Did You Declare the Corpse?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  I finally got so irritated by both Boyds’ pontificating that I said, “I need to get out of the wind,” and headed for protected, sun-warmed rocks. Laura and Dorothy joined me and we sat with our arms around our knees, delighted by what we agreed was an adequate number of reasonably active seals.

  “Look at them pushing and shoving, like a bunch of kindergarten children!” Dorothy’s laugh rang out over the water. She seemed a lot less shy since our time together in Glen Coe. “I was reading about Skye last night, and while this was the MacLeod castle, there were a lot of MacDonalds about. Just think, Laura, hundreds of years ago some of your ancestors may have sat on these very rocks looking at those seals’ ancestors.” She opened a sketchbook she’d bought that morning, and brought out a pencil. She looked real pretty that afternoon with the wind ruffling loose tendrils of hair around her face, her cheeks pink as her parka, and her gold eyes dancing at the seals’ antics.

  Laura gave a lazy chuckle. “Seals may have been my ancestors. The Scots believe in Selkies—seals who can take off their skins and become human. There’s at least one folk-tale about a seal who married a fisherman and had seven children. Who’s to say her husband and children weren’t MacDonalds?”

  “Tell us the story,” I suggested. I knew she’d heard the story from her daddy. Skye MacDonald had loved Scottish fairy tales.

  She stretched out her long legs. “Well, once upon a time a fisherman came upon a crowd of Selkies sunning without their pelts. Never had he seen anything so beautiful. Their skin was soft and pale, their eyes bright. And on a nearby rock lay a pile of soft seal pelts. The fisherman thought, ‘If I could have just one of those, I’d be warm forever. If I could get several, I could sell them and buy enough food for the winter.’ So he crept toward the pile of pelts. The Selkies saw him, though, and got there first. He could only grab one before they seized the rest and plunged back into the sea. As he was going back to his house, he heard someone weeping behind him. He turned and saw a beautiful naked woman following him with tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please, give me my pelt,’ she begged. Instead, he took her home and married her. They had seven children, and he was very happy.’ ”

  “I’ll bet he was,” I said sourly, “but I’ll also bet the poor Selkie was sad.”

  “She was,” Laura agreed. “Although she loved her children, she yearned to return to the sea. One day, when they were alone in the house, the youngest child asked her mother, ‘Why do you weep so, Mother?’ She replied, ‘I am wishing I had a nice sealskin to make you a new winter coat.’ The little girl said, ‘I know where Daddy is hiding one. Up in the rafters of the room where we sleep. Sometimes he creeps up there when he thinks we are sleeping, pulls it down and strokes it. Then he thrusts it back up above the rafter.’ ”

  “Poor man,” Dorothy said softly. “He must have loved her very much.”

  “He also held her prisoner,” I pointed out, shading my face from the sun.

  “There is that,” Laura agreed again, “but he probably knew what would happen, too, if she ever found it. When the Selkie retrieved her pelt, she kissed her child goodbye and ran toward the sea. The last sight the child had of her was as she turned on the shore, waved, and plunged beneath the waves. On lovely days, though, when the children went down to the beach, they would see a large seal riding the waves not too far out. It would lift a flipper while its eyes streamed tears—for seals cry salt tears, just as humans do, and she truly did miss her children.” Her voice sounded a little choked up and her face was turned away. I suspected she was missing her daddy a whole lot right then.

  “Well told!” I applauded. “And you’re real normal for somebody with both intermarriage and seals in her ancestry.”

  Laura took a mock bow and barked like a seal.

  “If you’re going to tour the castle, it’s time to begin,” Joyce called down to us.

  Laura got up and brushed the seat of her pants. “You all coming? They’ve got another lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair, and a great dungeon.”

  “I’ve been here before and one castle a day is enough,” I told her. “I’ll stay here.”

  “And I’d like to draw a bit longer.” Dorothy’s pencil moved rapidly on her paper.

  I sat enjoying the sun on my face and tried to ignore the stored winter’s chill creeping up through my bottom. That was the afternoon I formulated the MacLaren Theory of Foreign Travel: There is no law that says you have to learn something every single minute of your vacation.

  Watching how absorbed Dorothy was in drawing, I asked drowsily, “Were you off drawing in Glasgow when you disappeared?”

  “No, I went to the St. Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art. I’ve had a print of Salvador Dali’s Christ of St. John of the Cross over my desk for years, and on our flight, I read in the airline magazine that the original was there. I couldn’t come all this way and not see it, eh? It was simply magnificent!” Dorothy was never so animated as when she talked about art. She continued drawing and I basked in the sun. I don’t know how long we sat there, but I was getting ready to abandon fresh air in favor of getting warm when we were startled by a shout. I sat up. Down the beach, Sherry and Kenny faced off near the water’s edge.

  Kenny waved his arms in the air while Sherry stood with hands on her hips. Both were yelling. The wind carried some of their words. “. . . crazy!” Kenny shouted.

  Whatever Sherry replied ended, “. . . so help me . . . again . . . kill you!” She shook one long forefinger in his face.

  He grabbed it and jerked upward.

  She yelled with pain and yanked free. Then she whirled and stalked away.

  He bent and picked up a stone.

  “Hey!”

  I don’t think Kenny knew Dorothy and I were there until I yelled. Either the yell deflected his aim or he was a poor pitcher, because the stone hit the water to Sherry’s right. She whirled at the splash. What happened next was too fast for me to be certain about, but I think her foot slipped and she fell in. I do know that Kenny threw back his head and laughed.

  She screamed in shock and anger. No wonder. That sea must be full of melted snow. As she struggled to get up, Kenny ran toward her with one hand outstretched, as if to push her back.

  “Hey!” I yelled again, scrabbling to my feet as fast as I could.

  He looked around, then caught her hand and jerked her up, as if that had been his intent all along. When I got there, Sherry stood on the shore streaming water. Her hair was plastered to her back and she trembled like a paint-mixing machine.

  “She slipped,” Kenny told me.

  She yanked her hand free of his. Her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered. Her hair hung in wet strings down her back, and the warm tartan cape she always wore clung to her in soaked, icy folds.

  “We saw the whole thing,” I warned. Since Kenny made no move to offer her his coat, I whipped off mine. “Here, let’s get you back to the bus, and if we can find Watty, you can get some dry clothes.”

  She tugged off her cape and wrung it until water streamed between her fingers. Without a word she handed it to me and squeezed water from her hair. Finally she reached for my coat and wrapped it around her without an ounce of gratitude or grace. Hearing her teeth continue to chatter, I wished again I had brought that dratted liner.

  “So help me, one day I’ll kill you!” she hissed at Kenny before she turned and trudged toward the bus, leaving me to carry her sodden, briny cape.

  Kenny set off along the water’s edge, making himself scarce.

  Dorothy watched him go with a troubled face. “Do you think he really meant to hit her with that rock?”

  “Looked that way to me.” I held the cape out so it wouldn’t soak me too badly. “I’d better get back to the bus, too, or you’ll have to carry me in one frozen cube.”

  I went so fast that I overtook Sherry halfway. When I came abreast, she flung short, angry sentences at me, willing to confide in anybody to get her grievance off her chest. “That fool maxed o
ut a credit card. Embarrassed me to death when I tried to use it. Who knows what’ll happen now? I warned him to use more than one. Did he listen? Of course not. He’s not even sorry. I think he hopes—” She broke off, pulled my coat tighter, and squished along, polluting the fresh, clean air with huffs of fury and contempt.

  On the bus, Marcia seemed to have recovered from her headache, for she was back in her seat working needlepoint while Watty dozed in the driver’s seat. “I need my suitcase,” Sherry snapped when he looked up drowsily to answer our knock. “I fell in the water.”

  He took one look at us both and swung down with more speed than I’d have suspected he had in him. As soon as he lifted the luggage door, Sherry snatched up a suitcase and set off for the castle at an angry lope. Watty looked at me, shivering in my sweater and holding the soaking cape. “Looks like you need something war-r-rm, as well.”

  I spoke through chattering teeth. “If you’ll hand me that black suitcase, I bought some wool blankets this morning. One of them would feel real good right now.” Since Martha was a nurse, I figured she wouldn’t mind hers being used to save my life before I gave it to her.

  Warmly wrapped, I climbed onto the bus, plopped Sherry’s cape in her usual seat by the door, and willed my teeth to be still. Watty climbed aboard and started the engine. “Sit near the heater,” he ordered. I maybe should have protested at the waste of gasoline, but I didn’t. Instead, I slid into the seat behind him, since the heater worked better in front than in back. He reached for his thermos and poured strong black tea into the lid. “This’ll warm you.” I drank it greedily and gratefully. Who cared how long it was since that cup was washed?

  When I gave it back to him, I tried to slip him another pound note, but he waved it away. “Och, no. You keep it. It was nothing.”

  “What happened?” Marcia called.

  Encouraged by a sign of interest from her, I turned sideways in my seat and filled them both in.

  “So you dinna see the castle?” Watty asked.

  “No, but I saw it years ago, so I decided to stay by the water. I watched seals while Dorothy drew.” I hugged myself to get warmer. The heater seemed slow, and in spite of the blanket and my sweater, goose bumps still ran up and down my spine.

  “Drew?” Marcia’s needle jabbed the fabric. “I never saw her pick up a pencil except to doodle until we got over here, eh? You don’t think she’s using that pad to hide behind, so she doesn’t have to talk to people, do you?” She peered at me over glasses she wore for close work. “She’s very shy, you know.”

  “She seems willing enough to talk the rest of the time,” I said cautiously.

  Marcia snipped her thread. “Well, I don’t understand this drawing mania. It’s very new.” She started a new color and and expressed disapproval with every jab of her needle.

  Without another word she continued to sew while Watty dozed and I tried to picture myself somewhere warm. All I could see was a boat on a sunny gulf with my husband and son standing on a deck with fishing poles while two little boys ran wild. Then I saw that boat starting to sink while Joe Riddley and the others waved goodbye. I could hardly breathe.

  I forced air into my lungs and reminded myself I had chosen not to worry about them. In only—what, four days? I could give them a call. Until then, I’d have to steer my imagination in other directions. So I looked over toward the sea and tried to imagine how I would feel if I were a mother on the Scottish shore looking toward the new world that had swallowed my children.

  I turned to Marcia and called back impulsively, “Can you imagine the courage it took to separate your family across an ocean, knowing you would most likely never see each other again? Our ancestors were braver souls than I am—both those who went and those who stayed.”

  She gave a queer little gulp and lifted her hands to cover her face. Next thing I knew, tears were dripping between her fingers while her shoulders heaved.

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry!” I could have kicked myself to yonder and back. How could I prattle on to a new widow about somebody going away and never coming back?

  She shook her head and gasped, “This trip was a dreadful mistake. I just don’t think I can endure it.” When I started to join her, she waved me back. “I need to be alone, eh?”

  The next half hour until the others returned were some of the longest minutes of my trip.

  As Dorothy climbed aboard, I touched her arm. “I inadvertently said something to upset Marcia a lot,” I said softly. “Could you go back and see if she’s all right?”

  “Of course.”

  Then I noticed her notebook and decided to be nosy. “May I see what you drew?”

  She turned a faint pink, but opened her pad like an obedient child. The page was full of charming sketches of splashing seals, two children on the beach and, on a distant rock, a woman who looked remarkably like Laura, emerging from a seal’s skin. “I’m no artist, but those look real good to me, honey,” I told her.

  Kenny, who had paused to talk with Watty, looked over her shoulder and agreed. “Hey, you’re good!”

  Dorothy threw me a distressed look. “They’re just sketches.” She grabbed the pad and hurried back to the seat I usually had, behind Marcia, where she sat clutching her drawings to her chest while she spoke softly. I couldn’t tell if Marcia was listening. She had her head back again and her reddened eyelids resolutely closed.

  Sherry was the last to return. She’d changed into a warm sweater and slacks and exchanged wet boots for sheepskin slippers lined with fleece. She handed over my damp coat with a curt, “Thanks,” then turned to glare at Kenny, who was sitting behind Laura again. With a huff of disgust, she climbed over her wet cape and slumped against the window.

  I decided to stay where I was for the ride to Portree. Since Sherry was just across the aisle, I had a good view of her the whole way. She glared at the narrow road ahead like she was daring the future to arrive.

  10

  Friday night, we stayed at another Gilroy’s Hotel in Portree. Unlike American chains, where you can travel from city to city and find almost identical facilities, Gilroy’s seemed to have bought up small local hotels and converted them, while retaining their own essential character. This one was cozy and charming, so small that the lobby and a large dining room occupied most of the downstairs, separated by broad double doors.

  Before I dressed for the ceilidh, I had time to call our store. My son Ridd answered with good news. “We heard from Daddy and the boys. They’re having a great time. Crick caught the biggest fish today, and Tad says he’s learning to steer the boat. Neither boy wants to come back Sunday. Tad says he’s ready to become a beach bum forever. Oh, and Daddy said when you called, to tell you all three sentinels are on duty, whatever that means.”

  I hung up and put on the gladdest rags I had with me—a long black velvet skirt and a frilly white blouse, topped by a warm wool stole in the MacLaren tartan, pinned with a cairngorm brooch. I’d bought the stole and brooch that very afternoon with some of Joe Riddley’s gift money. I fluffed my hair, fixed my face, and headed down feeling real spiffy.

  I almost retreated to my room again at the blended odors of hot wool and alcohol welling up to greet me. Like I said, I’m not much on sitting around in bars. The whole place smelled like a bar that evening, and every living soul remaining in the Highlands seemed to have driven to Portree for the ceilidh. I hadn’t realized this was such an event—and wondered if our musicians did.

  Before going into the dining room, I stepped outside for a breath of air. In the parking lot I saw three other buses labeled “Gilroy’s Highland Tours.” All were big, shiny and new. Poor Watty, I suspected they were putting him and Jeannie the bus out to pasture together.

  I pushed my way into the dining room. A number of musicians—including our four—were tuning up, filling the air with the screeches of fiddles and pipes and the clatter of drums. Once or twice I heard the piercing tweet of Dorothy’s flute rise over the din.

  The room was s
o awash in Gaelic that I felt for the first time that I was in a foreign country. I was glad to see Laura at the far side of the room, watching for me. She waved and I inched my way toward her. She, Joyce, and Brandi were at a table for four. Joyce wore a gray sweater that made her seem mousier than usual, but Laura looked pretty in a thick red sweater and black ski pants, and Brandi, of course, outshone us all in her dark green velvet coat and Gordon tartan skirt. An enormous cairngorm pendant hung between her high little breasts, making my brooch seem piddly.

  “Finally,” Laura greeted me. “Want me to order you a stout?”

  “That’s what I’m gonna be if I keep eating and drinking like this.” I slipped in between her and Joyce. “But I’ll try anything once. What’s another calorie or two?” I’d have changed my tune if I’d realized it came in pint mugs.