The Selkie

by Melanie Jackson

  Ruairidh shook his head. “It isnae the dress that makes ye bonny,” Ruairidh answered, taking her hand in his and turning her to face the officiant. The man who was presiding over the ceremony was Aon, the eldest of the selkies in Ruairidh’s clan. Aon did not look like Ruairidh or Cathair. He had the same ageless skin of all the selkies, but he had a complete absence of facial and cranial hair. His bald pate gleamed like the button of his double-breasted jacket, which also sported several rows of naval decorations, honors to which Hexy was fairly certain he was not legitimately entitled. She could only hope that, if the coat was recently purloined, none of the human guests would recognize it.

  Aon hummed once, the sound having the timbre of a horn, and the assembly quieted. Ruairidh and Hexy turned to face each other and joined hands. Worry and frivolous thought fell momentarily away as she gazed into his eyes.

  “Most blessed of my brothers from the sea of Domnu, and sisters of the dry lands and northern waters, draw near and witness the miracle. The NicnanRon is returned tae the People and conciliation with nature and with man may begin.” Aon’s voice was beautiful and clear.

  From the corner of her eye, Hexy could see Jillian frown in puzzlement and turn to question Keir. Admittedly, this sermon was not standard Church of England fare. It wasn’t even Scottish Free Kirk, but she didn’t think there needed to be any long explanations that involved Keir cupping Jillian’s dainty ear and stroking a finger down her neck. Most likely, Jillian wouldn’t recall the ceremony at all.

  Aon hummed again, and Hexy turned her attention back to Ruairidh, listening to Aon’s blessing.

  “May grace pour over the union and amply warm our brother and his mate as they journey intae a new life, and may the joy they have given tae us be returned tae their bosom sevenfold.” There was a soft murmuring hum in answer to this that sounded like a chorus of gentle reeds.

  “We gather here tae acknowledge this act of divine kindness and tae give our own humble blessings tae this miracle—this revival of our flesh and blood, this revival of hope that the NicnanRon brings. The People shall live still.”

  Ruairidh’s eyes glowed gently and Hexy could feel her own eyes fill with tears. The moment would have been perfect, if only there had been some mention of love.

  “All health and blessing upon ye. May the seeds of this act of divine charity find fertile ground and bring prosperity to ye in abundance. This I wish for ye both. Gae now and receive the blessings of yer clan and kin, and may the strength of yer union shine forth as a beacon for the People.”

  Ruairidh leaned over and brushed his lips against Hexy’s, drawing a cheer like a blast of horns from the assembly, which shook the little chapel. A tempest of strange atonal vowels filled the air. And at the windows there was a great fluttering of birds’ wings, as though the avians who had come to witness the ceremony were also applauding.

  Turning, with hands still linked, Hexy and Ruairidh faced their guests. In front was Jillian, wide-eyed but smiling, applauding enthusiastically. But something about her had changed. Hexy recognized the look she wore. It was the slightly unfocused gaze of one lost to some otherworldly attraction.

  Keir had a hand resting on her neck, and he wore a smug expression on his face as he lounged beside her. The placement of his limb on Jillian’s nape suggested to Hexy the classic selkie seduction maneuver.

  Hexy scowled. The move might be a classic among selkies and their usual village prey, but Jillian had not read many erotic classics—and certainly none about mythical seducers from the sea. Under normal circumstances, Hexy would have backed Jillian to win against any marauding male. But she knew for herself how ineffectual one’s best efforts could be when a selkie got serious about his wooing. They could be very sweet, but they were also ruthless.

  “Ruairidh,” she began.

  “I see it. But there isnae harm in it. He is just amusing himself.”

  “Ha! He probably wants Fintry.”

  “Naebody wants Fintry. And Father shall watch out for her. Now come greet our guests.”

  Hexy had to admit that this was probably true, but she still planned on speaking to Jillian as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Not that she would have much hope of dispelling Jillian’s attraction to Keir as long as he was luring her with salt. And Cathair seemed more than a little distracted from his duties as host by the shimmering presence that was Irial.

  Perhaps some yew in Jillian’s pocket would do the trick. Or a little yew tucked into Keir’s cast-off skin. If he put it on without noticing, it would itch like poison ivy and distract him from his plans.

  It was quite a while before they could get away from their guests and return to the peace of their island cottage, but the homecoming was a beautiful one.

  Someone had been there before them, filling the house with flowers and candles—dozens of them that flickered in a small galaxy of hot stars. There were tall tapers stuck into bottles and candlestick holders, and shorter, fatter candles guttering in saucers and jars placed on the table and the small mantel above the unused fireplace.

  “Ruairidh,” she breathed, feeling the tiny points of flame reaching across the room to tickle her naked flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Aye.” He drew in a breath and then said with surprise, “It was Keir. ’Tis he who left this present for us.”

  “Truly? Then I shall have to thank him later.” Hexy hung her skin on a peg near the door. Unlike Ruairidh’s fur, which dried the instant he came on land, hers always had to drip-dry.

  “I hope ye will, aroon. I believe that he is ready tae make peace wi’ ye now.”

  Hexy thought about the way Keir had hovered over Jillian and balanced it against the beautiful gift of much-loathed fire he had left for them. “We’ll see. In any event, I shall certainly thank him for arranging this.”

  Ruairidh sighed theatrically. “I should insist,” he said, running a finger down her neck and causing her to shiver. “But I must admit that I hae other matters preying on my mind.”

  “On your mind?” she asked, turning to look at Ruairidh’s gleaming flesh, which shone like honey in the candlelight. His body had begun to stir. Entranced by his beauty as she always was, Hexy reached for her husband. “I fear that your organs have been disarranged. Or is your anatomy so different from my own?”

  Ruairidh’s arms closed about her, pulling her tight against him. His tumescence was pressed between them. “I’m nae different than any other man. It is just that as a lassie, ye cannae understand.”

  “Oh, I understand,” she answered, smiling up at him. “It’s really very simple—only one moving part.”

  “I think I’d best remind ye of the importance of that part.” Ruairidh scooped her up and headed for their bed.

  “By all means, remind me,” Hexy answered, then laughed into Ruairidh’s beautiful eyes.

  “Wi’ pleasure, aroon.”

  Epilogue

  Before the first bad storm of late autumn Hexy and Ruairidh returned to Avocamor. On the last day in their cottage, Hexy burned a small branch of rowan, since it was supposed to keep away any evil from a home for the space of a year.

  Ruairidh had been concerned about Hexy growing bored in Avocamor without female companionship, but his concerns proved groundless. Until the time of her confinement she was able to make visits to the village, and she also had two frequent female visitors: Syr and Irial. There was no teary tempest of argument about spending the winter there.

  In the beginning Ruairidh and Keir found it very odd to face their mother, especially as she again shared Cathair’s bed when she visited. But since she was not at all sentimental, and did not show any desire to be addressed by any title other than her name, they were soon able to put themselves at ease and enjoy her very non-maternal presence.

  Syr was a stranger creature by far than Irial, her mood and expression somber. But she was slowly learning to laugh in Domnach’s company, and all of Avocamor was hoping for another productive union.

  A new
treaty was made with the finmen, with their territory set to the extreme north of Hildaland, and there was celebrating in Avocamor because war had been avoided. And the People’s joy was increased when three other finwomen asked to stay with them—and they were allowed to.

  Though Hexy said nothing to Ruairidh about the passing of time and what the land calendar said of the date, he nevertheless knew when it was the season of Yule, and with the help of his brother, they were able to drag a small pine tree down to Avocamor.

  What Cathair and Keir truly thought of this strange decoration, Hexy never knew. But they brought her strings of pearls and pretty shells to decorate it with. They also came in for each of the twelve days of Christmas to sing and play the clarsach for her. At first, the primative harp had sounded odd, because it could play no sharps or flats, but gradually an appreciation for the beauty of selkie music grew in her and she came to love it passionately, and asked Cathair to teach her how to play.

  Her lessons had to be delayed for a while, though, because it was on Twelfth Night that their children chose to enter the world. As she had known, almost from the beginning, the babes were two beautiful girls. They had their mother’s red hair but their father’s beautiful eyes.

  Hexy’s labor was an easy one, since Ruairidh was there with numbing salts and Irial was nearby in case she needed stronger healing magic.

  The girls were called Catriona and Mairi, knowing that on land they would be Catherine and Mary.

  Avocamor again rejoiced and there was another celebration, which involved consuming a great deal of a strange species of fish. Hexy passed up much of the mealtime offerings. Once she was no longer pregnant, the appeal of raw fish had left her.

  The winter was a happy one, but as soon as the weather moderated, Hexy and Ruairidh took the children back to the island cottage, where they would not be visited daily by curious selkie and finfolk.

  Not that they were permitted to go for many days in a row without visitors. Irial and Syr came regularly, and a week after they were settled, Jillian arrived at the cottage escorted by Keir.

  Jillian’s expression was dreamy and Keir’s defiant, but Hexy did not say anything while they were all together.

  Her former employer brought what she imagined to be appropriate baby gifts, though when the girls would have occasion to wear such delicate ruffled gowns Hexy could not imagine. Still, the gesture was well meant, and both Hexy and Ruairidh were sincere in their thanks.

  It surprised Hexy to see how good Jillian was with the babies, for nothing in their former relationship had led her to suppose that Jillian had had any experience with infants. But whatever the reason, past experience or natural aptitude, Jillian had a knack for making the girls smile.

  Hexy bided their time until there was a natural occasion to speak to Jillian alone. But once they had their privacy over the tea things, she broached the subject of Keir’s attentions.

  She was quite shocked when Jillian giggled at her warning. She had expected indignation, or perhaps fear, but she had never anticipated laughter.

  “Of course he was out to seduce me, darling. He has been for months. Don’t think that I didn’t make him wait for a good long while—and bring some lovely gifts, too.” Jillian touched the strand of pink pearls that hung from her neck and then went back to setting out cups and saucers.

  “And you weren’t surprised at the different—um—” Hexy tried to think of a way of asking about their making love without being crude.

  “Yes, I was!” Her lovely eyes widened, but her mouth was mischievous. “But, darling, that is half the fun. What other man could actually drive you mad?”

  “Well, frankly, Donny’s talk of cars was enough to drive me mad,” Hexy joked.

  A dimple peeped in Jillian’s cheek.

  “Mad with passion, I meant.”

  “None that I know of,” Hexy admitted, trying not to smile. “But Jillian, this is serious. Did he explain about—about children?”

  Jillian gave a trill of laughter. “You are too precious. Darling, I’ve known for ages about how not to have children!” Jillian’s expression suddenly grew sober. “Until now, I’ve never considered having any. I mean, the inconvenience is almost unimaginable.”

  Just then Ruairidh and Keir returned to the cottage. Hexy gathered up the tea tray and led the way back to the front of the cottage, which functioned as the parlor. Setting the delicate pot down with care, she leaned toward her brother-in-law and whispered, “I want a word with you later.”

  Keir nodded, looking both rueful and resigned.

  Hexy didn’t have another opportunity to speak privately to Keir that day, but she did extract a promise of a return visit on the morrow. Ruairidh’s unusually serious expression told Hexy that he had already either guessed or been told by Keir about his relationship with Jillian.

  “We’re alone,” Ruairidh said, lifting a hand in farewell to the rowboat that bore their visitors away. “And the bairns are sleeping.”

  “Yes, they are,” Hexy agreed, dropping her honeysuckle bouquet and slipping an arm about Ruairidh’s waist. She turned to face him. “Jillian was just reminding me about a particular virtue of the selkie.”

  “Aye. She values her fresh fish, then, does she?” He wrapped his arms about his wife and held her loosely.

  “Um…no.”

  “If it isnae his skills of fishery, then ’tis his knack for finding pearls, is it nae?”

  “No—well, perhaps that is a bit of it,” she admitted. “But it isn’t the main attraction.”

  “Nay?”

  “No.” Hexy’s hands crept under Ruairidh’s shirt. “What she likes best is being…driven mad with passion.”

  “That’s what she likes best?” Ruairidh feigned surprise. “What a strange lass she is, tae be sure.”

  Hexy pinched him.

  “I should not in the least mind being driven mad with passion,” she added. “At least for a little while.”

  “Well, there shall be nae more passion for ye until ye’ve consulted yer calendar,” Ruairidh answered firmly.

  Hexy blinked.

  “Why should I consult the calendar?” she asked, confused.

  “Because I want ye tae make note of the fact that a year and two days has passed since we were joined and that I am still wi’ ye.”

  “So you are,” Hexy answered, a wonderful smile dawning. “But that is an excellent reason for a bit of madness.”

  “Aye, it is,” Ruairidh agreed, bending at the knees and scooping her up in his arms. “I just wanted ye tae make note of it.”

  “It is duly noted.”

  “And also, for the record, I love ye, aroon.”

  Hexy blinked back sudden tears.

  “And I love you, too, Ruairidh.”

  “Good. Then I am all for a bittock of madness myself,” he answered happily, as they disappeared inside their cottage.

  Author’s Note

  Unlike Night Visitor, whose faeries were comparatively easy to investigate, there is not a great deal of information available about the selkies of Scotland. To any of their descendents, I make apologies for deficiencies of fact about their culture, language, etc. I hope a vivid imagination has somewhat compensated for the lack of concrete information.

  The Selkie is set at an odd time for romance novels. Not much has been written about Scotland in the 1920s, probably because it was a bleak era; people were recovering from the first World War. There were many exciting things about this era, though, which made it ideal for this story. Aside from having fun with the clothes and early MG roadsters, the time period also allowed for the introduction of the beginnings of technology and medical enlightenment—mainly a knowledge of allergies and the telephone, which were very useful plot devices.

  In addition to the resources listed below, I had input from readers and friends. My finmen—Sevin, Turpin and Brodir—were all named by readers. And I want to thank Nikki from Horrorlit for being especially helpful with matters of traveling circuses in Gre
at Britain.

  While saying thanks, there are two other people I need to mention: my good friend Lynsay Sands and my long-suffering agent Helen. Writers—though happy with their solitary careers—sometimes need a cheering section, and these two have always generously supplied it. (NOTE: My editor is long-suffering, too, but he has been given his own dedication in another book. And besides, I already apologized for that joke about the heroine giving birth to a litter of seal pups.)

  Welcome to my version of 1929 Scotland. The pleasure of your company on these adventures is always special. Hope you enjoyed the visit.

  —Melanie Jackson

  Resource List:

  The Rites of Odin by Ed Fitch

  A Dictionary of Ghost Lore by Peter Haining

  The World Guide to Gnomes, Fairies, Elves and Other Little People by Thomas Keightly

  Scottish Ghost Stories by Elliott O’Donnell

  The Ghost Book by Alsadair Alpine MacGregor

  Oicheanta Si (Faery Nights) by Michael mac Liammoir

  Cornish Faeries by Robert Hunt

  Ireland by Richard Lovett

  And special thanks to Deborah Anne Mac-Gillivray of W.I.S.E.

  http://mars.ark.com/˜ramsay/selkies.htm

  http://www.orkneyjar.com/folklore/finfolk/index.html

  http://www.fortunecity.com/rivendell/ chronos/254/merrow.html

  http://www.legends.dm.net/fairy/selchies.html

  http://userpages.umbc.edu/˜dgovar1/selkies.html

  http://www.contemplator.com/folk.html

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