Song of the Selkies

by Cathie Dunsford

  ‘But it isn’t finished yet. What about the old lamps and carpet you liked,’ pleads Cowrie, loving the energy of the auction and the people watching.

  ‘Got to beat the rush to lunch,’ winks Morrigan, leading her toward the cafeteria. Inside, a few people from the auction are already lined up for their baked tatties, pies, chips, haggis and baked beans. Cowrie watches in amazement as Morrigan orders the Auction Special and her plate is piled high with sausages, eggs, chips, baked beans and a mince laden roll on top. The cafeteria waitress then pours on half-a-cup of sweetened tomato sauce and Morrigan nods, as if they are talking in a silent code, and she squeezes mustard from a tube like toothpaste, in a swirling motion, onto the tomato sauce mixture. Pleased with her effort, she hands it over to Morrigan, ‘enjoy it, love’, then yells out ‘next’ to Cowrie. Still intrigued, Cowrie orders a salmon sandwich, and is shocked to find it is tinned salmon, here in the land of oak-smoked fresh-caught Orkney salmon, famous throughout Scotland, nay the world if you believe the brochures put out by the local tourist board.

  Morrigan nudges her to the cashier. ‘No complaints, stranger. This is the Kirkwall Auction, not the bloody Savoy Hotel.’ With that, Morrigan hands over a few quid and gestures them to a table in the corner where the smoke will not be so bad. There they discuss the morning’s deals and what they intend to bid for in the afternoon, with Morrigan stipulating that they must never go above a fiver for anything and that if they stay silent long enough on items of interest to few others, they will walk off with a truck load of furniture, enough to make the cottages habitable.

  Cowrie waits for a suitable lull in the conversation. ‘Morrigan, how come you are always gone at night? Do you have a secret lover or something?’

  Morrigan shifts uncomfortably in her seat, as if she has been waiting for this question. ‘Not that it’s any of your bloody business, but I am a fisher by night. I own a dory with a fellow in Finstown. I didn’t buy the cottages on the giro, you know.’

  ‘The giro?’

  ‘The unemployment benefit. We lay the lobster and crab creels by night and collect them again the next night. Allows for time in the day to write and think. I like that.’

  ‘I loved your stories at the festival. But it must be hard work fishing by night and writing by day?’

  ‘I spend as much time thinking as writing. And talking to some of the folk around the island. They’re full of stories handed down within families and parishes. Takes some time and a lot of oatcakes and strong tea to get all the details from them, but it’s extraordinary what comes out sometimes.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Morrigan gets a distant look in her eye, pushes away her plate, and leans toward Cowrie. ‘You know the peedie steward on the ‘St Ola’ when we sailed over?’

  ‘The short one with the dark hair and dark eyes, who Camilla thought was Italian?’

  ‘Aye. He’s descended from the selkie folk. His ancestors were seals and it is said that he inherited their skills. You should see the way he swims. I’ve watched him at nights in the Stromness Pool. Looks like he has fins. And he dives under with his back feet together, pushing up and down, more like a seal pup than a peedie person.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Cowrie looks into her eyes, but sees no trace of humour. Morrigan pulls out a pipe, fills it carefully, then lights up. Clearly she’s chosen the non-smoking area for Cowrie, but now has invaded it herself. Cowrie does not protest, since she is more interested in finding out more about the sealfolk. But Morrigan is not to be budged.

  ‘That’s what I was told. Believe it or not. Folk around here are divided into the believers and non-believers. Maybe it’s all myth.’ She sucks air into her pipe and blows the smoke out again, idly making rings with her mouth.

  Before Cowrie can pin her down again, the bell rings and everyone pours back into the auction rooms for a smokey afternoon of heavy bidding and concentrated energy. Between bids, Cowrie wonders how come Morrigan saw the peedie man from the boat swimming in the pool at night if she is always out fishing. She likes Morrigan, despite her gruffness at times, but something is still strange about her, inconsistent, like she is covering up for someone, maybe herself.

  By the end of the day, they have accumulated enough furniture to make do in the other cottages. Morrigan explains that she and her partner will collect it from the auction rooms with his trailer before they go fishing tonight and drop it off at the cottage for Cowrie and Camilla to arrange how they please. So Kelpie is a man, Cowrie reasons, disappointed since Morrigan had always struck her as a butch dyke with her sideburns and barber shop haircut, her tweed cap perched back on her head. Or maybe, thinks Cowrie, amused, maybe he is a seal with a name like that. She chuckles to herself as they head home in the van with a few box loads of kitchen goods bought for fifty pence each.

  They take the Orphir Road back from Kirkwall, and Morrigan makes a detour to collect some food for dinner. They arrive at a cliff edge covered in beautiful wildflowers and herbs like thrift and sorrel sprouting amidst the wind-blown heather and looking down over a sandy bay where the tide goes out for miles. Morrigan collects bags from the back of the van and hands Cowrie a knife, beckoning her to follow the cliff path down to the beach. Cowrie asks what the knife is for. All she can hear back through the blustering wind is ‘spoots’. What the hell are spoots, she wonders, marching behind Morrigan in her gumboots and oilskin. Morrigan needs neither for protection. It’s as if she was born in the sea.

  [10]

  ‘Urgh. How uncivilised!’ Camilla rolls her eyes in disgust as the white penis-like erection slithers towards her on the rack. It hisses at her, sending out a spray of salt water, then withdraws into its shell to prepare for another attack, until it begins to sizzle over the peat fire and finally gives up its last struggle for survival. Even Cowrie, who loves shellfish, feels uncomfortable about cooking it alive.

  ‘You’re hypocritical wimps. You’ll eat smoked farmed salmon and packaged lamb which has led a miserable life fenced into wind-blown pastures, force-fed then taken to the slaughterhouse to be hacked into pieces with a chainsaw, but you can’t look at spoots cooked over a fire. The only difference is that you don’t see the fish being caught and processed and the lambs being murdered and because you don’t see it, you don’t think about it.’ Morrigan has a swig of Scapa from one glass and a swig of Highland Park from another. ‘Think I’ll settle for the Scapa tonight,’ she admits. ‘Those buggers at Highland Park are a bit smooth for my liking, though their single malt is damned hard to beat. She pours another glass, swills it around in her hand, and downs it in one go. ‘That’ll keep me warm for the fish tonight,’ she grins, laughing to herself.

  Camilla starts into a debate on the relative merits of fish, meat and vegetarianism, blaming radical activists and Oprah Winfrey for the downturn in beef sales due to BSE in the UK. Morrigan argues with her and Cowrie concentrates on the spoots opening their shells and revealing their beautiful fleshy bodies sizzling in succulent seawater. What an extraordinary experience, walking backwards over the sands at Waulkmill Bay to trick the spoots into thinking you were leaving rather than coming, then plunging a knife into the hole and attempting to pull them up before they burrow deeper into the sand. She and Morrigan had a hilarious time battling it out with the razor fish, known locally as spoots, and for each one caught, at least three more dived their way to freedom. She doesn’t feel quite so bad knowing this, but Morrigan has a worthwhile point too.

  By now, Camilla has worked herself into a eulogy of protection for the poor fox hunters of England who may be privileged enough to own mansions and horses and packs of dogs and pretty clothes, but they are wickedly attacked by those misguided animal activists who are probably Greens or Lib Dems in disguise anyway, if not New Labour, the way they are behaving. Cowrie interrupts their argument, which is leading nowhere fast but simply reinforcing their own intractable positions, by sliding spoots onto their plates, shell and all. Camilla is dis tracted by the black and
brown intestines and threatens to be sick. That is enough to make Morrigan remove the plate, having experienced this before, and cut off the lower part of the spoots, leaving only the tops. Once Camilla tastes the scallop-like flavour, shutting her eyes against the memory of their live wriggling bodies, she is hooked and asks if next time they could buy them frozen to avoid seeing them die. At this point, Morrigan rolls her eyes, wondering if she had been heard at all by Camilla, and prepares to depart for her night duty.

  ‘I’ll be back soon with the auction furniture so you lovely ladies can amuse yourself tonight while I’m out fishing. No fighting now.’ She grins, clamps down her cap, and marches down to the van, yelling back, ‘Thanks for the barbecue, Cowrie. Next time, make sure there are more tatties!’ The stones fly out from under her wheels as she takes off with a roar, leaving Cowrie and Camilla, as usual, to clear up and do the dishes.

  ‘How do you think she coped before we came?’ asks Camilla, picking up the plates.

  ‘I reckon she ate from one bowl and had very simple food. Look at her kitchen. It’s a bachelor pad.’

  ‘She needs a good woman to take care of her,’ asserts Camilla, wiping clean the outside table.

  Maybe you, thinks Cowrie, loving the idea of these two stuck in the cottage forever debating the issues of existence. Until this moment, it had never occurred to her that it may be Camilla and not Morrigan who is the closet dyke after all.

  When they have finished the dishes, Morrigan returns in a large truck loaded up with the furniture, and three chaps to help unload it, Billy, Pete and Squiddy. Cowrie recognises the man from the auction who got the farm equipment, but he never even raises an eyebrow to her now. They unload and are back in the truck heading for the harbour to load up their boats for the night’s fishing. No Kelpie, as Cowrie had expected. The mystery remains. She cannot imagine he could be one of these fellows. Then again, with Morrigan, you never can tell.

  [11]

  ‘She’s coming oot to see us tonight, Fiona. I can feel it in my bones. She’ll tell us why they are here and what they want from us.’

  Fiona munches on a kelpy branch swinging in the surf, not much concerned about what the Nofins want or do not want. She is relieved to be free of them, at last, and has no desire to return to the confines of the house of Skaill where she was imprisoned in the feudal system of domestic slavery and a prisoner to expectations and outward shows of manners and etiquette.

  Sandy swims near her, sensing her reluctance and fins gently up her side, along her belly, down to her tail fins. Fiona shudders with delight, swings around and fins him under his chin. They nuzzle and play and swim away again.

  ‘I think the time has come to share our knowledge. Morrigan has told us this. She always predicted this day would arrive. But I’m not sure yee’re ready for it, Fe.’ Sandy looks her closely in the eyes. Fiona can never resist this from him. She eyes him back, finning the water around her, sending a fleshy, succulent seaweed branch floating towards him. Sandy smiles, knowing she can always distract him, especially when she is not ready to answer or commit herself to any action.

  ‘I just hope Morrigan knows what she is letting herself in for. Releasing knowledge too soon is as bad as never at all.’ Sandy notices a longfin cruising nearby and nudges Fiona into the shadows of the thick forest of kelp that lines the rock ledges until he has passed on.

  Soon, a whirring through the waters. Then silence. A dark oval shape glides above them, floating on the surface, lapping in the swell. A crashing sound as a huge crate breaks the surface of the sea, then slowly sinks down past them, weighted by lead sinkers and lands on the rocky floor, baited and inviting fat lobsters to crawl inside. Then a splash, as something larger hits the waves, huge fins first and body after. Is it her, is it Morrigan, come to see them?

  [12]

  Finally the day has arrived. The big bird whirrs in from the skies above Kirkwall and lands in forty-knot winds despite all odds. Cowrie’s heart beats as the passengers disembark. No Monique, no Sasha. Then they appear from behind a burly man. After them, a sweet young couple holding hands. As they approach, Cowrie recognises it is DK and Uretsete following behind and she rushes toward them in glee, glad that she and Camilla have had time to prepare the cottages since both groups have now arrived together.

  After greetings all round, and baggage collecting, Cowrie guides them towards the van which Morrigan let her borrow for the day. They pile in, eager to tell her about their adventures in Scotland after the Edinburgh Festival. Monique and Sasha drove through the Highlands, stopping off at various points to tramp in the heather and peats and DK and Uretsete took a bus and boat to Mull and then to Iona and had ‘amazing mystical experiences’ according to DK. Cowrie laughs, thinking how the younger DK she first met would have scoffed at such an idea, and how her relationship with Uretsete has changed her. They fight to be first to tell their stories, but it is a relief to be with their bubbling energy after the more dour and constrained company of Morrigan and Camilla.

  They drive through Finstown and Cowrie notices the fishing dory, ‘Selkie Too’, part-owned by Morrigan, is not back in port yet. It is now 10 a.m. and way past the time Morrigan usually ties up. She stops at Seafayre and takes them into the large seaside barn where thousands of fresh scallops, oysters, cockles, mussels and spoots lie in freshly piped seawater, waiting to be exported. The young woman hosing down the shellfish recognises Cowrie and waves. She approaches and asks what they want. Cowrie tells them to choose what they’d like for dinner and they can later cook it over the peat fire. As they point out the most appealing crustaceans, the woman wades into the pools in her gumboots and picks out the chosen shellfish with a net. They cannot believe their eyes at the luxury of such fresh seafood at such a reasonable cost. Nor could Cowrie, the day Morrigan brought her in here and introduced her to Shelley. They pay in cash and depart, the van full of luscious kai moana.

  Uretsete and DK are waxing lyrical about the awesome beauty of Iona and the wonderful tales they heard from the locals about the island, weaving their impressions of nature and the inner stories of the island history and folktales into an appetising whole. All the while, Sasha listens with interest as Cowrie watches her through the rear vision mirror. At one point, Sasha catches her eye and winks. Cowrie winks back. There is such humour and beauty in this woman, such energy. Cowrie is transported into the theatre where Sasha first performed her Inuit stories, and she especially loved the tale of the seals. Suddenly, a truck nearly edges them off the road. Cowrie had allowed her concentration to lapse a moment and they narrowly avoid a deep ditch. Looking back in the mirror, Cowrie sees not Sasha, but the back of Morrigan’s head as she whooshes by. She could swear it was the same truck that delivered the furniture. So how come Morrigan’s dory had not yet returned? ‘Hey, watch the road, Prof,’ DK warns, grinning. Cowrie returns to the present, murmuring an apology to the group and soon the talk returns to their journeys.

  By the time they arrive at the Bay of Skaill, Morrigan is sitting at the table with Camilla, tucking into a hearty brunch of baked beans and fried eggs, oatcakes and tea, looking like she has been there for hours. She greets them with energy and says Cowrie will show them to their accommodation. The women are charmed by the cottages, not noticing the leaks and ruined walls, so good has been the renovation work. Curtains from the auction, found crumpled in the bottom of boxes bought for fifty pence, cover the worst. They pile their bags onto auction beds, none more than two pounds each and a bunk for three quid, and hungrily eye the shellfish, asking Cowrie when the peat fire is to be started and why they have to wait for dinner. Camilla diverts them with Westray shortbread, Orkney fudge and a huge pot of tea made from water constantly boiling on the old coal range. They settle for baked beans as a second course, agreeing to wait for the shellfish feast this evening.

  Later, Cowrie asks Camilla when Morrigan arrived. She replies that she was dropped off at the gate only a short time before Cowrie returned with the others and asked her to whi
p up a breakfast as soon as possible since she was craving food. Camilla, glad to be of help, did so. Cowrie grills her as to the vehicle that dropped Morrigan off, but Camilla only heard it, though she says it’s possible it was a truck. She still cannot figure out how come the dory was not tied up. Maybe it’s in for a repair. Morrigan said it had a few leaks and would have to be fixed soon. It’s pointless worrying anyway. Clearly Morrigan has her life sorted, and Cowrie would rather think about Sasha now.

  The rest of the day is spent walking around the Bay of Skaill, over the rocks to see the fulmars nesting in amongst the pink thrift high up in the cliffs opposite Skara Brae, which Cowrie is still waiting to visit. The fulmars resemble lusciously fat seagulls with their cream breasts and grey wings merging into the rocky ledges. The rocks are sculpted with lava flow lines, wind and sea-carved sandstone, forming shapes that most artists would yearn to create. The pied oystercatchers, locally known as shaldro, shriek and scream in high-pitched calls when they go anywhere near their young, nesting in amongst the small rocky caves and ledges. Seaweed swirls in the tide, large leathery strands floating on the surface, and Skara Brae still calls to them from the banks on the other side of the bay.

  In the evening, they light a peat fire and roast their seafood over the grate, marvelling at the earthy, rich taste of the peat smoking through the food. Morrigan provides a sampling of peat-soaked single malt whiskies of various ages and for the first time since their arrival, she takes the night off and is relaxed. Maybe it is just the strain of battling the harsh seas and winds off Orkney to fish that makes her so surly at times, thinks Cowrie, ashamed she has ever doubted Morrigan.

  Out in the bay, the seals float amongst the kelp, wailing in vain. For tonight, she’ll not be coming, no matter how long they wait for her. Their heads bob up and down as the swells rise and fall, and they glance over to Skara Brae, then up the slopes towards the cottages. Smoke rises from the roof and laughter rebounds off the walls. They look intently at each other. It is a time for celebration. The women of Skara Brae have finally returned.