by Lena Loneson
It hadn’t been difficult to find the library’s section on Irish mythology. A book had fallen right off the shelf in front of him, crashing to the floor. Pushed, no doubt, by a castle spirit. Eamon savored the idea that it had been Keelin, though he hadn’t heard her voice. She’d been encouraging him toward Nora all along. Directing him to her when the dark-haired girl had been torn from the shore by the waves and helping him to find the pelt. Even the cold spots when he’d let his mind drift to doubts, Eamon now supposed had been Keelin. It was her last gift to him—love.
The object was indeed a selkie’s pelt, furred on one side and skin on the other. The book confirmed that Nora had the sign of a selkie’s child, just as the villagers had said—the webbing between her toes and fingers.
But the pelt was too small to be her father’s, if he had been as tall and strong as the villagers had said. Matter didn’t vanish—when Nora’s father slipped on his pelt, he would have turned into a seal of the same size and weight. Eamon would have barely been able to carry the pelt in his arms.
The pelt would, however, fit a small, slender woman. A woman the same size as Nora.
In his monochrome vision, Mary Catherine had carried the pelt in one hand. It had been much smaller than the one Eamon had found—Mary Catherine’s had been the size of a small child or a baby. Eamon’s pelt had grown, as if it were a living creature.
He rubbed his eyes and scanned the tiny font of Tales of the Selich one more time.
A selkie man and a human woman wouldn’t normally make a selkie child. They’d birth what Nora seemed to be—a human woman missing her father, confused about her heritage and troubled by the webbing on her hands and feet. Not a woman with a selkie pelt of her own, who could slip it on, transform into a seal and swim through water as easily as she walked on land.
New selkies were only birthed under very specific circumstances. None of the books’ authors were entirely certain as to what they were, but the tales passed down through generations said this—selkies were the souls of drowned sailors, reincarnated as men half-seal, half-human, reborn to live free from fear of drowning once again, for they could swim in the sea or walk on land.
The souls of the drowned.
Eamon let the book slip off his lap and pulled his netbook closer, his fingers tapping on the keyboard. He pulled up website of the Donegal News, a local paper, and searched the birth announcements archives.
There it was. Annora Catherine Connelly. Born to Mary Catherine Connelly, no father listed. It must have been a scandal at the time, in such a small village. No wonder the villagers at the pub remembered the tale.
But what was the birthdate?
He scrolled down, impatiently pounding the key with his finger. The sound echoed in the castle library.
September 14, 1990.
Nora had been born the day Keelin had drowned.
A droplet of water hit the screen, startling him. Eamon ran a hand across his face, wiping away tears. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been crying.
What did this mean? That Nora was a selkie and he had her pelt, most certainly. But that Nora was Keelin, back from the dead? It could be. He’d spoken to Keelin’s ghost, but Nora had something of hers. Her essence, maybe. The afterglow of her life. The thought should have scared him, but instead he felt…right. As if the world were a last puzzle piece finally clicking into place.
A loud crash startled him out of his reverie. It was a gray-haired woman with a vacuum, dressed in a hotel staff uniform. She’d dropped the hose, the plastic clattering on the library’s wooden floor. He vaguely recalled having seen her before.
She smiled at him. “So sorry to disturb you, lad. Work on this room later, shall I?”
He must look a complete mess, his hair uncombed, books strewn about—and oh, for fuck’s sake, he was still in his pajamas. “No, uh…ma’am. Thanks very much, I need to be getting upstairs anyway.” He hastily shut his computer and started to gather the books.
The woman left her vacuum and walked forward with a kind smile. “Nay, you go on up and rest—I’ll tidy these.”
He shook his head. “Really, it’s my mess—”
“All part of the service, lad. If you’ve been up all through the night, won’t ye be putting them back in the wrong place, now? You’d be doing me the favor of not havin’ to fix ’em later.” She took a book from his hand with a no-nonsense air. He thanked her before gathering up his computer and leaving the library.
He took the staircase back to his room, passing a few sleepy guests heading for breakfast, including a middle-aged woman who chuckled at his pajamas.
It was nearing 8.00 a.m. If he wanted to make plans for lunch and still catch a nap, he should do it now. The crumpled sheet of paper with Nora’s number on it was still in his pants pocket from the night before. She’d written her name, Nora Connelly, as if he’d forget whose number it was. The N and Y looped with large, whimsical flourishes. Was it strange to find handwriting attractive? He hadn’t dated properly in so long, he’d forgotten what was normal.
He’d also forgotten what to say when a date actually mattered. Finally Eamon texted Nora’s number. Picnic at Griffin’s Lough this afternoon? He took care to spell it out. She didn’t strike him as the type to engage in text speak. She existed in a world outside the modern.
A smile toyed with his mouth. Griffin’s Lough seemed like an appropriate choice now. The smile dropped just as quickly. What did the name signify? That he should keep the pelt a secret, just as the stone griffin had kept it a secret for twenty years? Or that he should tell Nora everything, opening up to her about his feelings and what he’d discovered of her past? Could he go back to the griffin and ask it? Stand in the lift and wait for Keelin to advise him?
Now he was starting to lose his mind. Just because some things were magical, it didn’t mean every detail of his life was a sign from the gods or the spirits. Sometimes a griffin was just a griffin.
The pelt lay on his bed. It would complicate things. He’d have to explain how he knew about it. Would she think he was crazy, being led about a castle by the ghost of his dead wife?
Would she know he was sane and demand the pelt, then change into a seal and swim away from him forever? The thought turned his stomach cold. If Mary Catherine’s love hadn’t been enough to keep her selkie man at home when there was a child involved, how could Eamon, who had known Nora for days, possibly hope to do so?
He gathered the pelt in his hands, savoring its softness. He lifted it to his face, surprised that the smell was the clean, briny scent of the sea even after all the years it had been hidden away.
Was he doing the right thing? He couldn’t know for sure. Eamon’s heart was heavy as he wrapped the pelt in a spare afghan and hid it at the bottom of his hotel room closet. As he slid the door closed, he paused, waiting for a draft of cold air to tell him he was making a mistake or Keelin’s voice to reassure him that he was doing the right thing. But no signs came to him.
Chapter Sixteen
Nora slept late but fitfully. The swimming dreams were back. This time, the dream didn’t start out with sex but with freedom—swimming farther and farther from the shore, diving straight down into the depths of the ocean. There was an entire world down there and it wasn’t dark as she’d always pictured it—in her dream, the ocean glowed. She swam past vibrantly colored fish and seaweed, past seals and whales, and heard a mermaid’s song. She swam more easily than she’d ever walked, her legs melded together into some form of tail. In the dream it felt natural, so she didn’t look down at herself.
It wasn’t until she woke that she wondered what sort of creature she’d been. A mermaid like the one who had sung to her? She smiled at the notion. A seal like her father? That hit too close to home. The taunts of some of the villagers rang in her head.
Nora closed her eyes, settling back into her pillow. The downy softness cocooned her head, buoying her as the water had. Only black floated beneath her eyelids. She wanted to be back in that dream. Wha
t had the mermaid sung? A tune in a minor key. She could capture it, play it on her whistle, if she could just remember the way the notes descended the farther she swam. She hummed it. What had woken her from the dream?
“Nora!” Ah, there it was. Ma’s call to breakfast. Her throat closed on the song. There would be no more dreaming this morning. It was strange to rise from the bed, throwing the warm duvet so that it crumpled at her feet. Her body moved too quickly through the air. Life on land was too hurried. She missed the treacle of the ocean. There was time to think down there, time to ponder every movement. The sun shone through the curtainless window, blinding her. It had not been so bright beneath the water. Everything had had a glow, but never a glare.
“Nora!”
“Coming, Ma.” Ugh, she couldn’t hide the irritation in her voice. Was that the smell of burned pancakes? An uncharitable thought. Maybe just slightly overcooked. Of course they would be delicious. Mary Catherine’s meals were always delicious. It wasn’t her fault that Nora wasn’t hungry.
She pulled on a light cotton skirt and top, colors as bright as the fish in her dream, and crammed her feet into soft slippers. A quick glimpse in the mirror showed that her hair was a bird’s nest of tangles. Just how much tossing and turning had she done? She pulled it back into a bun, caging the dark snarls with an equally black wooden clip.
As quickly as she had moved, it was obvious when she entered the kitchen that Mary Catherine was impatient. Her ma sat at the table with two mismatched antique plates before her, pancakes and ham piled high, and two white ceramic mugs of tea.
“You might’ve started eating without me, Ma.” Nora pulled out a chair and tossed some sugar into her mug, then poured a little milk from the bottle.
“I didn’t want to be rude.”
“You did the cooking. A little rudeness is allowed.”
With that, her ma smiled. Good. What had gotten into her, anyway? Nora couldn’t have taken that long to wake up. Sunlight covered the kitchen table. What time was it? She regretted her tendency never to wear a watch.
“There’s fresh-baked Danishes for dessert,” her ma said.
“Yum.” Nora sniffed at the air. How could she have missed that delicious, sugary scent? Her nose had been full of seawater.
For a moment they ate in companionable silence, metal cutlery scraping on ceramic plates. Nora blew on her tea, then sipped it too soon, burning her lips.
“You never have the patience for that.” Her ma’s mouth was pursed in a frown, deep wrinkles rippling on her skin. When had she begun to look so old?
“Didn’t add enough milk, I suppose,” Nora said. Her ma nodded as if confirming something in her mind. This was going to be one of those mornings when Nora just couldn’t win. They weren’t too often at least. Normally she woke to Ma’s smile, bright in the dark before the sun even rose. Usually her bad moods had a trigger. Nora just wasn’t sure what it was this time. Had she left dirty shoes on the mat again? Slammed the door a little too loudly when she got in late last night? Ma never begrudged the late nights, as long as she was quiet. She was always content to see Nora happy, playing her music, dancing with her friends, though she didn’t love the short concert tours. Anything that took her away from home too much wasn’t a plus in Mary Catherine’s mind.
Could Nora really blame her? A musician’s wages, with occasional waitressing shifts, wouldn’t pay the mortgage on their own. Really it was Ma’s salary that supported them. Maybe she should work on that. The Grainne O’Mailles were getting well-known. They could push their next album release, maybe even ask for a higher cover charge at Tullamore. No other local band got the crowd dancing—and thus ordering alcohol—as much as the O’Mailles.
It was time for Nora to grow up a little, wasn’t it?
What had Eamon’s wife done for a living? Had he taken care of her?
As if Ma had heard her thoughts, she spoke. “Your phone rang this morning.”
Nora’s brow furrowed. Had she left it out in the kitchen? “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting a call. Did it wake you?”
“A text,” her ma said. The disapproval dripped from her words. She cut sharply at her ham, raised it to her mouth and chewed.
Nora’s face heated. Her friends weren’t texters. Unless it was someone coordinating a gig—and, really, the idea of musicians up before breakfast was ridiculous—it had to be from him.
“What did it say?” She kept her voice steady. As steady as possible, anyhow.
“I’m not in the habit of reading your texts.” But her ma’s lowered eyes told Nora of the lie.
Nora was too excited to play along. “No, really, Ma, what did it say?”
“Something about a picnic.”
“Today?” Would he really want to see her again already? Her jaw clenched, as if her ma could tell somehow what Nora had been up to the night before. Her skin burned. Damn her pale complexion. She’d have a much better poker face without it.
“I don’t know, Nora—as I said, I don’t read your texts.”
“Let me see.” She looked around for the phone. Where had her ma put it?
“It’s rude to text at the table, Nora.”
She spotted the black outline of the mobile on the kitchen counter. She rose from the table, her fork clinking sharply as she dropped it onto her plate. She grasped the mobile with eager fingers. “I’m not at the table now, Ma.” She stabbed at a button. Her heart pounded in her chest. A picnic would be perfect and romantic. The two of them outside, alone.
She half closed her eyes, wanting to imagine what she’d ask him to do to her. Bad idea. She could nearly feel Ma’s laser eyes boring holes in her face.
“Just one quick reply, Ma.” She texted back, confirming her acceptance and the time. She slid the cell into her skirt pocket. The next message, Nora would read alone, with no intermediary in the form of her mother. Her ma’s hawk eyes watched her. Just a few hours until she would meet Eamon at Griffin’s Lough. She wanted to flee to her bedroom and start choosing an outfit.
Instead she moved swiftly back to the table. Really, she couldn’t blame her ma. Nora had been a little rude. “These pancakes are delicious,” she said as she lifted her fork again. “Buttermilk?”
Her ma didn’t bite. “This is your new man.”
New, as if there had been an old one of any import. But Nora didn’t see the point of correcting her. She nodded.
“You promised you wouldn’t see him again. He’s not Irish.”
Nora winced. It had been stupid to lie to her ma. “He was born here.”
“But he hasn’t lived here in quite some time.”
Nora shook her head. “He’s Canadian.” There. Plain fact, nothing Ma could be upset about. “He was Irish but now lives in Canada. Newfoundland, I believe.”
“Then what’s he after an Irish girl for?”
Nora inhaled sharply at the venom in her ma’s question. The other woman’s knuckles were white where she clutched at her fork and knife. What was she so angry about? That Nora hadn’t shared the news of her dating life? For a long time, her ma had pressured her to find a young lad in the village, to settle down. Now that she had found someone, why the sudden turnabout?
Eamon wasn’t exactly from the village, it was true. She forced her breathing to slow. She could get angry at the lack of respect for her choices, or she could attempt to reassure her ma. Placate her, as always.
“He’s not going to take me away, Ma. No one’s taking me anywhere.” She couldn’t resist throwing in, “I’m a grown woman, remember.”
But it was a hollow decision. Was it even true? Really, what would she do if Eamon did try to take her away? Ireland was everything Nora knew. This cottage, sickeningly pink as it was, was her home. She didn’t want to leave. She could never leave her ma. Even as the other woman blinked tears out of her eyes and Nora knew she was being manipulated, she let it happen. It was the easiest thing to do.
The pancakes were dry in her throat. She moistened them with tea, now
lukewarm.
“Then what’s the point of this picnic?” Her ma asked.
Right, her ma clearly hadn’t looked at the text. Nora closed her eyes briefly, letting them roll out her frustration beneath shuttered lids. She let one hand fall to her waist, beneath the table. Her fingers traced the hard outline of the mobile in her pocket. What was the point? Why have a fling with a man who was in town for a few weeks when it would only hurt her ma? There were plenty of men she could have flings with.
The last man she’d been with before Eamon had turned out the bedside lamp. He’d kissed her twice, tongue probing, then flicked the switch before climbing on top of Nora on the bed in his small house. He was a fisherman, and smelled of fish. His cock had flopped like a fish as he’d pushed himself inside her.
It had been good for a moment and he’d hardened as she leaned back, losing herself to sex. But she could never forget the way he’d turned out the lights. Even if he hadn’t said anything about her hands and feet, that simple fact would always be there.
She wanted to feel Eamon’s mouth on her hands again, his tongue sliding between her fingers. Maybe the only world out there for her was beneath the sea. Perhaps she belonged in the unknown, leaving everything behind—her ma, Eamon, her music. But she wanted to try land one more time. He was leaving, but maybe before he left he would hold her to the earth, remind her of what she loved about this body formed from dirt instead of sea salt.
She moistened her lips, took another sip of tea before she lied. “I don’t know what the point is, Ma.”
Her mother nodded sharply, as if she’d won.
“Maybe I won’t even bother going.” The lies came so easily now.
“Would you like some more tea?” Her ma held out the teapot. Nora nodded silently.
Chapter Seventeen
Her mother’s disapproval had gotten to Nora. As she picked her way through sticks and rocks on the way to Griffin’s Lough, her skirt swaying about her ankles, she couldn’t help but question this date. What did Eamon want from her? Men usually wanted her once. Either they were attracted to her effervescent spirit and overlooked her mutations for the evening—but only for the evening, they were always gone the next morning—or they were interested in her as an oddity. The idea of a second date was baffling. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t fully taken her yet. She’d have let him, no question—hell, not just “let him” but welcomed it—but he hadn’t tried.
