The Seal Queen

by Sandra Saidak

  It was only cold and thirst that made her stop. She gathered up her clothes, but did not put them back on.

  She walked toward the west, since the going was smoother and less rocky that way.

  She had not gone far when she came to a thin ribbon of fresh water. It bubbled down from the cliffs, ran across the beach, and then merged with the salt water of the sea. Briah drank her fill. Then, hanging her clothes and boots on some of the rocks that jutted into the surf, she beat them with some smooth rocks she found in the sand. Next, she carried them back toward the cliff, where the freshwater danced and dropped in small cascades. Rinsing the laundry was not easy, for space was cramped, and conditions were not designed for bare feet.

  But at last, Briah was satisfied. She wrung out the clothes and spread them to dry at the base of the cliff, where the sun shone fully. After weighting them down with rocks, Briah decided to explore further. But not without clothes. The late autumn cold had finally penetrated her euphoria. With nearly numb fingers, she untied her bundle, and wrapped herself in the drier of the two blankets. Stowing the few remaining scraps of food and her flints in the other blanket, Briah picked up her one knife and headed down the beach.

  The shore was rocky, so she stayed near the surf, where the sand was gentle on her bare feet. Without realizing it, Briah began to walk in step with the surge and slap of the waves. She felt a sense of peace she had never before known. Perhaps that was what gave her the courage to keep walking in this strange place, looking for who knew what.

  Well, at least a part of her knew what to look for. While she never stopped to pick up anything, Briah noted many practical details. There was driftwood on this beach, and she was quick to notice which pieces were the driest and smallest. Tiny holes in the sand told of shellfish, and bits of kelp and seaweed reminded her of the many dishes she could cook with them. Without fully waking from her rapture, Briah began to plan.

  She was starting to think about turning back when she came to a cliff which jutted into the waves, blocking her path. But a string of boulders rose from the water like stepping stones, and Briah was curious. She made her way over them between waves, jumped down into the sand—and stopped short.

  Before her now, the cliff curved inward in a U shape. Briah stepped forward and felt the wind stop as if cut with a knife. Trudging upward on dry sand, she made her way to the back. Niches and tunnels marked the stone of the cliff. And tucked into the eastern wall, under an overhang, was a niche deep enough to call a cave. Ferns and moss hung low over the entrance. Inside it was snug and dry. Nothing but sand and stone, in a place about twenty paces by twelve, protected from the elements, overlooking the endless sea.

  A place to hide. A place to live. A place to give birth.

  For the first time in a long while, Briah began to believe in gods. She wasn’t sure who they were; she was, in fact, fairly certain that these were no gods she had ever heard of, even from Gresta, but she thanked them just the same.

  Hurrying back for her possessions, Briah dressed quickly, then headed back to the protected cove. The second trip was much slower, for she stopped to gather wood and dig for food.

  She found a few oysters, and so many mussels that her heart soared while her mouth watered. There were no clams as such, but she found the miniature versions Gresta had called cockles. Sighing, Briah started to move on, since Nisa and Gresta had made it clear that the tiny morsels were a waste of time. Then it hit her: Nisa wasn’t here. Gresta wasn’t here. Briah’s time was her own now. If she wanted to spend all day digging shells that would barely yield one meal, she could do it. She really could!

  The sun was high overhead and Briah’s back and arms were aching and knotted when she finally stood up and stretched. At her feet were two handfuls of oysters and mussels—and nearly three of tiny cockles. “Mine!” she shouted to the sky, which was now clouding over. Wishing she had a proper basket, Briah scooped her treasure into her blanket. It was awkward, carrying the bundle under one arm, while constantly bending over to get wood to carry under the other. By the time she reached the cove, her back ached fiercely and her calves were nearly too stiff too maneuver the stepping-stones.

  For a frightening moment, Briah feared the lovely, sheltered cove was a trick of malicious spirits or her own desperate longing. But when she rounded the cliff, it was still there, as peaceful and inviting as the first time.

  Briah stepped under the ledge, and knew she was home.

  CHAPTER 7

  Surprising, Briah reflected later, just how much she accomplished that first day. Setting up the hearth was a significant beginning. More than claiming the spot as her territory, the simple ring of pebbles and the burning driftwood within it symbolized home and permanence.

  After she got the fire going, Briah set herself to cracking open the oysters, more carefully than she had in Finool, since she wanted the shells. The oysters she ate raw, with great enjoyment. The rest she cooked by tossing them into the crackling fire. After a time, Briah rolled them out with a stick, let them cool, then set about cracking open shells and devouring each and every morsel. The cockles, she discovered were well worth the trouble. Tender and juicy, they were much tastier than the clams she was used to.

  She was so full at the end of the meal that the moldy bread and last wrinkled apple she had taken from Donal’s House of Pleasure held no appeal. Grinning at a sudden scandalous whim, Briah grabbed the food, and flung it toward the water. Most of it landed on the sand, where it caused a frenzy among the gulls. She watched the birds with pleasure, wishing she could fling away the clothes and sheepskin as well, and fully sever her ties with her old life. But she couldn’t afford to do that—not yet at least.

  After a trip to the little stream where she drank her fill, Briah returned to her new home and gratefully sank down beside the fire. A brilliant sunset painted the western sky to her right, spilling color into the water that touched the horizon. When the colors faded, darkness crept in, and Briah decided it was time to sleep. Spreading the woolen blanket over a section of smooth sand, she stretched out, shifting until comfortable, then pulled the sheepskin over her. Lying on her back, feeling her unborn child swimming within her, its pressure truly pleasant for the first time, Briah began to imagine the future.

  Her body was exhausted but her mind was still active. I’ll need to gather more shellfish, she thought. And find a way to preserve some. I’ll need baskets, and a net to catch fish. There were canes or reeds of some kind growing on the cliff. I’ll gather some tomorrow. Maybe I could learn to fish with a hook and line, if a net doesn’t work. I could make hooks from shells, but how do I make a line?

  Those shells will be useful, even if I don’t need hooks. I can make scrapers, even knives. And spoons for stew—I guess that means I’ll need something to make a stew pot with. Leather would work, if I could find any. Maybe clay?

  There seemed to be plenty of food available, but she lacked the materials to gather, store and preserve it. I’ll need to get ready for the baby as well. A cradle and a fur. Food stored so I won’t have to forage for a few days. Healing herbs, if I can find them. Something to store water in...

  With these thoughts, Briah finally slept.

  ****

  She awoke with the sun the next morning. There was work to be done, but for a while, Briah just lay on her side, watching the waves, a little afraid that without someone to drive her from her bed with blows and curses, she might never get up. In the end, however, it was her full bladder that convinced her to move.

  After that, it was easy to keep moving. She went to the stream to drink and wash, then, surprised to find herself hungry after so much food the night before, Briah went to the shore for breakfast.

  It took longer to find shellfish this time, and she skipped the succulent cockles, in favor of the larger oysters and mussels. The remainder of the morning, Briah spent exploring the cliffs above her home. They were not very welcoming, and while she had scaled steep hills since she could walk, her swollen bell
y made her clumsy—and easily frightened. But when she spied a nest full of eggs, Briah forgot caution and climbed onward. Ignoring the angry scolding of the gulls, she gathered the eggs and broke them open, swallowing them right there. She meant to leave a few, but the taste of fresh, warm eggs was too much for her, and before she knew it, the nest was empty.

  Guiltily, Briah moved higher up. When she climbed as high as she could, she looked down and surveyed her new home. To the south the ocean met the sky in a hazy, blue gray line. East, the direction she had come from, the cliffs and beach stretched for about half a league, until the beach disappeared and the cliff jutted into the water, cutting off her view of the land. The water, however, continued unbroken. Westward the beach continued smoothly until it disappeared into a haze. Turning to the north, Briah saw what frightened her the most. Beyond the cliffs, the land dropped into grassy knolls and ridged lowlands. While she saw no smoke, she knew there would be farms and villages in that direction. Her beach was protected, but not impregnable. If Briah could climb here in her condition, then surely others could reach it from the other side. For now, she could only pray that they did not.

  With a sigh, Briah began stripping the high ground of every useful thing she could find. By noon, she was back in her hideout with stiff canes for baskets and nets, a lump of wet, red clay, three different types of edible plants and the rough bark of a willow tree. She had high hopes for all her finds, but it was the homely, starchy roots and bitter greens that made her the happiest. As nourishing as shellfish was, Briah needed more than what she dug from the surf.

  She found a comfortable spot on the beach, with a smooth bit of cliff to lean back on, and the tide just a dozen paces away. “It’s been a long time since I’ve turned reeds into cord or thatching,” she said to the foggy sky. “I hope I still remember how.”

  The canes were one to two feet in length and about a finger thick. Briah split them lengthwise with her thumbnail, and then repeated the process until each section was as thin as a blade of grass. Then she chewed them until they were flexible. Weaving the resulting strands into a basket should have been the easy part, except that her hands were raw and splintered and her mouth dry and bitter. Since she had nothing to carry water in, Briah gave up and moved the entire operation to the stream. It wasn’t as comfortable for sitting, but at least there was plenty to drink.

  By mid afternoon, she had completed one basket. Pleased with herself, Briah set about filling it with supper. Soon it was piled high with mussels, oysters, kelp—and a special treat in the form of a large dour-faced crab.

  After supper, Briah worked on turning her lump of clay into a water jug. After many patient attempts, she pitched the resulting mess into the water. The brilliant sunset, muted by the fog, calmed her frustration, and made her smile again.

  The water was growing dark, though color still lit the sky, when Briah took her first swim in the ocean. It was a little scary at first. She had been faster in the water than any of the girls back home, and could hold her breath longer than most of the boys. But a narrow stream was not the same as the endless moving water before her now. In the twilight, the ocean looked like a living, breathing thing, but it beckoned her, so Briah waded slowly in.

  She had only been in up to her thighs before. This time she continued until the water reached her waist. A wave rolled by and gently lifted her, setting her back down before she could become alarmed. With the next wave, Briah leaned into it, flexing her knees and landing in water up to her neck. She spat out warm, salty water and began to move backwards, noticing how lightly the child within her now rested. In the buoyant water, Briah could finally remember what it was like not to be pregnant. After a few more moments, she could even remember how a straight spine felt.

  Laughing now, she played in the water. She dove and turned, and began to modify strokes she already knew to fit this new environment.

  She swam as far as a large white-flecked rock that jutted from the sea about forty paces from the shore. It was only when she drew close that Briah saw a family of seals settling in for the night. Their mottled gray and brown fur blended neatly with the rock. Briah was thankful she saw them first, or else their friendly barks of greeting might have stopped her heart.

  She swam closer, surprised they did not all leap into the water and swim away, remembering the sailor who tried to kill one for its fur on her journey to this island. “Perhaps you have never before met one of my kind,” she said.

  The seals stayed where they were, so Briah swam closer until she could grasp the edge of the rock. She did not try to climb onto it, but only gazed at the seals with delight. Never had she been so close to living, untamed animals. A curious pup waddled closer to her, and Briah looked into his liquid brown eyes. How human they seemed! For a moment, she thought the pup was going to thrust his round black nose right into her tan one, but then an older female pushed forward and barked, and the pup melted back into the pack.

  Briah had a fleeting thought that a whole season’s worth of food and some of the richest, warmest furs in the world were right at her fingertips. Then another pup rolled onto its back and waved flippers at her, and she felt instantly ashamed.

  “Besides, I could never lie on seal fur again.” Unwanted, the memory of Lir’s stronghold crashed over her. Lir was a collector of every kind luxury that showed off his wealth, but his craving for seal fur was insatiable. He kept dozens of hunters well employed, and made many a merchant from the north very rich. And always, when he raped one of his child slaves, it was on a bed of seal fur. The smell and texture of the furs threatened to choke the woman who clung to the rock, so far in time and space from where it had happened.

  Then a fresh salty breeze brought her back to the present. Hardly knowing she was doing so, Briah reached out and touched the fur of the rheumy eyed female. It was soft and warm, not at all like the dead furs of her past. The matriarch endured the woman’s touch stoically, but soon the pups were crowding forward to be petted. Delighted, Briah played with them until the ocean chill began to penetrate her bones, and the stiffness returned to her back and belly.

  She barked a good-bye in the best impression of seal talk she could manage, and returned to shore.

  CHAPTER 8

  Over the next few days, Briah learned more about her new home. Most importantly, she learned how to live there, for the sea was a good teacher. The rhythm of the tides taught her the best times to look for shellfish. The morning fog and frequent rain taught her to wear her blankets tied over her tattered shift—and to be on the look out for a way to make new clothes.

  The sea provided Briah with food, shelter, fuel and the means to make nearly everything else she might need—except clothing. But she was far too busy in those early days to mind very much about her rags.

  Within the first half moon of her arrival, Briah collected a large supply of driftwood, as well as bracken, which dried beside the fire until it was ready to go in it. She created a variety of tools from shells, including knives, spoons and even a hair comb.

  She had added two more baskets to her growing collection. One was so tightly woven it could serve as a stew pot for the evening meal. When filled with water, hot stones could be added until the water boiled. Then fish, shellfish, roots and sea greens cooked into a tasty, salty meal. While not entirely waterproof, the cooking basket leaked slowly enough that very little stew was lost.

  The other basket was as yet unused, for it was intended as a cradle. Lovingly, Briah wove it from the strongest fibers she could find, making the bottom extra heavy so it would not tip over. She sang the charms the women of her village had sung while their men had carved sturdy wooden cradles from yew and oak. It seemed strange to be singing the songs of the eastern mountains here on this western shore, so far from everything she had known. Still, whatever forces ruled this place, they had already been kinder to Briah than her own gods had been these past four winters. She hoped their good will would continue, and include her baby.

  Despite th
e many things she had to do, Briah lingered over the cradle, watching the waves and hearing their songs as she worked. It was very soothing, and helped ease her fear of the birth that was to come. “I’ve seen lots of women give birth,” Briah told the ocean. “I helped my grandmother with two deliveries while I still lived at home, and three more in Lir’s stronghold. And I’ve heard many stories of women giving birth all by themselves.”

  But those stories didn’t sound very appealing now. Briah desperately wished for the comforting presence of other women to explain things to her. She wished for men who could provide meat, and hurl their spears at anyone who might threaten her or her child during the vulnerable time to come. But she was alone.

  When the cradle was finished, there were no warm furs to line it with, so she gathered the down of birds that she found when she raided their nests. Soon her baby’s future home was as snug and warm as its mother’s.

  Water was still a problem. After many attempts, Briah finally created a lopsided clay water jug that didn’t leak very much. But it made the water taste funny, and the mother to be knew she had to come up with something better.

  Five days after her arrival, Briah devised three small snares, and set them along the rabbit trails on the cliffs above her cave. She had helped her mother set them when she was younger, but there must be something she didn’t know, because day after day, Briah made the excruciating climb up the rocks, only to find the traps empty.

  She had better luck with the fishing net. Using the same fibers as for a basket, but a radically different technique, Briah made her first net. She had seen many of them in Finool, but had never had the chance to examine them closely. Yet her first attempt was surprisingly successful—and easy.

  It happened on a gray morning. Briah had a wide variety of cords and fibers spread out before her on the beach. The sea and the sky were such a perfectly matched shade of gray that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. No sun was visible, but the fog diffused the light in such a way that the waves shone with a dull glint, much as the sky should have. Briah had been trying to tie the cords into a large rectangle, hoping a net could be created the same way as cloth on a loom. When this didn’t work, she became as morose as the day around her. She was hungry. She was tired of shellfish. And if something didn’t change, there would be nothing to sustain her after the baby came.