The Selkie Bride

by Melanie Jackson

In spite of the most unreasonable—indeed unthinkable—circumstances in which I found myself, a degree of reasonableness seemed to be gradually returning. And insane as it sounds, the amalgamation of my old logic with a new belief in the impossible had brought about a kind of calm acceptance of my situation, an end to my mental discomfort. There were the rules for my old life, and rules for the new. In one place, there were only human monsters. Here they apparently came in many shapes and species. I was adapting. Perhaps in time I could see a unicorn and think it normal.

  “I am a hunter. That is all you need to know. For now.” He said this flatly and I did not doubt him. As with my other neighbors, a little humor went a long way with him and he was done jesting.

  “Did you know Fergus Culbin well?” I asked.

  “I knew of him. The Culbins lived here for a lang while. By human standards.”

  From his tone, I adjudged that Lachlan hadn’t liked my in-law. That made it universal. No one had liked Fergus, apparently not even his nephew or the village monster who should have been sympathetic to a fellow evildoer.

  “Since it seems that we will probably be at this for a while, would you care for some tea?” I asked, deciding to disengage from a fruitless line of questioning, at least for the time being. I looked about for Herman but the cat had wisely gone missing.

  “Thank ye, but nay. I dae not find your tea tae my liking.”

  “Some whisky then?” Alcohol helps one say things to and of persons that one would normally shroud in silence. In fact, it can lead one to contentions that had previously never entered one’s head. Duncan had drunk almost all the time, and it had often freed his tongue. I had learned to do so too, in self-defense, and rather fancied myself to have a larger than normal capacity for strong spirits.

  “Again, thank ye, but nay. Your company is intoxicating enough.”

  I did not attempt to either believe or disbelieve this gallant claim, but there was a tiny amount of exasperation in my voice when I asked, “Then, if it is not for tea or whisky, would it be too much to ask why you are here?”

  “Not at all. As I said, I am hunting.” Lachlan’s head tilted. “And you have aroused my curiosity.”

  “However do you mean?” I asked, ever more reluctantly. “I assure you that I am unacquainted with any finmen or wizards, or in any way knowledgeable about hunting anything. I never met Fergus Culbin, who died before I ever heard his name. In short, I cannot see any way that I may be of service to you.”

  “When I knew that someone frae Findloss had summoned the finman and offered him refuge whilst he worked his evil ways, my first suspect was the duplicitous mage, Fergus Culbin. I was quite surprised tae find him dead and you here in his place. I didn’t ken afore last night that there were any of yer clan left.”

  “Clan?”

  “The MacCodrums. You are hereditary enemies of the Culbins, did ye know? For a brief moment, I wondered if ye’d killed him yerself.”

  I blinked a few times. Over the years I have been accused of many things, but never murder. My first reaction was to be insulted. My second (and completely reprehensible) thought was that it was a bit flattering that he thought I was capable of such ruthless action. Of late I had been something of a doormat upon which my husband wiped his feet.

  “I’m afraid I am indeed the last—at least of my immediate family. And my husband and I were certainly…adversarial. But I assure you that I killed neither my husband nor Fergus Culbin.” I took a small breath. “How did you discover that Fergus was dead? Did someone in the village tell you?”

  “Nay, I could smell it. He died violently, killed by the finman. Ye didn’t ken this?”

  “No, the solicitor somehow failed to mention that detail. In fact, I believe he said that Fergus died in a boating accident.” My voice was even, but I was beginning to be angry, and planned on asking Mr. Waverly a few pointed questions the next time I wrote to him. The former owner being murdered in my cottage seemed something that he should have mentioned.

  Lachlan snorted. “The sea is unforgiving of ineptitude and carelessness, and many drown, but Fergus Culbin wasnae careless. He was killed here and his body dragged down tae the water.” The stranger paused. “I believe the finman may have imprisoned his soul before killing him.”

  “Imprisoned his soul?” I tried out the phrase, not liking the way it sat on the tongue and immediately wishing that I could take it back. Not that silence would stay Lachlan’s answer. I sensed that I was fated to hear this dénouement and to test the extent of my new beliefs, whether ready to encompass the story or not.

  “That is what finmen dae to their victims. They need souls tae work their dark magic. I cannae tell fer certain since I didna see the corpse, but it seems likely. This finman is voracious.”

  “You can tell if a corpse has had its soul stolen? I mean, doesn’t the spirit leave on its own once the person is dead?”

  “Aye. But ritual theft leaves distinct marks on the nose where the teeth grip it.”

  The hair on my arms lifted and I shuddered. This was the pièce de rèsistance, and yet my mind was too resistant to this particular piece of information to allow itself to dwell on it for any length of time. I asked, “Would you mind stirring up the fire? I am suddenly chilled.”

  “Certainly. Would you like me tae make you some tea?” Lachlan replied.

  “No, but I will take a glass of whisky.” I gestured at a small sideboard where a decanter and two glasses sat. The second glass had been bought in an early misplaced optimism that I would have friendly neighbors with whom to share hearth and refreshment. “And then you can explain why this creature killed Fergus and why he would hate me when we have never met.”

  “Certainly.” Lachlan walked to the sideboard and picked up the decanter. “Have you ever heard of the Cailleach-a-Phluc?”

  No, I hadn’t. And I didn’t want to, since even the words sounded evil. In the usual course of events, I am not an unregulated neurotic who is ruled solely by instinct and emotion, but these proceedings were hardly usual and I thought a degree of trepidation and even fear was in order. And yet, I could not omit any knowledge that might improve my safety. Caution was required but I could not afford ignorance, however taxing the truth on my sanity.

  Putting a glass in my hand, Lachlan turned to the fire. I didn’t gulp the contents, but I wasn’t sipping daintily either. Lachlan continued speaking.

  “The Cailleach-a-Phluc was a black witch of unsurpassed evilness wha often visited this village. It was the finmen’s theft of her wicked magic that turned them tae creatures of ravenous hunger and depravity. Made strong and bold by this stolen magic, the chief wizard of the finmen worked an evil spell that he sent against my people who lived aen the caves that stretch beneath the village and up the coast a day’s journey.” Lachlan’s voice was cold. “Findloss had been warned about what would happen if they didnae expel the finman from among them, but they were greedy and anxious to keep their nets full of enchanted fish. And so they let the finman remain. Our wizard and I managed tae turn back the terrible storm of sand that the finman had sent tae Avocamor, also called Tir-fo-Thuinn—Land under the Waves—and instead this village was buried…and the finman along with it.

  “We thought that was the end. The others of the tainted tribe were hunted down and banished or killed. But we were wrong tae relax our guard. The most evil of the finmen didnae die, and eventually he was able tae unbury the village and escape. I believe he survived all those years off the souls of those trapped in the church. They were his personal larder while he schemed and eventually discovered the means tae escape his own curse.”

  “And now someone has called this monster back?” My voice was barely a whisper. “But why? That seems like madness.”

  “Aye. And I am at a loss tae know wham it may be. Only twa humans survived the inundation and would have known of the creature. And Fergus Culbin is now dead—at the hands of the finman. Unless they had a falling-out after the summons, I cannae imagine why the finma
n waud kill him.”

  “And the other survivor?”

  “Died without issue a decade ago.”

  I thought about this. “You know, you are making an assumption that may not be true.”

  A dark brow lifted. “Aye?”

  “We know that only two survivors ended up in Keil, but that doesn’t mean that someone else might not have escaped to somewhere else if they fled overland. If they never mentioned the storm or the finman, no one would have thought anything about a traveler passing through Glen Ard or elsewhere.” Lachlan nodded slowly, and I went on without considering. “I think the trick may be to have a look at the church records and see exactly who was in the village at the time of the storm and then see if any of their off spring have come back. Assuming the offspring are witless enough to use the family name.”

  Lachlan shook his head. “I have ceased tae marvel at how witless some people can be. I shall look on this when I am finished wi’ other inquiries.”

  I doubted his investigation involved any methods with which I was familiar, but sadly, I had to agree about the general state of human witlessness. Was I not even now being careless with my trust? How could I know if anything Lachlan said was true? For that matter, how did I know that he was even real and not a figment of a disturbed imagination?

  I pulled my chair closer to the hearth, getting as near as I could without setting my shoes on fire. It was a wasted effort. I simply could not get close enough to drive off the new chill in my bones.

  Chapter Six

  The wind comes rushing down through the openings between the hills, carrying with it immense torrents of sand with a force and violence almost overpowering. Clouds of dust are raised from the tops of the mounds and are whirled about in the wildest confusion, and fall with the force of hail. Nothing can be seen but sand above, sand below and sand everywhere. You dare not open your eyes but must grope your way about as if blindfolded.

  —John Martin of Elgin, describing the village of Culbin during a 17th-century sandstorm

  Lachlan’s late visit—and promised return by the next full moon—left me disturbed and with my brain seething. I didn’t know if I was more frightened or amazed or exhausted by the constant low-grade panic and lingering disbelief engendered by what I had heard; all three emotions took turns being in ascendance and I found myself pacing the cottage instead of preparing for bed.

  As I walked through the rooms, I discovered that there was something bothering me about the second bedroom, some deformity of space that tugged at my eyes every time I entered. I was using it for storage of unneeded house hold items, and it was therefore far from tidy, but every time I walked into the room, it felt smaller to me than the time before. This should not have been the case, because the cot in that room was actually smaller than the bed I slept in and the space should have felt more spacious instead of less.

  Eventually, to satisfy my nagging brain, I paced off the two rooms and discovered that the smaller-seeming room was smaller. By two large paces. Once the anomaly was identified, it took little effort to discover the loose stone in the back fireplace chimney that hid the latch that released the false wall. The reason for the paneling in the cottage was then clear; secrets and not warmth or ornamentation had been the cause of its installation. Someone, perhaps several someones, had wanted to conceal something from their neighbors.

  The air that puffed into the bedroom from the dark hole was not unpleasant, though a bit stale. It reminded me of the lending library back home, and I felt a degree of lessening in my trepidation as musty air and nothing else rushed out at me. Fetching the lamp, I ducked into the secret cupboard and let my eyes adjust to the greater dark. Herman followed reluctantly, sneezing from time to time.

  There were dust and cobwebs in abundance, telling me the narrow room had not been cleaned for some while. If the cottage had been grander and more on the beaten path of Europe’s traditional religious turmoil—or on any pathat all—I would have suspected the hidden room was a priest hole. But of holy relics there were no signs. Nor were there any secret staircases leading to hidden passages used by so many smugglers in Robert Louis Stevenson’s stories. This sudden idea of smugglers was fostered by the discovery of a heavy keg of brandy in the far corner of the closet, which was mostly full. How old it was, I could not say, but it smelled potent when uncorked and the oak of the cask was quite dark, suggesting that some liquor had seeped through.

  Though I saw no place in the walls, floor or ceiling where another secret door might be, I did take the time to tap the panels and pound the floorboards. I had not forgotten Lachlan’s insistence that Fergus Culbin had been murdered in the cottage by a rogue finman who must have found some way inside. The lack of secret passages was therefore doubly reassuring. Since the chimney was barred and all the windows too small to admit a human, the only place the creature could enter the cottage was the front door, and I had a heavy bar and sturdy lock to take care of that.

  What the tiny room lacked in religious icons, it made up for in books and folios. Most were written in Latin and Greek—the second, a language for which I had little facility—but one handwritten journal was done in some form of Gaelic, which Fergus (I assumed) had glossed extensively in English, and another was penned in an older form of border English. These I put aside, though I hadn’t any reason to assume that I would be able to translate the villainous handwriting that was faded, had some water damage and was blithely unconcerned about conforming to any of the grammatical rules with which I was familiar.

  That was all of the room’s contents, except for the one chair—taken from the dining room, I assumed, since it matched the others, though it brought the total to thirteen, an unlucky and odd number of seats—and a small table with a dusty lamp, a pot of dried ink and a broken pen. Taking the two books with me, I closed the panel back up and decided to wash and then retire to bed. I also retrieved the yew carpet beater and iron shackles from the linen basket and put them beneath my pillow. Perhaps my faith was misplaced, but I felt better having them near at hand.

  I feared that my mind would keep me awake, but fear is exhausting. After reading for a short while, I put the disquieting books aside and fell into a deep sleep that was disturbed only once, when Herman jumped on the bed and insisted on wiggling his way under the covers. I patted him once in sympathy: The journal had revealed something nasty that I hadn’t previously suspected of Fergus. Duncan’s uncle had been attempting to find the lost Spanish gold through divination. His notes suggested that had he not been killed by the finman, Herman would have been headed for a sacrificial death and mummification at the next dark of the moon.

  I am not an early riser, if I can avoid it. It is not that I am slothful or unnaturally indolent, but I see no need to be up before the sun when it is cold and I will need to make a fire just to be comfortable. Neither coal nor peat was cheap in Findloss, so I felt justified remaining in my bed until normal inclination told me to rise and rub the laziness from my eyes. But even for me, that morning was making an exceptionally late start. The sun was high in the narrow bit of scarred glass that I had forgotten to shutter before retiring to sleep.

  Looking at the situation optimistically, I decided I could skip lumpy breakfast porridge and just have an early lunch.

  I had previously resisted the temptation to pay a visit to the local Sithean Mor, a supposed abandoned faerie mound mentioned by the locals and in one of Fergus’s handwritten books, believed by the natives to be a tomb for a race of giants, though Fergus did not mention this in his notes. The mound is reachable on foot if one is undeterred by hard climbing and the possibility of broken bones and drowning. None of those things appealed to me in the least, but that morning I found myself sufficiently curious and willing to consider the existence of what had previously seemed impossible that I tied up a lunch and a small sketchpad and pencils in a large scarf, which I hung down my shoulder like a peddler’s sack, and started off on my adventure.

  First I stopped in at the post offic
e, ostensibly to check for mail but really to mention where I was going. The post office is also our only shop. It is not a very impressive store, and Mistress MacLaren who runs it does not spend her time trying to lure customers into buying her multifarious wares withattractive displays or signs—mostly because she has no competition to lure customers from, and also because the wares are not all that diverse or alluring. What is it about a shop counter that turns a mere table into an insurmountable obstacle one would never dream of crossing? And why does the person behind it seem more in charge than the one offering custom? I have often wondered if Mistress MacLaren had a stool concealed back there that she stood on whenever she heard the door, because she seemed much taller on one side of the counter than on the other.

  Mistress MacLaren was not a licensed grocer (or even a postmistress), which probably explained the lack of variety in her goods and why we sometimes ended up with wooden seeds in supposed raspberry jam. (I had never encountered counterfeit jam before and found the experience at once amusing and annoying). But, to be fair, I doubt she would have made enough money in commerce to pay the license fees the government required, so we were grateful for whatever she carried. My main purchases were oats and eggs. Though as thrifty as any native, I had found it hard to do without certain things and so had asked my solicitor before I arrived to arrange for a shipment of a few luxuries, among them potatoes, dried apples for baking, fine milled flour, some sugar and a small amount of cinnamon. I don’t think Mistress MacLaren ever forgave me for buying these things from an outsider.

  To the villagers, I am slightly tainted by sinful worldliness because of where I was born. This also makes me foreign—as in, not a Scot—a fact for which I am to be pitied. If they were not themselves also transplants from several other villages, I should likely be completely ostracized, but none of us here can say we actually belong to Findloss. And frankly, I have the best claim, having been left one of the original residences by my late husband’s uncle. Perhaps they would have trusted me more if I had explained that my mother’s family was of the MacCodrum clan. Or perhaps not. There were a lot of blood feuds here, and the people have long memories and some rusty claymores in their cupboards.