that ye are near swoonin’.” He flexed his arm and rotated his shoulder.
“Well, it is expected from a gentlewoman when confronted with blood,” I pointed out, wondering what my parents would have thought of Lachlan and my reluctant physical attraction to him. They would probably be shocked by my romantic transgression. Or perhaps not. They might have considered him a step up from Duncan. Certainly I did, though I also knew he was far more dangerous.
“Yer smiling. Now, why? The sight of my blood amuses thee?”
“I was just thinking how much my parents would have disapproved of my friendship with you.”
“And this makes ye smile, lass?”
I shrugged. “I have always had an odd sense of humor. Perhaps I am not entirely sane either. At least, not around you. Somehow you affect me even when I am not drugged. I just wonder sometimes if it’s deliberate. Do you like me off guard? Can you make me so by some other means than a bite?”
“ ’Tis better than making ye struck dumb, aye?”
Struck dumb. That reminded me of my dream, and all playfulness fell away in a rush. “Lachlan, have you ever heard of a…a kind of pixie or familiar who would try to cut off someone’s shadow?”
“Aye. Ye’ve seen one?” He wasn’t smiling anymore, either.
“Yes. In a dream. Last night. When I woke up…well, come and see.” I led him into the bedroom, for once unconcerned about having a strange man near my bed. I pointed at the bloody print of the shears. “It’s my blood, not theirs. That thing bled white glop.”
The Selkie Bride Page 9
