The Selkie

by Melanie Jackson

  Rory grunted but continued to walk among the upturned casks that led to the altar.

  “Stay away from that net,” she warned suddenly. Good sense was shrinking and congealing into a useless mass of quivering nerves, leaving room for fearful speculation to eddy around the edges of her consciousness. Not even Rory’s presence could keep it at bay.

  “There’s a Bible here. ’Tis covered o’er wi’ salt,” he said, not touching the lectern, which had been fashioned out of a ship’s rudder and a rusted anchor, lashed together with rotting rope. He examined the strange, cracked cross with several deep breaths, being careful not to have contact with the icon made out of a ship’s wheel.

  “Salt?”

  A talisman to ward off evil.

  “The son was a fisherman. He drowned some weeks past.” Rory’s voice had to fight to reach her. The oppression was thickening, darkening, closing in around her, and it swallowed light and sound. “Old John thinks that the People took him, but he’s wrong. All we did was bring the body home.”

  “Why?” Hexy cleared her throat and put a hand to her temples, trying to keep the fear at bay and to make sense of what Rory was saying. “Why does he think that your people took him?”

  “The son had a red nose and the marks of what looked like needle teeth upon it,” Rory answered, gazing up at the fishnet. Clearly disturbed at the instrument of murder, he was careful not to step beneath it.

  Hexy stared at him, trying to create order of his gibberish. “What? What has that to do with anything?”

  Rory glanced at her assessingly. “Ye ken the answer tae that, down inside, don’t ye, lass?” he suggested. “Look inside yerself and tell me what ye feel.”

  Hexy began to back toward the door. Rory’s word were strange and frightening, and the hostile atmosphere was overcoming courage and reason. Her brain was not functioning as it should, but she knew that she couldn’t stay in the tiny chapel any longer. Something there hated her, hated all women. Something not dead but still full of death.

  “I didnae think on the body’s state at the time. Sae many things might have been at it. But now, wi’ Wrathdrum awake…” Rory’s voice faded in and out of hearing.

  “Rory?” Her voice was weak. “I have to go outside. Now. You should leave, too. It isn’t safe here. Something is very, very wrong with this island.”

  “Aye, lass, it is far wrong. But ye needn’t fret so. I ken this taint. And I fear that John may have the right of it, though he’s wrong in blamin’ the People for what happened tae his son.”

  “Rory, please! Come away.” Hexy forced herself to stop at the doorway. By turning her head, she could see the sun outside and breathe the clean air. This was enough to keep panic at bay for a few moments more. “What do you mean he blames the people? Are you saying that someone actually drowned John’s son?”

  “Aye, I fear sae. I believe he was wrapped in that very net and left tae the sea. It smells of a shroud. And this whole place has the stench of the finmen aboot it.”

  “Finmen?” A sudden image, dark and horrifying, bloomed in her head. It was another part of some half-recalled nightmare. Knowing it was a completely irrational question she still heard herself ask, “Like mermaids? Rory, is it…You are saying that the old legends are real, aren’t you? That’s what you were hinting at last night.”

  “Aye, of course I am. These are evil creatures, though, not like the People. They are the sorcerers of the sea come over eons past frae Norway. They’ve been moving down frae Hildaland, making a new kingdom in Wrathdrum.” His voice faded further as he peered behind the altar. “I right pity their womenfolk and cannae blame them for trying to escape their fate by lying with mortal men. But many a time it leads tae trouble.”

  Hexy turned her head, fighting tense neck muscles all the way. Rory was walking toward her, growing larger and brighter as the gloom surrendered its hold on him. She was both fascinated and afraid. He still did not look as he usually did.

  The disparate impulses to touch him but also to flee warred within her.

  “What fate? What happens to the mermaids?” Then, with a touch of ridiculous concern: “Are they truly as pretty as the legends say?”

  “Aye. They are bonny creatures, even if ’tis all alchemy,” Rory answered, stepping up beside her. He took her arm and carefully led her outside into the sun. Pulling her from the darkness seemed to require an effort, so strong and binding was the morass around them. “Frae their eighteenth year, until the nineteenth, they are the loveliest of all the sea creatures. But each year after that, unless they are mated to a human mortal, they grow more ugly, until at the end of five years they are aged and misshapen like ancient crones. It is then that their fathers give them to other finmen as wives. Most finmen chain their daughters up in caves to wait for the transformation. And most finwives defy their husbands and try to hide their daughters away the moment they are born.”

  His words were nonsense. This was insanity. Or perhaps a dream. She had fallen asleep in the boat and was having a nightmare. She would wake up soon and laugh at herself.

  “It doesn’t sound like they have a happy civilization. Why don’t the women just run away?” Hexy asked as she leaned over, putting her hands on her knees and taking cleansing breaths of sea air deep into her lungs. She coughed weakly. She hoped that she would wake up soon.

  Rory’s hands caressed her hair, their touch gentle and soothing, though she sensed his underlying impatience with her confusion.

  “Where would they run? They are helpless and hunted by finmen and superstitious humans alike—a situation that suits the sorcerers well. Are ye well, lass?”

  “No, I am not well. I am dreaming,” Hexy snapped. “I don’t feel right at all. I want to wake up.”

  “Aye, lass, I am sure that ye dae wish tae be yerself again. But this is nae dream.” Rory’s touch continued to be gentle. “And ye will feel better soon. But fer now ye are in a place of inbetweenity. Don’t fight it. Ride it as ye would a current. The longer ye go on thinking that it is just a dream, the longer ye shall suffer.”

  Hexy rubbed her face and tried to wake up. It didn’t work. Next, she tried to think. Perhaps she would awaken if she solved the riddle of her dream. And the riddle appeared to be discovering what had happened to John’s son.

  “So you are saying that it is these creatures, these sorcerers, who killed John’s son? But why? Was he trying to run off with a mermaid?”

  “I cannae say what the lad did tae earn their enmity. It may be that they simply wanted a soul for some new alchemy and he was nearby.”

  Hexy straightened, resolved to find the answer to this conundrum.

  “Well then, we must—what do you mean alchemy?” She stared at Rory, appalled, as his words finally sank into her brain and received recognition. “Are you saying that they can actually, truly steal someone’s soul? But they can’t, can they? No one can do that. Not even the devil can take a soul without consent.”

  “It is just legend, you ken, but it is said that they collect souls and keep them in upended pots down in dark grottoes in Wrathdrum. They use them up a bit at a time in their magic spells.”

  Like eye of newt or tongue of bat.

  “But that is—that isn’t possible.” Hexy added helplessly as the image of her brother again rose in her mind, “I truly am dreaming, aren’t I? Please say that I am.”

  Rory shook his head and took her hand, spreading her fingers so the scars showed.

  “This is nae dream, lass. Ye ken what and who ye are. Ye know me as well. Yer kind and mine have met before. When ye are ready tae recall it, then ye’ll pass out of inbetweenity.”

  Hexy shook her head.

  “No.” But even as she voiced the denial, a vision, something almost like a memory floated up inside her brain. She had lived once in the sea, been part of its tidal rhythms. She took back her hand and went on weakly, “In any event, I have never heard of these soul-stealing finmen.”

  “Nae many people hae heard of them
. They are an ancient race of sorcerers. At the time of yer King Solomon, before the Other People were called the Tylwyth Teg and had abodes on the River Jordan and in the places that would become Rome, these creatures were living in icy caves practicing necromancies. All fear them and leave them be. Who knows what they can truly dae?”

  Hexy was shaken, half-believing his words against all common sense.

  “And John believes that this is what has happened to his son?” She added in a whisper, “That poor man! No wonder he has gone mad.”

  “Aye, this is most likely what he believes. Only he blames the People for it, not the finmen.”

  Hexy wondered why he kept saying the people, instead of my people, but she left the question unasked. She knew that she was not ready to hear his answer.

  “Then we must find him and somehow explain the situation,” Hexy said resolutely. “It is the first thing we have to do. This—this whole thing must stop before someone is hurt.”

  “Aye, lass. But we cannae find him,” he said patiently. “The People have been searching. We’ve sent word all the way south tae our kin in Aberystwyth tae watch for him. But tae no avail.”

  He waited a moment and then asked, “Dae ye sense where he is?”

  “No,” Hexy denied, not even bothering to look inside her turmoiled brain for an answer to this question. Instead she asked back, “Aberystwyth? Where is that?”

  “Ceredigian at Cardigan Bay—at the confluence of Ystwyth and Rheidol.”

  Hexy gave up trying to understand Rory’s watery geography. Even that was apparently beyond her. “Well, we’ll have to look eastward, too, on land,” she said resolutely.

  “Aye, and we are. But, lass, ye must consider the fact that even if we find him, he willnae necessarily believe us. Even ye dae not believe me.”

  She could understand John not believing. Rory was right; she didn’t entirely accept it as true either. No sane person could believe in such things. Even her grandfather and brother had not talked so matter-of-factly about their belief in legends.

  “But what else can we do?” Hexy pulled her windblown hair back off her face. The sun was shining, but she still felt cold, stranded in some stormy, winter nightmare. She wanted to go to Rory, yet was now somewhat afraid—not of what he might do, for he was always gentle with her, but of what he might say.

  “Either we stop John before he hurts one of the People—”

  “You mean kill him, don’t you?” she accused. “But he isn’t in his right mind, Rory. He can’t be.”

  Rory looked grim but answered straightly. “ ’Tis that, or someone maun gae tae the finfolk and get that soul back for John. If it isnae tae late already.”

  “Too late?”

  Rory spread his hands in one of his odd gestures, which she did not entirely comprehend.

  “They may have taken old John as well,” he said after a long moment. Then he shook his head and let his arms fall. “We maun start the search for the furrier’s body at sea. It’ll be in the north, where the finmen live, if it is anywhere about.”

  “No.” Hexy shook her head. It was a contradiction to her stated belief that none of this was real, but she still strove to apply logic. “I know what you are thinking and you can’t even consider going. We don’t have conclusive proof that this is what has happened. There could be a dozen other explanations.”

  “Nae, not a dozen. I cannae think of even one. The evidence is highly suggestive, lass, if ye ken what tae look fer. The finfolk never come this far south unless they are after something.”

  “But—”

  “And I’ve nae choice about this task. ’Tis my duty tae keep the People safe. I am the grandson of King Lachlann. And tae argue against my duty is pointless, a waste of breath,” he warned her.

  “If you mean that it is pointless to argue with you, then I disagree. You aren’t stupid. You must see reason. If what you are suggesting is true, if you really are…”

  “A selkie,” he said, his tone soft but insistent. “That is what I am, Hexy lass, what the People are. It is what your people—”

  Hexy swallowed and clapped her hands to her ears. It didn’t seem possible that she could hold two contradictory beliefs in mind at the same time, but somehow she did.

  “If that is true—” she interrupted, not wanting to hear any more.

  “It is.”

  “Then you can’t go. You haven’t even got your skin. Selkies need their skins. Don’t they? How could you manage this journey?”

  “I shall have it aen the morrow or the day after. That is what the MacKenzie’s widow said, is it not?”

  Hexy dropped her gaze while she wondered wildly about intercepting Jillian’s package and hiding Rory’s fur from him. Not that she believed that he would put on the coat and become a seal, but…

  “Lass.” Rory tucked a hand beneath her chin and urged her to look up. He stared into her eyes and then shook his head, smiling slightly. “Ye lie horribly, and plot even more ill. Yer of the MacNicol blood. I feel it. Ye cannae lie tae me.”

  “I can lie if I want to,” she objected, but without force. It was hard to utter the words with Rory staring down at her. “And I’m not a Macni-Col or whatever you said.”

  “Ye are a MacNicol and ye cannae lie. Not tae me. Stop fighting it. Stop fighting me.” He shook her once. “Our kind hae always found each other, lass. Think now! Ye’ve awakened. Ye cannae bear the scent or touch of yew. The land salt is now poison tae ye. Hexy, accept this. ’Twill be easier for ye if ye dae not fight me all the way.”

  “I can’t think about this now.” Hexy put a hand to her head where her temples had begun to pound. “Let’s stay with the problem of the missing John. It is the most urgent. If you go off to hunt him, then I want to come with you.”

  “Nay. ’Tis dangerous. Yer nae ready yet,” he argued immediately. “The oceans would freeze yer fair skin. Those northern rocks would score yer flesh and break yer bones when the waves battered ye against them.” He went on before she could speak: “I am touched that ye wish tae help us, lass, and I tell ye true that I value yer kind heart more than gold or gems, but it is tae dangerous a quest for ye. For any woman.”

  He didn’t add that he could not risk having the finmen steal her soul as well, but it was understood.

  But whatever the risks she could not let him go there alone. “But Rory—”

  “Yer tae important tae the People,” he said with finality. “Yer the first MacNicol female tae be seen in a hundred of yer years. Ye cannae be risked in this endeavor.”

  “But—” she tried again.

  He leaned down, touching his lips to her mouth, nose resting against nose where he could inhale her breath. His kiss felt natural but exotic and foreign. And it was beguiling. Much of her alarm faded away under its influence.

  Hexy slowly lifted her hands and touched Rory’s arms. The musculature beneath her fingers was different, stronger and more flexible than a normal man’s would be.

  And he felt that way because he was strong, she reminded herself, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed close to his warmth. “You are a stubborn, gallant idiot,” she murmured, not worrying about wounding his feelings. Her dream man had a robust ego and was probably insane. He would recover from anything she said.

  “Aye, but ye love me anyway.” He shivered as she caressed his nape.

  Love him? Did she?

  Hexy didn’t answer with words since she did not know what to say. Instead she kissed him again, absorbing more of the enchanting narcotic that he offered.

  Rory allowed her to tempt him, but finally broke the kiss when his body began to be aroused. He buried his face in her hair. His hands were gentle as they traced down her back, kneading as they traveled.

  “Come away, Hexy lass.” Rory’s voice was thick. “We’ll take yer feast tae another isle and have a lay down in the sun. If yer a good lass, mayhap I’ll sing ye a song about yer ancestors.”

  Hexy was more than amenable to this sugg
estion, but first there was something she needed to do. It was rank superstition, but somehow it felt right. She picked up a stray stick and wrote in the crusted sand: DCLXVI.

  “What does this mean?” Rory asked, frowning at the Roman numerals.

  “It’s a warning to anyone who happens upon this island,” Hexy answered, dropping the waterlogged branch back onto the beach. “I don’t think that any of this nonsense is really true. But in case it is, they should know that this is the lair of the Beast.”

  “The Beast?”

  Hexy quoted Yeats:

  The darkness drops again; but now I know

  That twenty centuries of stony sleep

  Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

  And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

  Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

  “I ken yer meaning,” Rory said after a moment.

  “If any of this is true, then I don’t think the Beast is slouching toward Bethlehem anymore. We need to be very careful.”

  Rory nodded. “Aye, and I am thinking that I cannae leave until I am sure that my task here is done. We maun be assured of survival before I gae,” he said softly.

  For some reason, these words made her shiver.

  Rory rubbed warm, smooth hands over her arms. His touch, though, was more arousing than soothing. She suspected that he intended it that way.

  “I ken that ye did not mean the summoning, sae I’ll not take ye against yer will, but ye’ll come tae me soon, won’t ye, lass?” he asked her, suddenly picking her up and walking toward their boat. His eyes were bright as they met hers. “It’s been a hundred years since one of yer kind has made love tae one of us. Four hundred seasons.”

  Hexy closed her eyes, overcome with dizziness and a sort of thrilling terror. “I’m dreaming,” she reassured herself. “There is no reason to be frightened.”

  “Certainly ye’ve nae reason tae be frightened of me here and now,” Rory murmured. “But I tell ye true, Hexy lass, this is nae dream. I suspect ye’ll realize it soon enough.”