The Selkie Bride

by Melanie Jackson

  Need I say that if I had any other alternative—any chance of selling the cottage—I would have moved elsewhere? But I had no real options. Returning home to the scandal brought on by my husband’s death by overdose in a whore’s house was not to be borne, especially since I would be a poor relation suffered by my pious aunt and uncle only in the name of familial charity. And I hadn’t enough money to start over somewhere else. My meager inheritance from my parents had gone to pay Duncan’s gaming debts and my ticket for Scotland. My marketable skills were few: Before my marriage, I’d served as an unofficial amanuensis for an elderly lawyer, but he was dead and could not vouch for me. I had some proficiency at French and Latin and a smattering of Gaelic, a mild talent for drawing and storytelling, and minimal competence in the kitchen and with a needle, but that was it.

  Of course I could remarry. As more than one person had put it, my face was my fortune. But I had turned my mind against this idea. Marriage had not suited me the first time; I would not willingly enter into it again. That would be quite unfair to whomever I wedded. My corroded heart was still filled with uncharitableness and general distrust of men. Actually, of people in general. The undertaker, a longtime friend of my late father, didn’t know whether to send condolences or congratulations when Duncan died. Neither did my minister or my friends.

  The latter hurt worst of all, though I understand what they were feeling. I was the first of my contemporaries to discover that eternal love could actually be perishable under the right, or wrong, circumstances. My situation frightened them and made them question—at least in a small way—the security of their own lives. They saw Duncan as a malignancy growing in the societal body and were relieved when he was excised. I, the shamed widow, became the living version of the cautionary tales told to young girls by their mothers. Who would wish to be reminded of such a thing, to live next door to it? Of course I became a pariah. At the end of the day, it was difficult to say which of my problems was most pressing, the financial or the emotional.

  Sand hit my face and I felt myself grimace. Men—it was they and not the love of money that were the root of all evil, at least in my life. Not content with the boring but upstanding young men in my hometown, who I knew all too well, and sure some other romantic destiny awaited me, I had searched diligently for my great love in someone more exotic, and fate had cursed me for my desire by giving me what I thought I wanted. For that reason, I had lost everything but my life. I would not search again. More than that, I told myself that I would run away if love came around once more to plague me. It seemed most unlikely that it would find me in Findloss, and that suited me, even if the village and the weather did not.

  As I thought of these unpleasant things, I touched the charm that I wore on a silk cord beneath my dress. My late husband had given it to me in the early days of our courtship and I had worn it to please him though I did not like it. Later, after his unprovoked hatred of me surfaced, and there began the constant accusations of my failure to help him—though help him with what he would never say—I had put the token away. It was an ugly and disturbing charm that resembled a Celtic knot, but one made of tentacles or perhaps serpents. But on the day after his funeral, when it began to rain with a strange and unseasonable ferocity, I found myself disturbed by the idea that the wet was falling on his defenseless body buried in the churchyard while I was at home, safe from the flood. I had taken the charm back out and begun wearing it again. It was my hair shirt, my penance for not finding any love left in my heart for the man I married. The minister had even said to me, “Carry rancor to the grave but no further,” but I could not let my anger go. Wouldn’t let it go.

  A cloud passed over the sun as I brooded on old wrongs committed half a world away. The disappearance of light happened frequently now that autumn had arrived and the land was in full sear. Fall in Findloss does not look like autumn at home. For one thing, there are no living trees to turn fiery colors and lose their cheerful leaves. What we do have are frequent gales and the almost daily punishment of the wind that throws about the white stinging sand and drains the world of color. Heeding the warning of rain, I gathered my charcoal and paper and made haste for my cottage and the reassuring light of the paraffin lamps I kept by the door. I knew that I was now visible to the men on the beach and was being studied as I fled. I usually wore a bright red scarf of unusual length and width, and it made me what the drabber locals call kenspeckled. The fishermen would have had to be blind not to see me. There would be more gossip that night about Fergus Culbin’s odd relation.

  The wind was cold, an assault, but I was still grateful for it. When the breeze dies the midges emerge, tenacious and even suicidal in their quest for human blood—usually mine—and there is no getting rid of them. On the way home I passed the kirk and the cemetery, my skirts flapping loudly enough to scare away a fearful swift fluttering deep into the dying heather as it tried unsuccessfully to shelter from the approaching storm. The churchyard was intact, no headstones disturbed by the town’s sandy burial, though I found myself wondering whether the bodies were still in their graves or if they had disappeared like all the lost souls in the church. At least one body was here. Fergus Culbin had been buried in the section for strangers, a fact I found vaguely disturbing since the cemetery was no longer consecrated and local custom had it that a soul could not rest if its body was buried there. I did not hasten past the uncanny place since I was already traveling at just below a trot, but I kept my eyes averted and made every effort to push my morbid thoughts away so they would not follow me home.

  My new house was surprisingly generous-sized. The four rooms were large, even if they had low ceilings and were rather dark because there were few windows whose glass was badly pitted. I knew that I might regret them in the spring, but for the time being I was grateful for the stout walls and strong shutters that could be closed against the winter storms and the bleak autumn sea view.

  The cottage lay beyond the reach of the highest tide—highest normal tide—but not beyond the reach of wind and sand. I had swept the path that morning, but it was again covered in grit and I had to clear this away from the sill with my shoe before opening the door. As the cottage has settled over the years, the floor’s paving stones are slightly slanted toward the heavy fireplace, and the pavings are worn down by the passage of countless feet around the perimeter of the all but immovable dining table, whose marble surface actually rather resembled a cathedral altar. If furnishings reflect the hands that tend them, then this monstrous table had known a hard and unloving touch. I could not imagine a family sitting down to dine at it. Certainly I never did.

  I have no records of when the cottage (Clachan Cottage it was once called, though now known as Culbin’s Cottage) was built, and architecturally there is nothing to distinguish it from others built in the last five centuries, but it is safe to say that it is old and erected in the days when one might actually need a home that could survive cannon fire. That cannon fire had happened precisely once, according to the book lent to me by the solicitor Mr. Waverley. In September of 1588, the village was actually attacked by a stray galleon, a member of the Spanish armada blown off course and stranded in the small port of Findloss. Chased by Sir Francis Drake—supposedly because this ship carried a generous store of gold—the Fidencia was trying to escape by sailing around the very top of the isle or perhaps lose her pursuers in the Hebrides. In unfamiliar and often violent water, they miscalculated and came too close to the shore. Run aground and fearing attack by land and by sea, they opened fire on the village, perhaps hoping to scare the inhabitants into fleeing in panic so they might escape overland unmolested (yes, this sounds ridiculous to us now, but they had been separated from the fleet by a gale and had no way of knowing that the armada’s invasion of England had not been successful). Findloss had no long-range weapons to defend itself, and the villagers were completely at the Spaniards’ mercy, but a second volley was never fired. Before the cannon could be reloaded, the ship suddenly capsized and sank
beneath the waves, pulled down by some invisible vortex.

  Again, there are wild stories about this. No one is entirely certain what happened that day, but every tale agrees that after the ship capsized there was a massive explosion that threw parts of the shattered dread-nought on shore, and the galleon sank without a single survivor into the completely calm sea. From time to time one may still find bits of twisted, tarnished silver plates and Spanish coins along the beach. Most people leave them there, unwilling to tempt fate by touching the belongings of doomed men. This demonstrates how deep the belief in spirits is in this poverty-stricken village.

  The sunken galleon, haunted by the ghosts of dead sailors guarding a lost treasure, is more local color to write about. No treasure has ever been reclaimed from the wreck, but I have a cannon ball beside the door of the cottage. I assume it is the one that chipped the western cornerstone of the building and knocked a fist-sized piece of stone free.

  “Hello, Herman,” I said to my cat, as he rushed for my ankles and began making a noise that I imagine to be purring. Herman came with the cottage, and I have no idea what his real name is. He is large and black and looks ferocious, but is actually quite the gentleman. He is also a fisherman and sometimes brings me small fish and seaweed that he has hunted up in the tide pools. I have yet to think of a way to cook starfish or seahorse, but I appreciate the generous gesture even when I return his gifts to the sea. Occasionally he brings me tufts of fur as well. This pleases me less.

  The fish are not the only animals that have returned to thrive in Findloss. The many hares that seem content to live on bent grass and furze are large and sleek. (Likewise, the foxes that hunt the hares are glossy with health and of an unusual size; a cat would be an easy meal for them. They too have forgotten to fear men and are quite bold about approaching if humans remain still.) Though I have tired of a menu of fish, not being as ichthyophagous as Findloss natives, I haven’t yet suggested to any of the locals that they break out their snares and hunt the conies. I doubt they would do it even if asked; there seems to be an almost superstitious dread about the land animals that live here, including the seals that sometimes sun themselves on shore. I haven’t the stomach for the bloody task either. I never even got the knack of wringing chicken necks, so certainly I could not garrote a rabbit. Instead I had to be content with the occasional egg and bit of cheese to vary my diet.

  I went first to use the privy. The cottage has a few modern conveniences, meaning that an appropriate area was built against the back of the cottage so one needn’t go out into the night or storm to answer the call of nature. In addition, there is also a hand pump in the kitchen to draw water so one needn’t go to the old well outside, whose windlass is in disrepair. Cooking is done on a small cast-iron stove, and bathing and laundry are done in a brass washtub—also in the kitchen, so that the water may be heated on the stove. There is strong local belief that bathing in cold water builds character and keeps the Devil away. Unfortunately, it also makes for chilblains, so people go for long periods without bathing. This does not suit me. I was raised with the idea that cleanliness is next to godliness; and, frankly, a scrubbed body was about as close to holy as I was going to get, given my current anger with God. I was grateful for what I had—truly—but it was only after I moved here that I realized how much I enjoyed indoor plumbing and having a real bathtub.

  Heating is done in the fireplace, which is situated in the middle of the cottage, allowing all four rooms to touch it and theoretically share warmth. The chimney is large, quite adequate to accommodate a man or a small bull. Perhaps that is why it has been fitted with iron bars. Certainly the bars do nothing to keep out the birds that find their way inside whenever it rains, and I could not imagine any other creature that would attempt to gain entrance in this manner.

  The hearth is strange, a sort of mosaic made of shells that might once have been pretty but is now badly damaged, perhaps deliberately defaced. Only enough remains to suggest that the theme was aquatic, perhaps a tribute to that local sea monster that gobbled up virgins and buried the village.

  It was early yet, but I lit one of the lamps. Storms come in fast and can bring about a near-twilight state in a matter of moments. I’ve no love for the smell of burning paraffin, but it is better than shark oil, which many of the locals use in their lamps.

  The cold had not yet crept over the sill and down the chimney, but I decided to light the fire as well and put the soup kettle on to warm. Herman did not object. Being a cat, he was fond of warm places. When possible I burn driftwood, but recently—in spite of the storms—it had become hard to come by. This meant using coal or peat.

  The fisherman’s words once again put me in mind of some of the wilder tales of Fergus Culbin, and I found myself again feeling reluctantly curious about the man I’d never met or even heard of until after his death. I had found no personal artifacts in the cottage beyond clothing that was old but of good quality, and the solicitor assured me that nothing had been removed from the premises. I was sure that something had to exist, some correspondence or a diary. But where?

  There weren’t that many places where one could conceal a journal or letters. The first that came to mind was the ridiculous desk, an overwrought Louis the Some-teenth that was tucked away in the bedroom, perhaps a family relic from more prosperous times. Duncan once said that his family had gotten evicted from practically every country in Europe, for always being on the wrong side of the endless religious wars. I had been promising myself for weeks that I would take the time to examine it for secret compartments. There were bound to be a few, and the moment was appropriate.

  The walls and ceiling about me were thick and strong, but a glance out the window showed the wind was blowing the rain nearly horizontally, and handfuls of water and sand were occasionally thrown at the narrow panes. The sound was rather like someone scratching at the scarred glass, and I did my best to ignore it while I searched the desk.

  In the end it was Herman who found the hidden compartment for me. I should have perceived that one of the drawers wasn’t as deep as the other, but I didn’t notice the stubby compartment until Herman got in the drawer and began shoving one side of the back wall. Immediately the pane pivoted outward, and I found what I was looking for: a small book, leather bound and worn. A quick glance showed me that the pages were handwritten.

  “Thank you, Herman!” I said, and offered a scratch under the chin that he accepted gratefully. “Let’s go have a seat by the fire and see what this has to say.”

  Herman meowed plaintively when I stopped petting him, reminding me that it was a good night for a nip of whisky in my tea and perhaps time to share a small bite to eat. They call whisky the water of life here in Scotland, and having withstood a couple of their weeklong storms I understand why. Without some help for the nerves, the weather would be unendurable. As it was, there still were suicides every winter. At home we called it cabin fever. Here they said a man had gone sea-daft.

  After getting some food, I sat down and began to read.

  Chapter Two

  Moving onward with eyes shut…I was met by a blast of wind which seemed to work altogether beyond the common operations of nature…I caught it by the handful as I passed. I felt as if a dozen thongs were lashing me around the body…I felt a pressure of weight on my body, which had the effect of dragging me down and retarding progress, as if the power of gravitation had increased tenfold. For a moment I stood like one petrified—perspiration starting from every pore—I put my hand in my pocket in search of handkerchief and found the pocket crammed with sand. Every pocket about me was filled with sand, my clothes completely saturated with it, my shoes like to burst, my ears, eyes, nostrils and mouth were like partakers.

  —Lachlan Shaw in The History of the Province of Moray

  I squinted in the faint light, my eyes tired but my mind too fascinated to stop reading.

  Blue men of the Minch, Sruth nam fear Gorma: powerful sea spirits of the Outer Hebrides thought to be Fallen
Angels or souls of Moorish slaves forced into sailing Viking longships. They calm treacherous waters when residing in underground caves. Can sometimes be defeated in battle by rhyming contests, or by singing unknown songs. Might be selkies, roane, fin folk or merrows. Note: Shedding their blood will cause epic storms. Able to transform at will by shedding their skins or by use of a red feather cap. Might they be Nickers or Nokke??? Possible link to kelpies (water demons) and needing to devour human flesh every day they remain on land. Review history of Clan MacCodrum…

  Clan MacCodrum? I lowered the journal for a moment and rubbed my eyes, unable to believe that my maternal grandmother’s family name was mentioned. I knew very little about Morag MacCodrum or any of her Scottish kin. My memories of my grandparents were dim. My father’s view was hostile, and my softspoken mother rarely mentioned them and only with great nervousness on the rare occasions she did. I always suspected that there was some scandal or mystery associated with them because Father was not universally xenophobic. Indeed he showed no dislike of any of our neighbors, though many came from Europe.

  Thunder crashed right outside the window, bringing me back to my present surroundings. The rain had grown ferocious while I read, and the wind all but screamed. As the saying goes, it was a night “fit for neither man nor beast,” so nothing could have surprised me more than to have my late reading—if the slow deciphering of the symbols of the book I examined by firelight could be called that—interrupted by a pounding on the cottage door. The blows were heavy and spaced evenly, like the tolling of a funeral bell, and I couldn’t help shivering as the echo died away. This was the sound of doom calling, and it demanded I answer.