Song of the Selkies

by Cathie Dunsford

  ‘If only she would open out to me,’ moans Camilla. ‘Unburden herself. Sometimes I think she carries around dark secrets in her soul and she needs to open herself to God to reach a state of peace.’

  ‘Maybe so, Camilla, but it could simply be a bad fishing week from what I have seen of Morrigan’s mood swings,’ suggests Monique. ‘God never did much for my grievances. In fact, he was used to support racism and homophobia in many cases. I don’t have a lot of time for the old bearded man in the skies myself.’

  ‘That’s simply not true. He was never bigoted. It is just some churches and people who take the bible very literally who use the texts in that way to support their own bigotry in ignorance rather than hatred,’ replies Camilla.

  ‘It’s pretty hard to distinguish that kind of ignorance from hatred when your own people are cast aside for the colour of their skin or their belief systems,’ replies Monique.

  Cowrie senses a pointless feud about to erupt, with each side arguing and neither listening, and steps in by asking Camilla what, specifically, she thinks is wrong with Morrigan. Camilla gives this some thought and replies that it is certainly something to do with the spirit that is eating at her rather than money or material concerns. Monique is about to challenge her and ask what presumption she is using to judge such a situation but Cowrie’s frown warns her off and she returns to her cataloguing of the Skara Brae photographs. It is clear to her that Cowrie is on some line of inquiry for some purpose and, besides, Camilla is a right-wing fundamentalist, as far as Monique is concerned, and thus not worth arguing with really. Cowrie persists. ‘But you have been quite close to her over these past few weeks. What do you think could be worrying her spiritually so much?’ ‘I don’t know, Cowrie. I’m not her confessor,’ Camilla replies, abruptly, clearly not happy that the answer has eluded her also.

  ‘Well, she has seemed to give different versions of events at times, according to the occasion, and I find that usually means a covering up for someone or something,’ Cowrie suggests tentatively.

  ‘Maybe so,’ Camilla admits, recalling those early few days with Morrigan. ‘But deep down I believe she is a woman of integrity, even though she seems to waver from time to time. You should be more forgiving, Cowrie. Look at how hard she works, fishing every night and seldom taking time off.’

  ‘True,’ says Cowrie, also remembering the times Morrigan was in the fields keeping watch on the cottage and not out fishing in the first few days after they arrived, and her odd appearance at the pub or in other places when fishing has been the cover. Then what about the chest she found in the shed, which has since disappeared, and the strange case of the dying seal in her net yesterday at Stromness?

  When they had asked her if she had come back to Finstown, she replied yes. But when pushed, and after she realised they had seen her in Stromness with a dying seal in her net, she admitted that one had got caught by mistake in some fisherman’s net. Not hers, she added quickly, since she is a crab and lobster fisher, requiring creels not nets. She’d rescued it on realising it was dying and brought it in to be taken to the Seal Rescue Centre for help. Later, Cowrie called the SRC to ask how it was and they said nobody had bought in a wounded seal for three weeks and they hoped it would stay that way. ‘If any are found,’ the woman had added, ‘we always get to know about it.’ ‘Island Seal-line,’ she volunteered, with a chuckle.

  Uretsete suggests they focus on the workshops again if they hope to get out that afternoon, so they discuss various ways of facilitating such workshops to get the most from the participants. Again the idea of getting permission to hold a celebration where the workshop participants get to share their stories around a fire on a site near the Ring of Brodgar is discussed. Maybe a few musicians could help turn it into a ceilidh. Camilla will check with Morrigan about who owns the nearest land and, failing that, will approach the Orkney Islands Council and the Scottish Heritage Trust.

  ‘What happens if none of them are open to it?’ asks DK. ‘Do we just invade the land like the groups at Stonehenge each solstice?’

  ‘No. It is sacred land and we need to convince the people in charge that we intend to use it sacredly, much in line with how it was used ceremonially in the neolithic period,’ Uretsete says. ‘How can they object to that?’

  ‘Oh, they can indeed,’ replies Cowrie, telling them of the peaceful occupation of Maori land at Bastion Point, Auckland, and how, after 501 days of occupation, more police and army were brought in than occupiers, and they literally dragged men, women, elders and children from their own land.

  ‘So what happened after that?’ asks Monique.

  ‘The state had used the land behind for housing and wanted more, since it was prime real estate. After that, there was so much support for the Maori occupation that they were forced to give the land back, so everyone could enjoy it.’

  ‘I recall you telling us about that on Great Turtle Island,’ adds Uretsete, ‘and it was inspiring to many Navajo and Hopi fighting to retain Big Mountain, Arizona at the time.’

  ‘Ae. The only hope for our survival is to work together and inspire each other,’ replies Cowrie. ‘Besides, it’s much more fun than suffering in silence.’

  ‘Try telling Morrigan,’ replies Camilla, sighing.

  ‘Don’t worry, Camilla. She’ll come right. She’s bound to have her reasons,’ Sasha offers. ‘Just let her be.’

  ‘Just let who be?’ Morrigan asks, suddenly appearing in the doorway. ‘You gossiping about me again, then?’ She looks accusingly at Cowrie, then Camilla.

  ‘No,’ replies Camilla truthfully, ‘we’re simply concerned.’

  ‘Well, get unconcerned then. There’s nothing wrong. Now do you want me to look over those workshop plans or not?’ Morrigan sits down next to DK and surveys the written ideas. ‘Not bad,’ she admits, ‘for a bunch of ferryloopers, that is.’ She grins. ‘But you’ll need to do more to get locals talking about their family stories. I think you should add a workshop here starting with something very simple, like telling a story about a piece of jewellery or a stone or a hunk of furniture. You’ll be amazed at what emerges, then build on the stories from there. They have a productive session with Morrigan contributing and Cowrie wonders again if she has simply been too suspicious of Morrigan. She’s a good sort really and there is usually a credible explanation for her inconsistencies. Besides, we all have them. She resolves to lay off and concentrate on enjoying the company of the women, especially Sasha, whom she has been very close to since their day at the Brough of Birsay.

  Morrigan stretches her long legs and yawns. ‘That’s a damned site harder than a night’s fishing,’ she claims. ‘What say we all pile into the van and I take you over to the cliffs at Yesnaby to see if we can find any wild Orcadian primroses.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ replies Camilla, delighted that Morrigan is cheerful again. ‘Primula Scotica. That’s the wildflowers, correct?’

  ‘Those doon south pinch all our best wildflowers and name them after the Scots,’ Morrigan answers.

  ‘Then how come your most famous whisky is called Highland Park, after the Scottish Highlands?’ asks DK, tempting Morrigan to a rebuttal.

  ‘It was originally Hoy-land and some of the clan misunderstood, no doubt,’ mumbles Morrigan, suppressing a grin.

  They climb into the van and Morrigan drives them out on narrow farm roads to Yesnaby, pointing to sites of interest on the way. They park right at the cliff edge and walk over the hills, finding only a small patch of the wildflowers, then return to the high rock ledges towering out over the water. Cowrie and Sasha clamber to the very edge and perch themselves on a flat rock, bracing their feet against the wind on another ledge, with the others finding their own special places to watch the sunset. To their left is a large geo or chasm where the sea invades the rock and swirls inland to crash up against the rocky interior and be pushed back out like a wave in reverse, in turn smashing into the next incoming wave and causing water to spout up as if from huge whales lying beneath the s
ea. One of the far cliffs has a hole in it where waves crash through. Fulmars and guillemots glide below them, high up on the wind, struggling to make it back to their nests without being smashed into the rocks. The wind rips into the cliffs and flings pieces of heather and grass from the tufts in the rocks where they eek out a precarious existence. Sasha turns to Cowrie. ‘Wanna kiss, sweetheart?’

  ‘Too shy here, my little arctic tern. Wait until we are home.’

  ‘Tender Turtle, too soft for the cliff edge of Yesnaby.’ She nudges Cowrie warmly and they cuddle together in their oilskins to warm themselves against the wild westerly battering into the cliff face. From behind, they look like two seals perched on their rocks, ready to slide into the sea. Below them, Camilla trembles as Morrigan strides out to the edge of the cliff and peers over, as if looking for something in the surf. She stands there some time and for a chilling moment, when the wind surges in, Cowrie has the sensation that Morrigan is going to jump off. She stretches to her full height, leans out over the cliff and wavers a moment. Camilla calls her back. Morrigan leans further forward then a huge wave crashes up over her and forces her back to the inner part of the ledge where Camilla grabs her.

  Sasha and Cowrie look at each other in disbelief, thinking the same unutterable thought. Was Morrigan really about to top herself, in front of them all, after she’d seemed so much cheerier this afternoon? Yesnaby is famous for its dramatic suicides. Once a person has launched off the cliff, even if they survived after hitting the sea, their bodies would be frozen in minutes, or smashed alive against the rocky crags below. But why on earth would she even contemplate such a move? What could drive her to this desperation, wonders Cowrie, silently.

  They watch the sunset with no further dramas, and drive back in silence, each within her own space, DK and Uretsete contemplating the sunset, having not seen the drama, Camilla worrying about Morrigan, Sasha and Cowrie internally debating if what they saw really was what they thought, and Morrigan wondering why she had not had the courage to stay at the edge of the cliff when the wave surfed over her.

  By the time they return home, Morrigan is surly again and suggests they catch the boat to Hoy the next day since there is an excellent walk around the island to see the tall 450-foot rock named the Man of Hoy at the other side. Besides, she admits, she’s not going fishing tonight and would like a day of peace alone at the cottage if they don’t mind. Of course, they agree to go, but Camilla lies in bed hoping she will not do anything silly and Cowrie also wonders if she should be left alone after this evening’s drama. Sasha is sure Morrigan can look after herself and holds Cowrie in her arms, crooning into her ear. ‘Just remember that awesome sunset, Turtle, and let go of the clouds. The way that huge ball of fire sank into the sea, sending up orange and fiery light onto the bellies of the clouds above until they gleamed red. Recall those small billowy dragons spouting smoke from cream clouds turning to pink as they passed by, and the seal in the water which poked her head up and watched, as if looking at the humans looking at the sunset.’

  ‘What seal?’ asks Cowrie. ‘I didn’t see any seal.’

  ‘It was right below Morrigan when she hung out over the cliff edge. I thought she was trying to get a better look at it, actually, then teetered a bit before the wave crashed in.’

  ‘I never saw that. You have sharp sight, Sasha,’ Cowrie replies.

  ‘Dolphin radar,’ Sasha says, smiling. Cowrie kisses her on the cheek, cuddling into her, happy to be here. Sasha noses her way into Cowrie’s back, curling around her, holding her Turtle and humming softly into her shell.

  [20]

  ‘Look, dolphins, port-side,’ yells Sasha into the wind as they pass close to the island of Cava. They rush to the left side of the roll-on, roll-off ferry from Houton to Hoy, to see seven dolphins leaping from the water and heading toward their bow. Once they have caught up with the speed of the boat, they split into two groups, four one side of the bow and three the other and take turns in leaping as close as possible to the boat without ever getting hurt, while keeping perfect time with the ferry. They stay, exuberantly slicing the waters and playing with the boat as if she were another creature, until they near the island of Flotta. Then, as if knowing they are nearing a potential danger zone, they deftly leave the bow, as effortlessly as they arrived, and head off into the open sea.

  The massive structure of the Flotta Oil Terminal rises up from the island like a hideous growth. Morrigan explained to them earlier that it was considered a wonderful supplier of jobs to islands which have lost so much of their workforce to mainland Scotland, so was generally treated as a positive influence. But Cowrie and Sasha both argued that it was a huge risk to islands so dependant on tourism for survival as well as their fishing industry. The cost of a small oil spill, let alone a massive one, could nearly wipe out the island economy and it would be too late for regrets once it had happened.

  Now, they vigorously debate the pros and cons, with Sasha detailing the vast and hideous effects of the Exxon Valdez oil spill off the Alaskan Coast. She had been there visiting her Uncle Ben, who was involved in the salmon fishing industry, and the small business he ran with five other fishers was destroyed after the spill. All the men had to go on the unemployment benefit and some helped in the clean up, including Ben. For two weeks she went with him, each day picking up more dead seabirds and loading them onto trucks to be buried. Those still alive were carefully washed down and held at bird rescue centres, set up along the coastline, and returned to the water as soon as it was safe enough. But several ended up caught in the oil again when the winds and tides changed. Sometimes it seemed as if the slick had a life of its own and was following them, closing in on them as soon as they had cleared another stretch of coastline.

  ‘It was impossible to clean up. We simply did the best possible, but the oil seeped past the rocks and deep into the sands, killing shellfish and any vegetation near the shores, as well as seabirds and fish and seals and dolphins. Oil-soaked whales were found with their spouts blocked by the substance and they drifted towards the shores to be stranded in a black mass of treacle thick scum floating on the surface.’

  ‘But I thought they managed to contain the oil slick eventually and it was all cleaned up with rigorous attention to detail,’ comments Camilla, wrapping her scarf around her neck against the cold south-easterly.

  ‘That’s what Exxon would have you believe. They swung into action with their spin-doctors and PR consultants and paid scientists huge sums to say the right things, but I can tell you from seeing it first hand that you can never fully clean up an oil spill like that. You simply contain the worst damage and give the appearance that it has been cleaned.’

  ‘But surely that is an isolated case?’ Camilla pulls her scarf tighter and shades herself from the wind.

  ‘No way. There have been others that have not received as much media attention and some that have never been reported widely. But it’s estimated there are several dozen spills a year world wide, and that adds up when you count the damage. Once you have seen it up close, you can never believe the PR spin again.’ Sasha pulls her hood over her head.

  ‘I reckon.’ Cowrie focuses the binoculars as a cream and grey fulmar sweeps overhead and down near to the water, to glide back into a wind current and swoop up again. ‘There’s similar said about nuclear testing in the Pacific. That it’s harmless, contained, can be cleaned up afterwards. The same sort of bullshit PR. But once you have visited Moruroa and seen it, you can never ever believe that crap again.’

  ‘The worst thing,’ suggests Monique, ‘is that we may never know the full nature of the effects for a long time. How many oil spills have affected human and animal populations long term and what are their effects? The same with nuclear testing at Moruroa, throughout the Pacific and nuclear leaks all over Europe. The huge rise in cancer-related diseases is linked but this can seldom be conclusively proven, and where it is, the big boys’ spindoctors intervene.’

  ‘I think you are all being too se
nsitive to the situation,’ Camilla asserts. ‘It is inevitable in a modern society that these accidents will happen, but we simply have to learn to live with them and do the best we can.’

  Sasha intervenes. ‘No, Camilla. We do not have to live with them. That is the party-line and what they want us to believe. But there are other ways of living and it’s high time we matured enough to consider them instead of being threatened by them. My ancestors lived a sustainable existence without wiping out their or other species and there are plenty of models for doing this alongside modern technological developments. We simply need to think holistically to see the connections between the environment and how we live. It’s not difficult. But it does require care and effort.’

  Uretsete and DK emerge from below deck and point out the Island of Fara and the pier at Lyness, showing them the map, and explaining how they can get to see the Old Man of Hoy once they have landed. The huge Hoy Hills rise out of the sea and tower above, clouds moving fast across their belly, throwing shadows onto the island and dancing across the fields.

  They hop back into the van to disembark and drive off the ferry, following the signposts to Rackwick, along a narrow road that is flanked by fields. Eventually they see an arrow pointing toward the Old Man of Hoy and park near the outdoor centre, walking the rest of the way. The path they take leads to a wee burn or stream, which ambles gently through a lush ravine where sweet smelling honeysuckle clings to wildflowers, bushes and ferns of fuschia, aspen, rowan, bracken, dog-rose and some varieties not mentioned in their guide book nor known to them yet.

  After a while, they cross another stream and look further to see a waterfall with deliciously clear water. Sasha leads them upstream where they fill their bottles and taste the sweet waters of Hoy. ‘To clean water and air and earth,’ Sasha raises her bottle and they join her in a toast, except Camilla who prefers her thermos of Earl Grey. They return to the track and follow the signs to a small peaty path that slowly rises to the slopes of Moor Fea. DK insists they obey the signs literally at each of the kissing gates and kiss, while Camilla and Monique amuse themselves admiring the wildflowers, for which they both share a passion; Monique through the lens of her camera, and Camilla making brief sketches as they progress. They walk through heather and bracken as the path rounds until they see the ochre-red cliffs of Rora Head. They pause to watch the fulmars gliding on the wind and returning to their nests hidden in the crags of a vertical cliff.