The creak and moan of ships breaking apart filled my ears, and I was not sure who my family was punishing—their errant daughter or the human that had tamed me.
They left me to flounder and recover in the storm—humans had been thrown to the sea, their point had been made. Not a sympathetic eye was to be found amidst my siblings and cousins, not a friendly brush of fin or head. I was left to pull myself together as best I could, and to follow like a good daughter. A good selkie.
I pulled myself together, and swam towards the wreckage.
Never had I directly opposed my family so. I dove again and again, trying to find Benneit amidst the seething and unsettled water. I wriggled as well as I could through crest and froth, making progress where things not fey would surely be swamped. A bit of red caught my eye—Benneit's fox hair limp against his face as he clung desperately to a small bit of board, all that remained of the ship I had felt, heard, splinter and start to sink.
He was so pale, so cold, and barely breathing. I had no way of pulling him to shore—there was not enough strength left to me. My family had made sure of that. I was not sure he would have had the capacity to cling to a seal even if I had the strength to ferry him to safety.
Dylan loved him so.
It seemed I was going to give him my sealskin to keep after all. I removed it, gasping briefly at the sensation of arms and legs in the angry waters, missing webbing and insulating fur. I had to be quick—swimming like this was not natural, not easy. I curled my sealskin around Benneit's cold, still form, wrapping him in magic freely given, giving him my seal shape. A seal slipped awkwardly off the bit of wood he had been clinging to and stared at me with wide dark eyes. I wanted to laugh, tried to, but choked on water as a wave hit me in the face. I scrabbled onto the wood Benneit had so recently abandoned. So strange—fingers and toes and skin in the ocean. I hated the feel of water in my ears. I hated how very cold I was becoming. I hated feeling helpless.
Selkie-Benneit nudged me with his nose, eyes a mix of concern and confusion. "It's okay." I coughed to try and clear water out of places I did not think it had any business being. "Be safe. Go home. Go to Dylan."
It was very cold in the ocean without a sealskin. And I was very tired. I had given away my magic. I thought of Dylan's warm eyes as I closed my own.
I did not expect to wake up, but when I did it was with a choking cough that turned inappropriately quickly into a rough laugh. Dylan was asleep beside me, head pillowed on his arms as he rested up against the bed.
Bed. Dry and warm and still. This was very new, and I was still too raw to sort out whether or not I was interested and excited about new sensations.
"Coira?"
My waking, barking laugh, and slight shift had woken Dylan, and he rubbed at his eyes as he spoke my name.
I suppose I was still Coira, but the name curled differently through my ears now, carried a different meaning. Coira the girl. Coira without magic to let her sink beneath the sea as safely as a babe curling into its mother’s arms. Coira who had passed on her freedom. The realization, in the quiet that follows decisions made amidst conflict and confusion, was like sand in my teeth. Abrasive, bitter—I could not work through each individual granule, they were all too adept at getting into and under my skin.
"Hey, Coira. Talk to me." Dylan wrapped his arms around me as if trying to hold me together, hold me in. "Benneit brought you. He told me."
He smelled the same, dirt and dust and human sweat, a hint of something fresh from the oven. His voice was warm, heavy with concern and something close to that human entanglement known as love.
He was my selkie lord, beckoning me to come to him, to turn from everything I knew. I had been beaten at my own game. He was warm, and pressed tight against me so I could feel his breath, hear the rhythm of his heart.
"Thank you, Coira. Thank you for my brother."
That was not what I wanted to be thanked for, all things considered. I wanted to be thanked for not-so-soft kisses and little piles of gathered treasure. I wanted to be thanked for crooked smiles and runs across the beaches laughing in the moonlight. I did not want to be thanked for being human.
"Will you stay?" There was a note of nervousness amidst Dylan’s relieved gratitude, as if he still expected me, at any time, to try and slip away to somewhere he could not follow. Cautious with his hope—something I had taught him along the way, buried amidst the laughing and the loving.
"Yes.” My voice was rough, all of its pleasantness burned away by the ocean. Of course I would stay. How could I not? I had been mesmerized by this man since he showed me a handful of sea shells, so long ago. This thing we had, it had grown from whimsical interest into something I had no power to control.
We would learn secrets, Benneit and I. He would learn just what hid down in the darkest parts of the ocean, would learn how a seal laughed and how it felt to coax a pretty lass out into the waves. He would learn the art of slipping his skin into hidden places when he wanted to curl his arms around his brother in a hug. I would learn how Dylan looked on horseback, how dirt felt beneath my feet and what grass smelled like when it was rolled in. I would learn what to do with burning, abrasive love, to become familiar with the way it felt, like I had a mouthful of sand the first time I tried to shape the word with my voice.
"I will stay."
About the Author
April Steenburgh is an author and freelance eBook formatter living in the Finger Lakes Region of New York. She shares her small homestead with a lively band of animals and a very understanding husband. Her stories appear in The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity and Were-, and she edited the anthologies Fight Like a Girl and What Follows. When not writing, she can be found working as a librarian at a local community college. Online, you can find April at https://aprilsteenburgh.com/.
When Gracie’s Father Fought
Anthony Eichenlaub
That baby girl wasn’t mine, and I knew it soon as I saw her pale skin, luminescent green eyes, and seaweed hair.
My wife, Anna, looked up at me, sweaty from the effort of childbirth. “Don’t you say one word, Walter.” The little girl latched onto her breast.
I didn’t say a word. What was there to say? A shoe factory worker like me didn’t have much place to complain about a kid that wasn’t his. My high school championship wrestling trophy wasn’t doing me many favors ten years out. It made sense that she’d been with another guy. Lucky she came back to me at all.
Anna glowed with that little baby clutched to her breast. There’s a certain shine a woman gets after childbirth. Dark bags hung under bright, luminescent eyes.
“Grace,” Anna said. “Grace Nicole Jones.”
I stroked the little girl’s seaweed hair. Gracie was beautiful.
Sure, I was upset. What decent man wouldn’t be? But Gracie was as good a daughter as I could ever expect to have. Did it matter who the father really was?
I swore then that I wouldn’t say one word about it. Not ever.
I nearly said a word.
Three months of Gracie crying, fussing, and not a bit of sleep wore at my nerves. Anna stopped breastfeeding when the baby’s wicked sharp tooth cut her a bloody mess.
An old trail ran from our house along the banks of the Mississippi. Anna said there was magic there. Sometimes she took Gracie down there. Once, she took me.
Gracie’s seaweed green hair had faded to a golden blonde. The green only showed as a wispy halo of emerald in the sunrise or sunset. Her green eyes still sparkled. Skin, pale at birth, had transformed to a nearly translucent white. She was like a porcelain doll when she held still. Not that she did. Stay still. Ever.
Gracie fussed in that special place, so I picked her up out of her stroller and carried her. Anna was to go back to work the next day. We needed the money. Anna would work third shift at the casino, so that we could avoid having to pay much for daycare. I wanted to assure Anna that her baby was in good hands.
“I love you like my own,” I said as
I patted Gracie’s back.
Anna scowled. “Don’t you say that,” she said. “Not now, not ever.”
Frustrated, I sputtered. then did what I always did—I shut up. That evening, Anna was cold to me. Colder than she’d ever been.
Gracie was a brilliant, beautiful two-year-old girl. She never really learned to sleep through the night, transitioning from midnight feedings to regular night terrors. Her teeth came in all sharp, but straight, and her green eyes glowed in the moonlight.
I’d wrestle with her every day. Getting an elbow lock on me thrilled her every time. She’d giggle and laugh. Anna would frown and shake her head.
Gracie and I were home together when she fell down the steps in front of our house. She cried and cried. The little girl didn’t know many words, but “ow” and “hurts” were two of them, and she used them plenty.
But she cried so much. It tore my heart out to hear her cry so hard. She wouldn’t listen to my voice. That was the first time I noticed how she wouldn’t look me in the eyes.
“I love you, Gracie,” I said. “It’s going to be okay.”
It wasn’t okay. When Anna arrived home that night she blamed me for what happened. She didn’t say it, but it was in her eyes when she glared down at me.
“We need to take her to the hospital,” Anna said.
Her arm needed a cast. As she healed, Gracie would shoot distrustful looks my direction. It pierced my heart, seeing in her in pain, but seeing her distrust was far worse. Anna wasn’t much better. It seemed neither of them were going to give me much respect. So I got a dog.
After that Gracie would never make eye contact. It was hard for me to remember if she had ever done it before.
By the time she was four, Gracie’s doctors were using words like “autism spectrum” and “attention deficit.” All I knew was that Gracie was more difficult than any other kid I knew. She had a rigid adherence to strange rules that only she understood.
Rufus, my dog, took a liking to the girl. He was a Lab mix, and his energy was nearly enough to keep up with her.
One psychiatrist went on and on about obsessive behavior being a sign for autism. “Your daughter certainly loves fish,” the doctor said. “This is just one sign.”
Gracie loved eating fish, catching fish, drawing fish, sculpting fish. She drew the most beautiful fish using all sixty-four crayons from her box, and I only wish it hadn’t been on the dining room wall.
She would sit still with a fishing rod in her hands for hours. How could this girl have attention deficit problems? Any time either of us caught a fish she talked to it, called it beautiful, and asked it where it had been and what it had seen. She learned from them about the man under the water.
“Who is the man under the water?” she asked me.
I didn’t have an answer for her.
She loved eating the fish she caught, though it’s not good to always eat fish from the mighty Mississippi. When I explained how dirty the river was, she looked very sad and thoughtful.
“But why?” she asked.
Again, I had no answer.
Once, when we fished the Mississippi near Anna’s magical place, the water went placid, despite a stiff wind. The area around our boat became like a mirror, reflecting the bluffs.
Gracie leaned over the edge. She smiled. Waved. By the time I got up next to her, the stillness had dissipated.
“What did you see?” I asked.
She smiled. “It was the man under the water. He waved at me.”
Gracie’s first day of Kindergarten did not go well. Halfway through the day I got a call and had to leave the factory.
“She bit one of the other students,” said the principal. “We don’t stand for that behavior here.” Her voice was stern, as if she were scolding me for the transgression. As if I should have raised a better little girl who wouldn’t do such things.
Gracie grinned sheepishly from her seat across the room. Her smile was jagged with her wicked teeth. I wondered if her behavior was due to her real father or just some aspect of being a little girl who didn’t fit in. I still didn’t say a word.
The principal sighed. “She can come back tomorrow, but I think it’s best if you take her home today.”
It wasn’t best, but I didn’t argue. I wondered if Gracie had drawn blood with those teeth of hers. Probably.
Missing work was bad, but they could afford to go without me for the afternoon. Explaining to my boss would be easy, but having to explain to Anna terrified me.
Gracie spent the rest of the day wrestling playfully with Rufus, and I spent that night curled up on the sofa, head in my hands. Weeping.
It was Valentine’s Day and Gracie was eight.
Used to be that Anna and I didn’t involve ourselves in traditional Valentine’s Day gift-giving. For that day, and every day, she would have my love. My whole self. Everything and all of it.
That year I only gave Anna flowers. I was too exhausted to give anything else. Anna smiled sadly at the arrangement of lavender and roses as she placed them near the window.
When I looked later, they were in the garbage.
I asked Gracie why they were there.
“They’re not good flowers,” she said. “They’re stinky.”
I sighed. Gracie’s rules, again. It wasn’t an allergy, but rather a sensitivity to certain smells. Lavender was, apparently, offensive.
She stuck out her chin, her whole body tense and ready for a fight. I didn’t give it to her. Rescuing the flowers wouldn’t make anything better.
She was ten when I said those words.
Gracie was terrible at school. She barely tolerated it. Most days went without injury, but even the special arrangements we had for her didn’t alleviate her wild nature. Every day could be the day they finally kicked her out. The day something happened that made them give up.
But I would never give up. How stubborn I had become.
Then, one day, she wanted to participate in the Science Fair. She came up with her own project, varying how she fed some otherwise identical fish and measuring their outcomes in size and color.
Anna didn’t help at all. Due to her working second shift, I hardly ever saw her. Even on weekends we were like passing barges. This had gone on for years, so it hardly seemed strange. It almost didn’t seem bad.
The experiment worked perfectly. Gracie worked so hard on it. It wasn’t the prettiest project, but her numbers were good.
It was fine.
I was so proud.
On the way to the Science Fair, Gracie sat quietly with the folded project board on her lap. She had pulled her blonde hair back into a long braid and she had long ago learned to smile with her mouth shut. The girl almost looked normal.
“Are you excited?” I asked.
She didn’t respond for a long time, and I wondered if she heard.
“No,” she said.
Gracie was an honest girl.
Soon after we set up her display, the boy assigned to the next spot set up his. His experiment involved watering mint plants with various substances.
Gracie reacted the second he came close. He lined up his tiny flowerpots, each with a fresh, abhorrent plant. She shook her head, silent at first.
“It’s okay, Gracie.” I put my hands on her shoulders to steady her. I tried to meet her eyes, but she wouldn’t do it. “I’ll talk to the people in charge. We’ll move our display.”
“No, no, no.” She vigorously shook her head. “Move him.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I gave an apologetic look to the boy’s mother. I wished so much that Anna had come. But, no, I could leave Gracie for a few minutes, couldn’t I?
It took time to track down someone in charge, and the results were less than helpful. No, we couldn’t move. Why would anyone want to move? Her voice said, “I’m afraid I can’t change the rules.” Her eyes said, “That’s not a good reason, and you’re a bad parent for asking.”
But Gracie’s special, I wanted to say. She’s d
ifferent! She’s not like the other kids and she’s so smart and wonderful and you’ll never get it because you only see me as a bad parent and her as a bad kid.
I didn’t say those things. I should have.
Gracie shoved the boy, her face red with anger. I pulled her off. Tried to help pick up the project. Gracie flailed, out of control. Without a word, I hauled her out of the fair and to the car. Some random parent trailed behind us with her project. I don’t even know who it was.
It mortified me. Ashamed me. Devastated me.
Anna woke when we burst into the house. Gracie went to the back yard and started tearing apart her project in a fit of rage.
“Oh,” Anna said. Nothing more.
“What?” I snapped. “What could I do? I didn’t see you helping and she sure tried her best.”
Outside, the red-faced little girl cried huge tears and tore her cardboard in half. She ripped at it with her pointy teeth. Rufus watched from a safe distance.
Anna said nothing.
I slumped, energy gone out of me. “I wonder sometimes if she gets this from her real father.”
Gracie’s shouts ceased. Had she heard? No, she wasn’t in the back yard anymore.
She was gone.
Anna broke into tears. “No,” she sobbed. “You said it. I told you not to.” She thumped her fists into my chest. “Why? I thought you understood.”
Then, I knew then what I had done. The unspoken thing between us shattered. A weight lifted.
My little girl was gone.
Anna touched my shoulder, as if she didn’t know how to comfort someone in so much pain. I buried my face in my hands. Sitting next to me, she pulled me close.
“Why?” I asked.
After a time, Anna answered. “I was so lonely back then. He was there. He came from the river. He said if we ever spoke of it, she would go live with her true father.”
Fell Beasts and Fair: A Noblebright Fantasy Anthology Page 38