The Scottish Selkie

by Cornelia Amiri (Celtic Romance Queen)

  Malcolm knelt down and stuck his head beneath her bed, searching for his pelt. He pulled out the dark hide and held it to his chest.

  He walked briskly with a purpose out of the palace and down to the stables. After saddling his horse, he kneed it into a gallop and rode toward the seashore.

  Upon nearing the roaring waves, he reined the horse in. Once he leapt off the steed, he slapped its haunches and it trotted back toward Scone. Malcolm stood alone on the sandy shore, scattered with dark rocks. He gazed transfixed at the roll and sway of the white foamed waves.

  The soft breeze laden with the scent of fish and sea wet his senses. He could not wait to climb into his sealskin. To run into the wilds of the sea and dive into the water's depths. To swim freely in the vast endless ocean.

  Still, he would give it all up for Bethoc. Howbeit, she did not want him. The harsh reality was becoming obvious to him. The Pict princess had no need of a selkie husband.

  Malcolm was on a mission greater than the quest for Seafire. He deemed the deep, dark, silent waters would offer him the peace needed to put aside all thoughts and dreams of Bethoc and return wholeheartedly to the sea.

  His muscles tightened with anger knowing he was not what Bethoc wanted. She already thought him less than a man for being a Scot. And now that she knew he was a selkie, she’d turned away from him. Well he did not need her.

  But, he couldn't lie to himself, as a warrior, a strategist, a skilled fighter, he wanted to battle for Bethoc's love. He was the king's champion. He could win any fight. He could even win this one.

  Standing on shore, Malcolm pulled off his tunic, unfastened his belt, and removed his braies and boots. He set the pile of clothes on the sand, out of the tides reach. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he laid the bronze case on top of his clothes.

  Nude except for the pouch he held, Malcolm gazed at the endless sea and the rising waves. Reaching into the pouch, he pulled out the gold chalice. The stem and bowl of the gleaming chalice were smooth and flawless in their craftsmanship. Manannan Mac Lir would be pleased.

  With the chalice in one hand and his sword in the other, Malcolm raised both his arms and called out, “Manannan Mac Lir, God of the Sea, I invoke your power. Watch over my path as I seek the healing Seafire.”

  He dropped his arms to his side, then tossed the gold chalice into the wind, and with both hands gripping the hilt of his sword, he lifted his blade into the air and whacked the golden goblet above his head. Severed in two pieces, both halves fell to the sand. Slain by Malcolm's blade, now marked as a gift to the God of the Sea, the chalice no longer belonged to mankind. He picked up the two halves of the chalice, one in each hand, and with a flick of both wrists tossed them to the rolling waves.

  “God of the sea, I thank you.”

  Having fulfilled the sacrifice to the old god, he picked his sheath off the sand and pushed his sword into it. Then he laid it on top his clothes and scooped up a handful of white sand to cover the garments. He set a black rock on top as a marker.

  Malcolm took a deep breath of salt air, filling his lungs. It was time. He unfolded his sealskin and slipped it over his human body. With his head held high, he shut his eyes and began transforming. From the nettle prick sensation in his fingers and toes, to the hot boiling feeling in his blood, his body, from muscles to bones, shifted as he changed from man to seal.

  A selkie with both flippers on the sand and his nose in the air, he barked to the whistling gale and the roaring waves. On webbed flippers, he slunk over to the pile of discarded clothes, picked up the pouch in his teeth, and pushed his head through the strap. Then he flexed his flippers, waddled into the sea, and swam into the water and the wild.

  With a splash, he cut through the white foamed waves and shot through the shallows and into the unfathomable depths of the dark sea. Fear for Bethoc's life was not on his mind as before for now she was safe.

  He knew somehow in his bones, as a selkie and as a man, she was his. As a sea bull in the water and a Scot warrior on land, he wanted her. What chance did Bethoc have? He would win her.

  The water was as cold as ice, but he loved it. He freely curled up, turning somersaults and back flips. Blowing bubbles. He would miss the sea. But he needed Bethoc so much more. She belonged with him and him with her.

  Malcolm glided past creatures who looked like mushrooms. Stems pushed up their domes then pulled back like the rods of butter churns. With numerous tentacles, they roped tiny creatures, pulled them in and devoured them. They had ravenous appetites. They never got full. Malcolm would never get enough of Bethoc. He would hunger for her forever.

  He glanced at the silver beaker-type creatures glowing in the water like stars twinkling the midnight sky. White sparkly sea bugs darted about. Malcolm noticed another shiny creature, so long and thin it looked like a bow. Quill like junctions ran down its entire length, tentacles to rope its prey. He swam on, past quaint, overly long and extremely thin fish.

  Malcolm came here for Father Degnan, to collect the seafire. Father Degnan would help him. He would tell Bethoc she should stay married to Malcolm. Yes, the priest would aid him.

  Malcolm passed gray porpoises and a shark, but no killer whales, thank the gods. He flapped his fins up and down and sped through the water past a school of fat striped fish.

  His thoughts returned to Bethoc, such a stubborn woman when she wanted to be, he began to lose his confidence in winning her back. She wouldn’t stay with him because a priest told her to or because he wanted it. If she had made up her mind to cast him aside then no one could change her mind. So be it.

  Diving deeper and deeper, he spotted a sea glade. Crabs ran across the sea floor even at this depth. Malcolm's chest tingled. He saw it. Once more luck was with him; he had found the rare purple crustacean.

  Placing his flippers on either side, he concentrated on his task. When flipping over the purple sea creature, he could so easily hit a poisonous spike. Malcolm could die without Bethoc even knowing what happened to him.

  He stared at the purple crustacean and turned it over. Upon placing the magic plant safely in his pouch, Malcolm sliced through the water as fast as he could travel, gliding upwards to the surface. Once again he had avoided the poisonous spikes of the seafire. Yet he had to deal with his torn heart.

  Malcolm anguished as he glided beside long, silver porpoises. He didn’t feel the chill of the water as humans did but a numbing ache filled him at the thought of loosing Bethoc. He wanted to stay in the ocean to swim freely and try to forget her. But he promised to bring the plant back to Father Degnan. For one last time, he would transform into a man. But when he changed back into a seal, he would stay a seal and live in the water away from mankind. Away from women. Away from Bethoc.

  He flapped his flippers up and down, shooting though the water until his slick, dark head broke through the surface. He swam to shore and slinked (from front-flippers to belly to back-flippers) across the sand. He barked as loudly as he could as rolling waves splashed against the large rock near the shore. White foam spray rose into the air.

  Malcolm closed his large, dark eyes and let the change overtake him. As if struck by lightning, a bolt of energy coursed through him. He shook with spasms as his entire being tingled with surging warmth. His muscles pulled and stretched. A jolt of pain shot thorough him as his seal skin split open and he stepped out of it.

  Tall, nude, and fully human once more. He gathered his clothes, dressed, slid the pouch on over his head, and carefully folded his sealskin. Holding it tightly against his chest, Malcolm took one last look at the sea. Then he turned and ran back toward Scone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The wood plank floor was cold against Bethoc's bare feet as she walked in wide sure steps down the long feasting hall. The familiar sounds of the crackling hearth fire and clanking tankards slammed on the feasting board filled the air along with strong scents of smoke and ale. Bethoc's mouth wasn't clogged with the taste of thick gray smoke here, as it had been in the round ha
ll in Dalriada. The hearth wasn't built in the center where fumes slowly seeped out of a small hole in the thatch, instead, with a large stone hearth built onto the wall the vapory smoke floated up and out through a stone chimney.

  On the wooden dais, Kenneth sat in a throne carved with Pictish symbols of slanting lines, round shapes, and curving drawings of boars, deer, bulls, fish, and birds, depicting previous Kings and their family ancestry. At his side, Donald leaned back in a roomy oaken chair.

  After a slight bow to the king and a nod to Donald, Bethoc hiked up her skirts and stepped onto the dais. She folded her arms across her chest and looked Kenneth in the eyes.

  “Tell me, where is my husband.”

  “I have not seen Malcolm for two days, it is not like him to leave without bidding farewell.”

  “His pelt is gone.” She dropped her arms to her side. “It was under my bed and now it is gone. Malcolm took it.”

  “Yes.” Donald stood and gently took Bethoc's hands in his. “Malcolm shall soon return. I feel it here.” Donald pressed his fist against his chest.

  “No.” Bethoc took a step back from Donald, pulling her hands away. “He has left. He thinks I do not want him.”

  “I ken not what you say.” Kenneth leaned forward. “He knows you love him, lass.”

  “Yet, I told him I wanted naught of him.” Bethoc raised her forearms.

  “What say you?” Donald's brows arched.

  “When Malcolm told me he was a selkie, the tidings were a hard blow. I went from weal to woe in a moment's time.”

  “So you broke the man's heart?” Kenneth stood. “The man you love. Anyone can see it, lass.”

  “Why did you not tell me he was a selkie?” Bethoc set one hand on her hip.

  “For it was not my place.” Kenneth stiffened, his green eyes hardened. “Furthermore, you tried to slay me once. Therewith, I did not fathom you and I were friendly enough to discuss Malcolm's secrets.”

  “Of course we are,” Bethoc said, still resting her hand on her hip. “I am wed to your cousin.”

  Donald cocked his head. “What she says is true.”

  Bethoc heard someone speak from below the dais.

  “M'lady what is amiss?”

  Bethoc turned her head to see Riona walking toward them. “It is my lord husband. Malcolm, left me, he did. Without a farewell, much less and I love you.”

  Bethoc felt like forgotten yarn strung on an old loom, waiting for someone to unravel it. She wanted to hug Riona and have a good cry, then the next moment she wanted to kill Malcolm. Where was her bow and arrow?

  “Oh Bethoc.” Riona stepped upon the dais and wrapped her arms tenderly around her in comfort. “I cannot fathom Lord Malcolm leaving you. The man risked his life to save you but days ago.”

  “Yes. But when I found out he was a selkie, I told him I did not want him.” Bethoc cast her eyes downward. “I was wrong. I want him so much.”

  “There, there now. He shall return.” Donald said as he moved to Bethoc's side, so she stood between him and Riona.

  “Where did he go?” Kenneth leaned his head toward Bethoc.

  “I think he went to sea.” She choked back a sob.

  “No. No. Oh Bethoc,” Riona said in a soothing tone.

  “I have chased him away. Back to the sea. I will never see him again.”

  “No Bethoc. I am sure it is not so. He loves you.” Kenneth pointed his head toward the priest who had just entered the hall. “Mayhaps he can be of some aid.”

  “Father Degnan, come hither,” Donald called out to the priest.

  “Look Bethoc, it is father Degnan.” Riona smiled.

  “My King what has happened.” The priest lifted the hem of his black robe and stepped onto the dais.

  “Malcolm has left Bethoc.” Riona stepped back to make room for him on the small dais.

  “I know. I asked him to go.”

  Bethoc rose and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hands. “How ... could you? Why would you ... send him away?”

  “For the people. I asked him to bring back more seafire to aid the sick so we would have a cure for others.”

  “Seafire.” Bethoc let out a sigh of relief.

  “Seafire?” Riona, Malcolm, and Donald said simultaneously.

  “He has not left you.” In his glee, Kenneth slapped Bethoc on the back.

  “Yes.” Father Degnan nodded. “He has but gone to fetch Seafire, the plant that saved you.”

  Bethoc crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the priest. “Why did you not tell me afore?”

  Father Degnan's brows arched. “M'lady, I thought Malcolm would have spoken to you of this.”

  “Mayhaps, if I had not told him I did not want to see him again.”

  “No do not think of that now.” Riona patted her on the shoulder. “He has but gone to fetch Seafire for Father Degnan. When he returns you can tell him how you feel. Begin anew.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Well, I came to ask something of you, Lady Bethoc.” Father Degnan placed his hand over his chest. “I came to ask you to be in the coronation ceremony. You are the guardian of the Stone of Destiny in Malcolm's absence. You must rehearse your part.”

  “You mean I am to be in the ceremony?” Startled by his request, Bethoc’s other thoughts vanished. “But, I am a Pict.”

  “Oh, Yes, m'lady, the Picts are Kenneth's people now,” Father Degnan nodded his head as he exchanged a smile with her. “You must place the stone in the seat of the throne and stand guard until the ceremony has ended.”

  * * * *

  Standing on the hill where Kenneth was to be crowned, Bethoc peered at the winding Tay River. The lilting, soaring music of fife and harp danced in the air and made her body sway merrily. The air tingled with euphoric energy.

  Bethoc switched her gaze to the large oaken throne, carved with the figures of two eagles. The throne where Kenneth would soon be crowned king of all Scots and Picts. In awe of Kenneth and the Stone of Destiny and the power they both held, her breath hung in the air, bated with anticipation. It was good and just for Picts and Scots to live as equals. She lifted her head high, proud to be a part of the union of these two factions.

  The bustle, chatter, hurrahs of the throng of people gathered around, created a type of music of its own. Picts and Scots, from servants to nobles, and from all corners of Caledonia, came to see the coronation of Kenneth mac Alpin, first king of Alba.

  Bethoc adjusted the girdle of ruddy-gold fastened around her emerald green tunic dress. Riona told her it brought out the gleam of her eyes. By St. Columba, I wish Malcolm was here at my side in the coronation and ... forever. Absently, she reached up to her forehead, and lifted one of her six braids, twirling and twisting it. Malcolm come back to me. I was wrong.

  She raised her head and dropped her hands to her side. All the bubbly excitement tingling in her a moment ago, faded into stiffness in her muscles and an acute ache in her neck. The weight of guilt pressed down on her as if an anvil lay on top of her head.

  Though she knew Malcolm had left to seek Seafire for Father Degnan, and she truly believed Malcolm loved her as Riona, Donald and Kenneth told her, Bethoc couldn't sweep away the fear she had pushed him out with her last words.

  Those words played over in her mind. “I need some time alone. I have to go.” Her heart was as heavy as a stone and she felt like it had sunk to her stomach. She wanted to cry, but no tears would come. Grand as this day is... it is naught without you, Malcolm. “I need you,” Bethoc whispered aloud.

  The slow marching music of drum and fife brought her from her dark mood. Concentrating on the coronation, she blocked out the guilt over her separation from Malcolm.

  Bethoc caught herself just in time. Oh, my turn. Taking a deep breath, she tilted her chin back, and held her head high. With one foot in front of the other, she moved in graceful, processional steps; carrying the La Fail on a gold, silk pillow to the high backed oaken throne. Though, a hard, rough rock, it
beamed with heat and energy equal to the golden, summer sun. Although the silk cushion kept her hands from directly touching the La Fail, Bethoc’s palms tingled from its radiating power.

  She halted before the throne, and when the music began, she slowly placed the sacred Stone of Destiny into the oaken niche for Kenneth to sit upon. With a deep breath, she moved one foot back, pivoted in a graceful turn, and stepped to the side of the massive throne, to stand as guardian of the stone. But her thoughts were far away from this time and place.

  All my life, I found it near impossible to walk on the shore without searching the waves for a dark, bobbing head. Upon spotting a seal, I stand there wondering, if I watch it long enough will it come on shore? What if the reason the seals swim near shore, bobbing their heads in the water, is to watch us? Mayhaps the seals wonder if they watch humans long enough, will we wade into the water.

  Bethoc was pulled from her musings by the sound of harps and fifes playing. Kenneth walked slowly up the hill. With each step, his lithe warrior body moved in time to the Scottish tune and the rhythmic tattoo of warriors clashing spears against shields in tribute. The cheers of the crowd and the ethereal pitch of the music caused goose bumps to tingle on Bethoc's arms.

  All eyes were on Kenneth, including Bethoc's. Bands of gold circled his forearms. A gold tri braided torque banded his neck. His wavy red hair hung to his shoulders like a cloak over the green silk tunic, which fell to his knees. The plaid tartan wrapped his shoulders and was held by a circular, gold broach set with an amber stone. He carried himself with the regal grace of a true king as he strode in slow procession to the throne. Then he turned in one fluid movement, and sat down on the holy stone in the high backed, oaken chair.

  A hush fell over the crowd. Only Father Degnan's footsteps could be heard as he came forward. When the eyes of the priest and the king met, Bethoc laid her flat palm to the hollow at the base of her throat. She stood breathless, mesmerized by the moment. This same scene had taken place thousands of years before. Whether Celtic king and white robed druid or Celtic king and black robed priest, it mattered not; the power and potency of the stone remained the same.