The Scottish Selkie

by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

“I never knew it would come to love,” Kenneth smirked. Cousin Kenneth was far too clever. First he stole Malcolm's pelt. Now, he’d managed to uncover Malcolm's feelings about Bethoc.

  “You are daft, she has but charmed me. Is it not said that Pict women are hot blooded and know how to enchant a man?”

  Malcolm had to keep his true feelings hidden from Bethoc. He couldn't saddle her to a life with a beast for a husband.

  “The Pict princess has served me well and will forever be under my protection,” Kenneth vowed with full sincerity as he peered directly at Malcolm.

  “She will marry a man of her choosing once I return to the sea.” Yet I will not have her with some man who would mistreat her or cherish her not. If I was fully human, I would stay here with my Bethoc and love her until my mortal life ended. “But Kenneth, keep the fools and ruffians away.”

  “That I will.” Kenneth pointed his russet head at Father Degnan, who had left Bethoc and headed toward them. “The good priest cometh.”

  “Good day, King Kenneth.” Father Degnan turned to Malcolm. “Your lady has saddled your mounts and is guarding the wagon.” The priest's eyebrows arched. “She asked many questions? She wanted to know of a land with no women.”

  “In truth, a strange question.” Malcolm steeled his features to an expressionless front.

  Father Degnan looked squarely at Malcolm. “I told her I had never heard of a place without women.”

  “My thanks, Father.” The priest knew his secret, Malcolm could tell. After all, Malcolm drowned at sea then showed up at Dalriada a year later, alive and unharmed. Likely all knew, all but Bethoc, though the little Pict tried her best to uncover the truth.

  Father Degnan smiled. “It is time you and I brought forth the sacred Stone of Destiny.”

  Malcolm nodded to the priest. As he headed to the abbey, he heard father Degnan's steady footfalls behind him. Malcolm entered the stone chapel with its gray cast walls, and dim candlelight which couldn't chase away the dampness. Turning a corner, he walked into the chamber where the stone lay. Though a dank smell clung to the air, Malcolm felt a surge of warmth in his chest as he was drawn to the sacred rock. He stepped forward as if in a trance.

  Malcolm cupped his forehead as his mind was flooded with a dawning realization. He gasped, struck with the obvious solution which had eluded him for so long. How could he not have realized this before? The stone had the power to guide him to his most precious possession, his hide.

  Malcolm stretched his arms into the air and evoking the powers of old, he called out to the Stone of Destiny, “Great and powerful La Fail, speaking stone, bespeak to me. Descry the place where my pelt now lies.” The warm glow inside him changed to a burning heat.

  Father Degnan came up from behind. “Malcolm?”

  Ignoring the priest, he gazed intently at the stone, visualizing his most precious possession.

  “Lord Malcolm, Lady Bethoc awaits,” Father Degnan said in a concerned tone.

  Malcolm's flesh tingled as his pelt called out, trying to draw him to the hiding place. In one moment he would know where it lay.

  “Malcolm,” the priest called a third time.

  Malcolm was startled by Father Degnan's unusually loud tone. Curses, he lost his connection to the stone. Ah, it was for the best. The thought of being without Bethoc was like being trapped in a deep well, unable to climb out. No, I cannot leave her, yet. I can wait for Kenneth to return my pelt, we will be in Scone soon enough. Too soon.

  “Father Degnan it is naught. I was gathering my thoughts. As you say, my lady awaits.” Malcolm feigned a grin to hide his sadness. Soon he would regain his precious possession but lose the woman he loved…unless she would join him in the sea.

  But no, that was madness. There was but one way to take on the life of his kind, and that was to lose your human life. To drown as he did, and be given another chance at life through shape shifting. Bethoc would have to drown. She would need to die before becoming a creature of sea and land. It was more than madness. He would not have her make that choice. Malcolm could not ask her to sacrifice her life. He had to let her go. Somehow.

  He lifted the sacred stone and placed it in the chest on the floor of the abbey. He bore it to the wagon as Father Degnan followed. The center of Malcolm's body swirled with warmth and vigor from merely holding the chest containing the stone. Such power. He felt a surge of pride in being chosen as the one to bring the Jewel of Destiny to Scone.

  Reverently, he laid the chest in the wagon. It was the final service he would perform for Kenneth, his king. Soon, he’d return to the sea and roam free in a wild world, which no man ruled.

  Father Degnan climbed up into the wagon seat and grabbed the reins as the four horses pranced and snorted.

  Malcolm walked over to Bethoc who stood by her mount. He admired the sheen on Bethoc's long dark, brownish-red hair and the gleam in her emerald eyes. His body tensed and swelled with need for her. Cupping his hands beneath her horse's belly, he helped her mount. His skin burned with desire to touch her. After placing her foot in his hand, Bethoc swung her long leg over the saddle and straddled the stallion.

  “Stay close.” Malcolm wanted her exceedingly close to his side.

  He took a deep breath, walked to his mount, and vaulted onto the black steed. With his taut muscular thighs, Malcolm guided his horse on one side of the wagon while Bethoc rode on the other. Between them, Father Degnan drove the roughly hewn wagon carrying a priceless treasure, an old stone, the La Fail.

  Malcolm sat high on his horse and kept his hand on the hilt of the sword belted at his side as he gazed at the rugged land. He would make sure no one would take the stone from the Scots of Dalriada.

  The horses neighed as the wagon moved along with a rickety sound. Malcolm noticed Bethoc coughed in a choking type manner now and then. Something in the air irritated her throat. It was summer and so many plants blossomed now, he had no doubt one of them was the cause. When they stopped to camp, he’d see that the healer prepared a concoction for her with whatever herbs cured that common malady.

  Malcolm had been on watch all day as they rode across the green countryside. He spotted nothing unusual. Yet, he couldn't put the image of the footprint, in the moist soil of the creek bank, out of his mind.

  At dusk, Kenneth gave the order to camp. Everyone including Father Degnan, Malcolm, and Bethoc reined their horses to a halt. As Bethoc vaulted off her saddle, she heard the clinking sound of many men unharnessing their steeds. Bethoc petted her stallion gently before leaving the horse to crop under the glow of the silver moon.

  * * * *

  Bethoc kicked off her shoes, lay back on the grass, and breathed in the fresh air. Whatever had been bothering her throat earlier, making it feel clogged with dust, was not annoying her now. With slow, long breaths she filled her lungs with the sweet smelling air of the Scottish countryside, mixed with the aroma of a wood fire, and roasting meat.

  Malcolm had gone to fetch some ale from the wagon, and Father Degnan was turning a spitted hare over the crackling fire.

  There in the quiet of the still night, Bethoc picked up a twig and absently twisted it in her hands. He journeys to a land with no women. What does he mean? That he does not love me.

  Bethoc heard a loud pop and realized she had broken the twig. It had been fairly thick, yet she snapped it in two at just the thought of Malcolm leaving. I must prevail upon someone to tell me what this is all about. But who? A friend. Riona?

  Bethoc rose. “Father Degnan, I need to stretch my legs with a walk around the camp, I shall be back forthwith.”

  The priest glanced at her bare feet, then shrugged and mumbled, “Yes lass.”

  Bethoc wandered through the camp, glancing from one campfire to the next, seeking out the one person who might divulge Malcolm's secret. Upon seeing Riona and Fergus, she halted. After taking a deep breath, Bethoc walked up to the steward and his daughter who sat beside the crackling flames of a small fire, while Oengus pitched an oilskin tent near
by.

  “Good eve, Riona.” Bethoc smiled at the girl and nodded her head toward the tent Oengus had just finished setting up. “Might I have a word with you?”

  “Yes, m'lady.” Riona rose and followed Bethoc into the small tent for privacy.

  A sudden shyness filled Bethoc at the thought of asking intimate question about Malcolm's’ life, but she had to know. Bethoc leaned closer. “You have lived in Dalriada all your life and you know the people well.”

  “In truth.” Riona smiled hesitantly as if she was wondering where this was headed.

  “What can you tell me of Malcolm afore I met him?”

  “I was but a child when he left us.” A puzzled look filled Riona's face. “It is said Kenneth and Malcolm were young, neither more than ten and five turns of the year when it happened.”

  Bethoc didn't have a clue of what Riona spoke of, but she felt it best to play along. “Yes, I know what you speak of, Malcolm told me.”

  “He did? Oh, ‘tis good. Then you ken why we could not tell you. It was up to Malcolm. Moreover, no one likes to anger a creature of the fey. It was his right to choose if he would tell you or not.”

  “Yes. Albeit, I wish to ken what it was like for Malcolm. Can you tell me what was said at the time?”

  “Everyone said he had gone to the bottom of the sea, to dwell with the dark ones.”

  “The dark ones?”

  “Yes.” Riona's features scrunched up into a look of puzzlement then suddenly her face grew red in anger. “You said you knew!”

  Bethoc swallowed. “He told me of a land with no women. But it makes no sense. And you tell me he drowned and went to live with the dark ones.”

  “I can say no more.”

  “Riona you must. I am his wife. I have a right to know. You are my friend. In truth, I would not keep such a secret from you if it was the other way around.”

  “I do not think you would.” After a long pause she said, “I shall tell you.” Riona scraped her upper teeth across her bottom lip and gazed off as if deep in thought “It was when Malcolm and Kenneth were lads, but ten and five years of age, they went fishing in a small coracle during a mighty storm. They say Kenneth's planned to cast off during the gale, so he could fill his net with a bounty of fish. As the heir of Dalriada, Kenneth was always looking for ways to prove to his father what a good king he would be. In truth, I ken they both took off in the storm for the thrill of it.”

  Riona let out a deep sigh. “Happens, it was a sorrowful day. Great waves flipped the coracle over, and tossed both lads into the sea. On that day, Malcolm drowned.” Riona leaned closer and looked Bethoc squarely in the eyes. “Yet he came back to us, on a Samhain eve, nigh five years past. As hale and hardy as you see him now.”

  “What do you mean ... drowned?”

  “Until five years ago, he was dead to us. Killed in the storm, though his body was never found.”

  “Dead?” Shock flew through her. “Do you mean Malcolm is a ghost?”

  “No, he was not dead, I say he was dead to us." Riona lowered her voice to an intense whisper. “Think of what he told you. A land with no women. What type of land would that be?”

  Bethoc said the first thought which popped into her head. “A land with no men.”

  “Yes, but I have said too much. You best go now. It is for Malcolm to tell you more when he chooses.”

  “Riona what say you? If he drowned then someone saved him afore he died and he stayed with them till he was well enough to come back to Dalriada. Why do you think there is more to it? What are you not telling me?”

  “Please,” Riona said firmly. “You must go. I will speak of this no more.”

  Someone might as well have told her summer was cold and winter was hot, day dark and night bright. Bethoc walked out the tent more confused than before. Dead. Dark ones. Bethoc shook her head and stumbled over a large fallen branch she hadn't seen. After picking herself up, she shook the dirt off her tunic-dress. When she looked up, she noticed Malcolm seated at the campfire.

  Bethoc's breath went shallow as she recalled how her lips burnt when Malcolm crushed his mouth to hers. She brushed her finger across her lips and kept her eyes on her husband as she walked toward him. It was foolish, but she sensed she might figure out his secret if she looked at him hard enough.

  She knew Malcolm was no ghost. She’s seen last night how much of a flesh and blood man he was with his erection crammed deep inside her as she screamed with pleasure. Her mind relived the sensations of shuddering, burning with fire as she ground his phallus with her clenched inner muscles while he drove into her which such force he stole the breath from her lungs.

  Her breathing fell shallow and quick as she neared him for she couldn’t stop thinking of their bodies entwined. She eased down beside him on the ground and watched the flames flicker in the fire. She said nothing. She wasn't sure how to uncover the truth.

  Malcolm spoke only of how far they had ridden that day. Then he asked her about her home in Scone. Simple talk to pass the time as they ate and drank a round or two of ale.

  After draining the skin of ale dry, they both rose. Malcolm banked the fire, then spread their bratts on the feathery grass. She lay down and he stretched out beside her to sleep. Bethoc shut her eyes, but tossed and turned throughout the night, thinking of Malcolm's secret.

  ****

  Malcolm shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The sensation of tumbling down a bottomless well overcame him. No stopping, just falling until an unnatural quiet seized the air. Everything came to a halt, all sounds, all movement ceased. Mist swirled around him. Malcolm bobbed his head above water. Pointing his wet nose up at the white moon, his cold, whiskered face basked in its soft glow. Briny waves rippled across his dark sealskin as he glided onward.

  In dreamtime, it had only been a year since his transformation. Malcolm had put aside his old human life, until at ten and six turns of the year, when the feasting and revelry of Samhain called to him. At sixteen he planned to have fun for one night as a lusty lad, flirting with young maidens around hot bonfires.

  As his fin touched the shore, he looked up at the full moon. His spirit absorbed its power as he freed his body, to stretch, pull, and change. He breathed deeply, becoming more and more relaxed. His human body shifted into place. A tinge of pain cut into his marrow at the final stage of transformation. He let out a deep grunt and shed the sealskin from his body.

  Malcolm stood on the sandy shore, with two legs rather than fins, human once more. He grabbed his pelt and folded it with a ritual air. If any harm came to his roan skin, he would die. Stretching his legs, he walked across the rugged shore to a large rock dusted with sand. With more than human strength, Malcolm pushed the rock aside. With his bare hands, he scooped up the moist sand and dug a hole in which he laid his pelt. After sliding the rock back, he picked up a small stone with which he scratched a mark on the boulder, so he would find his way back to his most precious belonging, his only belonging, his selkie skin.

  It was Samhain, and intending to have fun as any young man would, Malcolm headed toward the village. At first sight of a man approaching him, he wanted to run. But Malcolm kept his feet firmly on the sand and looked closely at the tall, muscular warrior walking toward him.

  A surge of relief shot through Malcolm. “Kenneth?” He reached out and embraced his cousin.

  “Greetings.” The lines of Kenneth's lips and brows reflected shock and puzzlement.

  Malcolm stepped back and took in the changes a year had wrought in Kenneth. His cousin was a bit taller and more muscular, but in other ways he hadn't changed. He noticed Kenneth clutched a wad of clothes to his chest.

  “Yes. I am glad to meet up with you anew.” With his free hand, Kenneth gave Malcolm a hardy pat on the back. “It has been a long time, cousin. Glad I am to see you hail and hardy,” he said in a jubilant tone. “I blacked out and by some means washed ashore. When I came to, a seal stood over me. Its eyes were your eyes.”

  “I remember.�
�

  “Do you forgive me for not saving you?”

  “You could not save me, cousin. It was the selkies who saved you. You were still alive when they came upon us. I was not.”

  The gleam flickered out of Kenneth's green eyes as they widened and seemed to droop with sadness. “Yes. I hoped you had transformed. Old Fergus told me the seal I saw was a selkie.” He looked past Malcolm as if watching someone further back on shore.

  A feeling of foreboding crept over Malcolm. Then Kenneth redirected his gaze.

  “You live. It is all I hoped for.” The gleam returned to Kenneth's eyes as he grinned and clasped Malcolm on his upper arm.

  “It s good to be back.”

  “Much has happened since you left.” Kenneth paused as if the next words were difficult for him. “I have doleful tidings.”

  “What say you?”

  “First, a boon to bestow. I recall the legends say selkies transform on Samhain, so I thought you might be visiting us.” He handed him the bundle of clothes. “I brought these.”

  “My thanks. I knew not how I would explain my lack of attire,” Malcolm said as he pulled on his braies. “Tell me of these doleful tidings, cousin.” He pulled the tunic over his head. It felt strange to have clothes against his body. He wanted to strip them off.

  “Malcolm, both our sires lie dead at the hands of Picts.”

  “What say you?”

  “It is worse. Their heads are hanging from the wall of Scone as we speak. They were slain in battle with the Picts. Our war band was outnumbered.”

  “No.” Malcolm's knees went as soft as a jellyfish. “Da? My da is dead?” He spread his legs and braced his feet, to stop from tumbling to the ground. “Da, dead. No it cannot be.” Malcolm could hardly breathe. It was as if he was drowning again, though he stood on land.

  “Yes, it is true, but there are good tidings with the bad,” Kenneth said with a gleam of purpose in his eyes.

  “What tidings?”

  “Well, the Picts had no time to celebrate victory over us. After our battle, Vikings attacked, and slew the King of the Picts and his bravest warriors.”