Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy)

by Clare Austin

  Ty felt a dream forming somewhere in the depths of his chest, near his heart. Ireland in the spring, whitethorns in bloom, the pulse of the sea on the western shore, and the twilight glow of a late northern sun on the horizon. A man could do worse for himself than fall in love in a place like that.

  Chapter Two

  Who said “you can’t go home again”?

  Tynan’s jet lagged brain couldn’t remember, but he knew the man could not have been Irish.

  The moisture in the morning air that hung benevolently over Shannon Airport felt slightly different from an imposing wet Boston spring day. As he drove north in his red hire car, singing along with a Christy Moore CD, Ty wondered what had kept him away so long. Though he knew he would soon tire of the small-town life, it was gratifying to get back in touch with Ireland’s roots and his own.

  Even sleep deprived, he had a tingle on his skin and joy in his belly. Stretches of brilliant green, broken only by carefully laid stone walls, quilted the land on both sides of the narrow road. The old vied with the new—an ancient ring fort ruled the land while a newly built holiday home sported fresh pebble dashing and a For Sale By Owner sign.

  The village huddled like a bright-colored bird whose nest looked out on a sea that gave in sustenance what it took in toil. He pulled over under a sign proclaiming Ballinacurragh to be winner of the Tidy Town Award of 2001.

  Ty checked the directions his hostess had texted to his phone.

  Turn left at the four-way stop and go half a kilometer to the town center. Follow the sign posted next to the church to An Currach B&B. I will be waiting, unless gone to the shops.

  Ty glanced at his watch. Early. Hopefully he would not have to wait to check in. He needed time to shower and take a stroll, get a feel for the landscape, and suss out a good place to eat.

  Turning at the sign pointing to An Lár, the town center, he entered the comfortably predictable village, dominated by the steeple of St. Enda’s Catholic Church. His American friends liked to say that it took at least two pubs and one church to make an Irish town. This landscape supported that cliché.

  He pulled to the side of the roadway for a moment to let the scene settle in his memory.

  A petrol station, Flaherty’s grocery—just in case the Food Mart Express didn’t suit your needs—the ubiquitous sports betting service, and two pubs, O’Malley’s and Conneely’s, all offering plenty of ceol agus craic, music and good conversation lubricated by pints of lager and stout.

  All culinary tastes could be satisfied. He could smell Mickey’s Chip Shop before he saw it, and the green-painted Georgian door of the town’s restaurant, The Bloody Oar, boasted a sign proclaiming Tuesdays to be karaoke night.

  Change had taken place here since Ty was a boy. Everything seemed to have diminished in scale and the colors were brighter than he’d remembered. He was not sure if the familiarity was singular to this village or the nature of Ireland’s rural population centers in general.

  The idea that he could run into someone he knew hovered under a thin veil of denial. When it surfaced, he tried to pass it off as madness, though he had always thought of himself as quite sane.

  Resigned to temporary insanity, he put the car in gear and started to pull out. A horn blasted and a dust-covered van sped past as though the devil were at its wheels. Ty slammed his brakes so hard the engine lurched and died. He took a deep breath and decided not to be annoyed. He was not going to let it spoil one minute of his first day back in the land of his birth.

  As expected, An Currach was easy to find. A cottage, too large for a single family home in this part of Ireland, it was painted butter yellow and had three white framed dormer windows facing the sea. A black tar fisherman’s boat, a currach, lay upturned in the front garden as though the man of the house had just come home from his day on the tides. Only the clumps of sea pinks and stalks of yellow iris that grew through the hull betrayed its years of idleness.

  He parked, opened the car door, and listened. The sea set a steady rhythm, joined by birdsong, a dog barking in the distance, and the bleat of spring lambs. This symphony was rural Ireland and as much a contrast to Boston as he could have found. A couple of weeks of this and Tynan was sure he would welcome the rush and hum of his American city home.

  He lifted his suitcase and mandolin out of the boot and walked to the front door. He rang the bell. No answer. He knocked. No response.

  He left his burdens leaning against the front porch and walked around back. The same dusty, impatient van he’d seen on the road was parked haphazardly across two designated spaces. The odor of hot brakes pinched his nose. Whoever was in such a hurry had been on his way here. So where was he?

  Ty removed his sunglasses and looked up the hill behind the house. To the front he scanned the rock-covered land as it descended toward the cliffs that dropped into the Atlantic. A figure in work dungarees and a hoodie, and carrying a large duffle bag, strode briskly in the direction of the sea.

  “Hey,” Ty called. “I’m looking for Mary Conneely.”

  He doubted this was his hostess, and whoever it was either couldn’t hear his call or was determined to ignore him.

  A door creaked and there was a clatter of footsteps behind him. A plump, grey-haired, and resolutely cheerful woman with a voice like a startled sparrow approached, wiping her hands on a tea towel. The air around her had the scent of scones baking and something else. What was it? Wallpaper paste?

  “Ah, now, is it himself? Oh, come in, come in. I was in doing a bit of redecorating while the scones baked and didn’t hear ya drive up. You’ve come a long way. I hope the drive was pleasant. No rain today. It’s been lovely, just lovely. Mr. Sloane, is it? I knew some Sloanes here…Ah, now, it’s been many years…”

  “Are you Mrs. Conneely?”

  “Ah, yes, sure now. That’s meself, Mary Conneely. One of the many Conneelys of Ballinacurragh. Our family—”

  He took hold of her hand and squeezed it in greeting. “Call me Ty. Pleased to meet you, Mrs.Conneely.”

  “Well, now, don’t ya be callin’ me ‘Missus.’ Mary will do. I’ve been a widow going on two decades now. Mr. Conneely is in the church yard…God rest him.” She crossed herself. “Scoundrels, the lot of them, the Conneely brothers.”

  Ty was tempted to laugh but controlled himself. The woman never seemed to stop talking.

  “Ah, now, come in. I’ve a room all ready for you.” She led the way inside. Stairs straight ahead, kitchen to the back, sitting room to the left, and dining room to the right. The floor plan was so common Tynan was sure he could find his way blindfolded. A fragrance of polished wood and fresh soda bread triggered long buried memories. He thoroughly expected to hear his little sister practicing her fiddle in the back garden or his mam singing an old tune as she worked in the kitchen.

  The hallway was typical of B&Bs with the omnipresent tour folders and postcards. Not so predictable were the fanciful and exotic pieces of pottery set about in every corner and decorating each horizontal surface.

  Ty ran his index finger along the lip of one vessel where the design and colors blended into a sunset of hues. “This is incredible. Is it from a local artist?”

  Mary’s face split into a grin. “That would be my niece Muireann’s work. She always was one for playing in the mud. Who’d a thought it would come to such pretty pieces after all?”

  “Your niece?” His throat squeezed and he thought he would choke. “Your niece Muireann?” Mary Conneely didn’t seem to know him, so he had to conclude Muireann hadn’t mentioned his name even in passing. Or, most likely, they had long forgotten the overly amorous lad of years ago.

  “For sale?” he asked as he turned over a handwritten tag hanging from the handle of a pitcher.

  “Ach, now, Ireland is in a recession. Everything has a price.” She laughed.

  A series of framed photos hung from the paneled wall. One, a girl of perhaps eight years, her first communion veil slightly off-kilter on a head of windblown hair, looked
into the camera as though her very soul would be stolen by the snap of the shutter. Her dark, intense eyes caught Tynan and held him captive for the span of a heartbeat. Those eyes held the same surprise they had, years later, when he chanced a kiss, stolen beneath the summer moon of his sixteenth year.

  The other image was of a young man, fair of complexion with corn-silk hair. He sat at a harp. An Irish wolfhound with great, sad eyes lay at the feet of the harper. The photo was taken outside, on a clear day, with the sea as a backdrop. Muireann’s brother, Ronan. He had been the same age as Tynan, but the similarity ended there.

  Ty remembered Ronan as a quiet, overly serious boy who rarely spoke and, while the others indulged in typical teen foolishness, observed quietly as he plucked out tunes on his harp.

  Tucked into the corner of the picture frame was a small prayer card, the kind provided by the funeral home to honor the lost loved one. Tynan’s chest gave a squeeze of sorrow for a brother lost.

  Mary was halfway up the stairs, chattering on as she fumbled with a bunch of keys, found the right one, and opened the bedroom door.

  “If this doesn’t please you, young man, you let me know. I want to be sure you’re comfortable.”

  The window was open and the breeze filled the room with salty air. “It’s perfect, Mary.” Ty set his bag down on the floor, his mandolin case on the bed, and stepped to the window. He’d lived in Ireland most of his life, but something about this place set the skin on the back of his neck to prickle with unexpected excitement.

  Mary was puttering about, opening cupboards and showing him where to hang his clothes, chatting to no one in particular the whole time. “…and if ya happen down to those cliffs—”

  “What do you call them? Those cliffs to the west there.” He pointed to a spectacular grassy paddock dotted with sheep and bounded on the far side by a drop of about five hundred feet.

  “Ah, yes, now that headland is Ceann Na Conghaile, Conneely’s Head.”

  “I’m certain there’s a story behind that name.” Tynan knew it wouldn’t take much probing to get the whole tale from Mary. She was poised to give it—with embellishments.

  “True, oh, so true. Legend has it, long ago, the kin of the Conneely were selkies.” She pointed, with a slight tremor of her hand, for dramatic effect no doubt. “A man needs to be cautious when he hears the selkie’s song. I believe it’s not simply a tale, more than one man has been lured from those cliffs…” She looked square in his eyes and took a deep breath. “They can’t stop themselves. Ah, it’s a tragic thing, it is.”

  He had to stop her. “I’ll get unpacked now. Thank you.” He gave her his best smile and hoped she would get the message.

  “My granny knew a woman who had an uncle…one of the O’Malleys, sure now. He married a daughter of the Ó Conghaile. Her name was Mara. Yes, Mara Conneely was a lovely girl. Disappeared out on the cliffs. Her husband went out to find her. Story goes, he heard her singing.”

  Tynan knew exactly where this was going. He had heard versions of this tale, up and down the west coast of Ireland. “Did he find her?”

  “Well, he was never seen again, so the locals say.” She pointed toward the window with a shaky hand. “Ya see that standing stone across the paddock there? Some folks think he waited for her there, in a freezing rain, until he died, standing up, right there at that spot.”

  Tynan saw the upright monolith. The shape, with the light of late morning casting odd shadows, was reminiscent of a man, standing, looking out to sea.

  Mary shook herself as though trying to come to her senses. “Ach, now, would you come down for tea or shall I bring it up to you?”

  “Oh, thank you, but I’d like to unpack and get organized.”

  “Ah, sure, I’ll leave you to yourself. Breakfast is half eight. I’ve the full Irish or you can have griddle cakes if you wish. I try to please.”

  She wasn’t moving toward the door.

  “Eggs, bangers, and pudding…lovely, Mary. I’ll dream on it.” Deep wishing and telepathy weren’t working. He gently took her elbow and gallantly walked her out into the hall. “I’ll just settle myself in now. Thank you. Everything is perfect.”

  She gave him a grin that deepened the crinkles at the edges of her eyes, turned, and humming a tune, left him in peace.

  Tynan flipped his case open and started to sort his clothes, but concentration was interrupted by a glance out the window and down to the Ó Conghaile cliffs.

  Selkies. He’d grown up on the lore of selkies, kelpies, and the water horse. Perfectly wonderful legends that had inspired bards and seanchaí since time out of mind.

  The sun, skirting the eastern hills when he arrived, had reached its zenith. Ty left his suitcase half unpacked and made his way as quietly as possible down the stairs.

  “Ah, Mr. Sloane, I’m just now wettin’ the tea. Would ye join me?”

  Though food and drink were tempting, he craved solitude. “No, thank you very much, but I’m going to take a bit of a ramble…see what there is to see.” Suss out if there are truly selkies about.

  “Sure now, watch your step. The rocks are slippery with the seaweed when the tide is out.”

  “Thanks for the word of caution.” He reached in his pocket for his sunglasses. “I’ll be back after supper, I think. Do I need a key?”

  “Ah, no. We don’t lock our doors here in Ballinacurragh.” Mary approached and whispered as though the walls had ears. “It’s said that on rare occasion, when the tide is low and the sea is calm with little wind to stir it, you can still hear her singing.”

  ****

  Curiosity pulled Tynan by invisible threads across the brilliant green expanse toward the sea. A rock barrier separated the sheep paddock from the road and a well-worn path to the cliffs. When the trail forked, he followed the most trodden. He crossed the wall using a stile where the stones had been worn slick by years of use and ambled along the track, humming a tune that came to him unbidden. The words tickled the back of his mind. A poem by Yeats. How did it go?

  And someone called me by my name:

  It had become a glimmering girl

  With apple blossoms in her hair

  Who called me by my name and ran

  And vanished in the brightening air.

  The sea shone silver in the noon sunlight. Tynan felt the magnetic pull toward the edge of the sheer limestone drop. He knelt and then lay stretched out on his stomach and let his eyes scan the striations in the rock. Using his jacket as a pillow he rested his head on the fragrant turf. A horseshoe-shaped strand lay below. The incoming tide curled and caressed the megaliths that stood like sentinels at either edge.

  Tynan’s eyelids felt heavy. The guillemots and grey-backed gulls called from their homes in the caverns and ledges and lulled him into a jet-lagged stupor.

  He woke to a soft intonation. It must have been the wind. Through sleep-blurred vision, Tynan caught a glimpse of a seal frolicking beyond the waves that licked like lazy tongues at the beach. A dark brown head would appear and, just as quickly, be gone. Ty thought he imagined it. But it was not unusual to observe the graceful pinniped with a friendly face in this part of Ireland.

  This must have been a young harbor seal, as the pelt was dark, almost black. He was mesmerized as it swam closer, into the shallows. Ty’s body was exhausted but he didn’t want to give in to sleep and miss the playful aquatic ballet.

  Stealthy fingers of mist blurred and teased his vision. His mind begged for the healing balm of slumber. He fought the overpowering need to close his eyes.

  A voice awakened him from a sleep so deep it left him disoriented. The sweet notes of a song hung in the salt air. This tune he’d not heard before seemed to come from a dimension beyond the bounds of earth.

  A sleek nymph, born of the waves, swam with languid strokes toward the sandy rim of the sea. She stepped as lightly as a cat onto the shore below, caught his gaze, and shook the water from her limbs. Sable eyes were guileless as she licked salt water from her lips.
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  Ty’s heart pounded against the earth beneath him, and he feared a tremor would loose the rocks of the headland to tumble into the sea. He held his breath as she stripped her ebony skin from pale appendages. She at first appeared to have tendrils of seaweed, brown strands clinging to her shoulders and down her back. Dark Sargasso strands reshaped into tangled tresses, thick and wet with salt and sea.

  He expected her to flee, be frightened by this mortal spying from his high refuge. But a timid beastie she proved not to be. Is this how a selkie lured a man to follow her? Would she transfigure and show her seal face only when he had drowned in the cold brine of the Atlantic?

  She stood motionless, foamy tides swirling about her ankles, defiance in her stance. The sugary white sand that clung to limbs and body was all that clothed her.

  Who was this selkie…this woman…who challenged him with her bold nakedness, the delectable curve of hip and thigh, and dark nipples tipping her full breasts? A hallucination brought about by jet lag and Mary Conneely’s story telling?

  Tynan’s vision was clouded by a pall that overtook him and closed him in a blanket of blue mist. When the vapor cleared, the selkie was gone.

  Chapter Three

  Tourists!

  God’s breath, could a woman have a bit of privacy to take a dip in the sea?

  Muireann stowed her wetsuit in the duffel she had left on the rock ledge and shimmied jeans over her wet legs and hips. She brushed sand off shoulders and breasts before pulling her sweatshirt over her head. She’d shower at Mary’s where she always kept a fresh change of clothes.

  Squinting into the early afternoon sun, she searched the shore for Cú. “Get up here, ya mangy mutt,” she called. He ignored her. The old dog was deaf as a stone.

  His large grey head peeked around a big rock covered with seaweed where he had been foraging for tasty bits. Muireann gave him a hand signal she was sure he would not dismiss.

  The wolfhound had been her brother’s constant companion. Now he was hers. Because the pup had been born deaf, Ronan had trained him to respond to subtle signals. Muireann had learned the essentials, but she had not the same, apparently telepathic, connection her brother had cultivated with this canine.