Salt Magic, Skin Magic

by Lee Welch

  “A friend who steals his clothes?” said the magistrate. “A friend who lets him go naked? Produce Lord Thornby now, if you have him. Or the charge stands.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Where? Into the sea? Then he’s drowned?”

  If they wanted another fight, he could give them one, though he had no heart for it. Dalton’s men were bruised and bandaged already. One of Warren’s eyes was swollen closed, and Prout looked as though he’d gone several rounds with the Tipton Slasher. John had very few materials left, but there were plenty of rocks, and he had his fists. He might even win. But at what cost? The soldiers and the villagers were innocent men. If he started slinging charmed rocks at them, it was hardly fair. He was no criminal; why resist?

  To stay here? He glanced at the sea stretching to the horizon. If Soren had only said something, or given him some sign, John would have fought tooth and nail to stay. But Soren had simply escaped into the sea as quickly as he could. Soren had gone. And he wasn’t coming back. Not ever.

  He should go with the magistrate, let them put him wherever they liked for tonight. He would get Catterall on the case. Paxton would speak for him. And if things looked bad he’d manage somehow. Perhaps he could escape. If Soren wasn’t coming back, there wouldn’t be much point staying in England anyway. He remembered Lady Amelia saying “Anyone who stays in England must be mad.” Maybe she was right. There was a whole world out there. Maybe he would go where the seals go. Maybe, one day, he would recognise one.

  The soldiers were scrambling down the slope towards him. One picked up Soren’s clothes. Another picked up the spancel, puzzlement on his face. A third took up the cracked eye and kicked the little pile of sand. It was Sahara sand; bright orange, the best, from near Siwa. John could hear it lamenting as it dispersed under the soldier’s boot—it didn’t like the cold and the wet. It wanted magic or the warmth of his pocket. If he could, he’d come back and collect it, grain by grain.

  He went with them up the slope to where Lord Dalton sat on his second-best horse. Dalton beckoned him forward, and motioned the soldiers back.

  “You’ve cost me seventy thousand pounds, you bloody fool,” Dalton said. “Inchmorn Skerry. That’s what you’ve cost me.”

  “Is that all he was to you? Money for a few rocks? You’re the fool. I know what’s on you. I would’ve helped.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Dalton lowered his voice. “If I’d let you help and we’d got one—you’d have wanted her for yourself. Wouldn’t you?”

  And at last, John understood. All this time. All these years, all the money spent and useless coastal lands bought. All the lives ruined and lives interrupted. All because Dalton wanted another woman from the sea. Another seal-wife to replace the one he’d lost.

  He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “You damned fool. You bloody fool. I don’t want a woman.” And then he wasn’t laughing, but crying. He gritted his teeth to stop himself. Dalton’s mouth was curling with revulsion.

  “It’s that way, is it? Yes, I wondered if it was. Then it’s on your back now too.” Dalton reached down from his horse, grabbed John’s upper arm and hissed in his ear. “What did he say? Did you believe him? They say whatever will get them their way. You’ll never get another. And once they’re gone—” A look of unbearable pain crossed his face. “Anyone else will be ashes in your mouth.”

  Dalton’s gaze drifted away from John and out to sea, but his hand was still locked around John’s arm.

  “Do you know where I met her? It was a coast like this, wild and lonely. And she came out of the sea to me. Naked, with pearls in her hair. And so lovely. You never saw her equal. Can you imagine? And she loved me. The moment she saw me. And I her. My God, we were happy. We fooled the whole ton, her and I. Danish. Pah! We laughed at the lot of them.”

  He stared past John, plainly seeing nothing but the past, the words flowing out of him like water out of a fishing net.

  “But then, she wanted to go back to sea. To take the boy—to show him—”

  Dalton’s voice trailed away. His face relaxed into sadness—a lost, tender look. For a moment, John could see the handsome young man, in love with his beautiful wife to the point of madness.

  “A man needs his wife at his side, doesn’t he? She swore she’d come back, but how could I take the chance? They shoot them, you know, in Scotland. For the pelts. It would have been wrong to let her go.” He looked at John, almost pleading. “Don’t you see I had to keep her?”

  John said, “You’ve a new wife—young and kind. She’d make you happy if you let her. You must give that old pelt back to the sea. Forget Soren. He’s gone anyway. Do you think he’ll come back? For me? Of course he won’t come back.”

  Dalton looked at John for a long moment and John caught a flicker of something, maybe hope, maybe regret.

  But then Dalton’s expression hardened into revulsion. “You bloody sodomite. You’re doomed.” He let go of John’s arm and kicked him viciously in the chest, sending him staggering back into the arms of the soldiers. Dalton raised his voice. “Right. I thank you for your assistance, Mr Howarth.” He nodded to the magistrate, then looked back at John. “Actually, you’re lucky. You’ll hang.”

  “Give the pelt...back...to the sea,” John gasped, still struggling to catch his breath from the kick. Then one of the soldiers pushed him, and they started the long walk along the cliffs to the prison cell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As a seal, Thornby didn’t think in the same way as a man. The past was a dream compared with the rush and boil of the sea, the black and purple depths, the light angling down golden when the sun came out. He was lost in the now of the swaying kelp, the flash and flicker of fish, and the shadows of the larger things that moved, half-seen, in the deep.

  He’d been trapped—that much he knew—trapped for a lifetime. And now the sea was everywhere; limitless, ever-changing, eternal. He went like an arrow, sinuous, twirling, revelling in it, and the sea embraced him.

  But after a while, through the joy came a dim sense that something was wrong. Or, if not exactly wrong, then—missing. Something was lacking.

  John.

  He stopped his headlong flight. The human part of his mind seemed to come to the fore. How long had he been swimming? It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. He’d caught fish and swallowed them whole, and nothing had ever tasted so good. He’d played in the waves and never thought of what he’d left behind, until now.

  John. On the shore. How could Thornby have swum off without a word and left him? After everything.

  How could he have forgotten him?

  He turned in the sea, a perfect, graceful roll, and began swimming back. He knew the way; it was easy. After a while he began to play in the swell again. John would be all right. Thornby had never met anyone as capable as John. By now John had probably seen to the horses, made a fire, cleaned the salt and blood from their clothes, and asked the local stones to build themselves into a shelter in which to spend the night.

  When Thornby got back to the beach, it was nearly dark. He removed his skin as easily as he’d put it on. It was as natural as breathing.

  No one was waiting.

  His clothes were gone.

  Thornby bit his lip, hugging the pelt to his chest. As a seal, he’d not felt the cold; as a man, the sea wind was icy on his bare, wet skin. He’d been gone a couple of hours, to judge from the sun. But John was patient; he knew how to wait.

  A nasty thought struck him. When he’d put the skin on, had he left this world and gone to the other? John had said time worked differently there. Thornby couldn’t remember experiencing night-time as a seal, but perhaps that made no difference. What if he’d been gone for days? What if John thought he’d gone into the sea forever? But he wouldn’t think that. Would he? He must know that Thornby would come back. But a cold trickle of doubt began to seep in. Why should John wait for an inconsiderate saphead who’d swum away without so much as a thank you?

&nb
sp; He looked along the shore, but it was impossible to see far past the rocky outcrops. The light was going. Perhaps John had simply gone to find somewhere to spend the night away from the cold sea breeze? Thornby took a few steps across the rocky shelf. Walking felt like trying to dance without music; a little forced, a little pointless.

  He should climb the slope and look.

  But something kept stopping him. With the sea at his back, just a few paces away, he was safe. He could be gone in an instant. The moment he left the shore, he was a naked man with a sealskin in his hands. And the skin could be taken from him.

  That thought was so alarming, he found himself backing away from the land. He crouched on the edge of the rock, watching, listening. The skin was much larger than when he’d gone in. Now it was the skin of an adult seal, and parts of it kept slipping from his hands. In the dying light it glowed like beaten copper.

  He remembered the panic he’d felt at Raskelf. Riding across the moors, desperate to get to the coast. He’d half tried to wait for John, but it had been impossible—and, if he was honest, deep down he’d been afraid. Afraid that John would take the skin. The idea had seemed a little ridiculous even then, but in his panic to get to the sea he’d half-believed it. Now it seemed a madness had come over him. Or perhaps magic.

  To John, it must have seemed a terrible betrayal. He’d spent days puzzling over how to free him, risked his own life experimenting with magic, and then fought for him, all to have Thornby ride away with barely a look. No wonder John wasn’t waiting. He must be furious.

  But, might John come back? Just to tell Thornby what a thoughtless, thankless little prick he was? If there was a slim chance that John would come back, then Thornby would wait. Hadn’t he waited for months at Raskelf? Hadn’t he learned patience?

  It would be warmer to wait as a seal. He stood, thinking to put on the skin. He glanced down as he did so, and noticed for the first time that the cuts on his chest had vanished. So, for that matter, had the painful bruises, wrenched muscles and bloodied knuckles from the fight.

  And so had the scars on his foot! He bent to touch it—the two smallest toes were separate again, as they’d not been since he was nine years old. The skin was as white and smooth as his other foot. He’d always hated those scars, and hated them more when John had explained what had caused them. Not that John had minded. He’d held that ugly scarred thing in his hands; he’d kissed it. No one had done that before. No one else had ever been permitted.

  A pang of loss pierced him, sharp as broken glass. He had had something marvellous and he had dived into the sea and swum away as if it were nothing.

  A final ray of sunshine broke out, low over the sea. And he noticed something—a handful of orange sand caught in a crevice. He crept forward. It was such a beautiful colour, one almost expected it to feel warm. But it was cold. And it didn’t belong. And he remembered the last time he’d seen it; in a pile in the blue saloon, with John nestling that glass eye into it, and saying defensively, “It works with everyone else.”

  John didn’t leave his materials behind. Unless he had to. Or was forced to. Something bad had happened to John, Thornby was suddenly certain. And ‘something bad’, around here, meant Father.

  As if thinking about him had made him real, Father was there. Coming from behind, between Thornby and the sea. Thornby flung himself to one side, instinctively ducking and rolling. His shoulder struck rock, but he still had the skin in his arms and that was all that mattered. Father came after him, face twisted with fury. He managed to get a booted foot onto a trailing edge of the skin, and ground down. Thornby screamed. It was as if his hand was being crushed between Father’s boot and the rock.

  Thornby jerked at the skin with his good hand, trying to dislodge Father’s foot, but with every tug, pain flared in his other hand. Now they each gripped a portion—Thornby naked, on his back on the rock, Lord Dalton on his feet, as if playing a tug of war that Thornby had lost but would not concede. The sealskin glowed golden-brown between them, taut where they pulled it. And a hideous tension ran through Thornby. He felt he would rip in two. But he didn’t let go.

  He glanced seaward. The edge of the rock was only a yard away. He must get to it; get to the sea. It was his only hope.

  He pushed with feet and legs, half sliding, still clinging to the sealskin. Rocks gouged great welts in his back, and the side of his face stung as if sandpapered. But slowly, inch by inch, he gained ground. He turned his head again, and there was the sea, white foam surging only a hands-breadth below. Just a few more inches and he could tumble them both down into the maelstrom. He gave an extra hard tug and kicked Father’s shin.

  His bare foot had little effect, and kicking had made him lose purchase. He was dragged a few inches landward. The skin began to slip from his fingers. A shout came from down the shore. John? A surge of hope lent him strength.

  But the figures hurrying into view wore the livery of Raskelf: Prout and Abbott were coming to help their master. Thornby shook his head and tugged with all his might, crying out with fury. He had seconds. Because the moment they arrived it was over. They would take the skin. Take him back to Raskelf—

  It could not be. It could not. To have been in the sea. And now—

  Tears of rage and despair trickled down his cheeks, mingled with his blood, and fell, to be lost in the surging vastness of the ocean.

  And Father froze, staring out to sea, then let go of the skin as if it were no more than an old rag. Thornby, still pulling with all his might, fell back, winding himself, head snapping over the edge. Half dazed, he had just enough wit to hug the skin closer and turn onto his knees. He was about to fling himself into the sea, when he, too, stopped as if turned to stone. He knelt on the rocky edge, the skin in his arms.

  About ten yards out, a woman was swimming in the icy water. Her bare white shoulders and wet hair were peachy-red in the setting sun. Her face was in shadow, but unearthly beauty shone out of it. Her eyes were large and luminous, grey as the sea.

  Father stood with his hands at his sides, mouth open. Prout and Abbott stood next to him, battered and bandaged. Prout looked as if he might cry. Abbott was shaking his head in slow, uncomprehending disbelief. Father’s expression was more difficult to read. Shock was giving way to reverence, but desire was there too, and greed. Something in his eyes said, Mine.

  The woman swam closer. Thornby could see long strings of pearls woven into her hair and adorning her slender neck. Her breasts were white as sea foam against the black depths, and her arms stretched wide, as though she danced in the water. Beside her floated a dark, amorphous shape, which she clung to with one hand. It was a sealskin. She was like him. Like his mother must have been. He was dimly aware of more heads clearing the water further out—seals or people, he wasn’t sure—but it was almost impossible to look away from the woman, she was so beautiful. She smiled at Father, who moaned in the back of his throat.

  She came closer, reached for the edge of the rock and held on, rising and falling with the swell. The foam that had tumbled there was gone, as though she’d tamed the very waves for her convenience. Her sealskin floated behind her, up and down with the gentle rise and fall of the sea. She looked at Father out of the corners of her eyes and smiled again, coy, inviting. Her hair swirled around her in the sea like a pearl-embroidered wedding veil.

  Father fell to his knees. He held a hand out to her. “Please.” His voice was a croak. “My God, I’ve searched for you—so long.”

  Her smile deepened. Then, for the first time, she looked at Thornby. A long, lazy look. Her dreamy smile did not falter, but she glanced over her shoulder as if to remind him that the sea was there—his for the taking.

  Then her gaze was back on Father.

  “You,” she said. Her voice was low, melodious, the voice of a woman recognising a lover. “Do you have something that belongs to the sea? Will you show it to me?”

  A flash of uncertainty crossed Father’s face.

  “Come, show me, and
we will be together.” Her accent was charming, lilting and soft.

  Father fumbled the other sealskin—Mother’s sealskin—from a deep pocket of his great-coat. The cut edge fluttered in the breeze, but the woman’s smile only grew more tender. She reached for it—or maybe she was reaching for Father. Father reached for her; their hands were nearly touching.

  Thornby felt, rather than saw, the sea rising in a grey wall behind her. It was taller than the high roofs of Raskelf, and coming faster than a runaway carriage. He could see dark figures caught in it, and broken bits of seaweed. With a thrill of fear, he had just time to think that even a seal could be dashed to death on a rocky shore. Then he was in the sea, injuries forgotten, a seal, swimming as fast as he could.

  The wave grabbed at him as it passed, dragging him backwards, then letting go. For a moment all was still, and then the tremendous back-surge tumbled him out to sea. Something pale caught his eye and he looked down to see the naked woman, her arms around his father. Her face was pressed into Father’s neck as a woman might embrace her husband, and her sealskin covered them like a cloak. His arms had been around her too, but as Thornby watched they floated free. Mother’s sealskin left Father’s grip. Lord Dalton’s eyes were closed as he and the woman sank together, down into the darkness and the cold.

  Now there were other seals swimming alongside. He swam with them, keeping pace. They wanted to race, to play in the last dim light, and then find a place to haul out and rest for the night. They’d saved him. And he could join them, if he wanted, and be happy. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew.

  But his heart wasn’t in it. There was no need to choose. John’s sand on the rock meant John needed help. He let the seals go. Two circled back, realised he wasn’t coming, and vanished in a trail of silver bubbles, leaving him alone in the black water. He turned and swam back to land.