The story that we all know today is actually believed to have originated from a tale in the Netherlands dating from sometime around the twelfth century. In Ireland, this was the period when Norman knights – some from that particular region – had invaded the country and established a firm foothold. It’s believed that the Normans brought this tale over with them and subsequently, a local author incorporated it into local legend.
Coral Atkinson’s original and spirited retelling of the ancient legend completely reverses it by recounting the tale from the perspective of Aoife, normally portrayed as the villain in the piece. Portraying the Children of Lir as a bunch of spoiled brats might have been an act of sacrilege in our ancestors’ time but provides a wonderful contemporary freshness to the tale.
Brian O’Sullivan
Transit Hours
Marie Gethins
In the grey November twilight Saoirse searched the sea. Flat and black, she struggled to find a ripple in the limpid surface. Below the car park, Rossbeigh strand lay empty. Five years earlier, she and Ian would have been down there walking, watching for seals.
She returned to her battered Golf and drove up the hill to the cottage. They’d bought the place on impulse during a bank holiday weekend. A wreck, the auctioneer had been only too happy to meet them on a Sunday. Ian had called it their “escape hutch” and most weekends they came down from Dublin. At first it had been to put it in some sort of order but later it seemed to be the one place where they were always happiest. Even after the cancer weakened him, Ian had insisted on returning. On the last visit, she’d parked on the rocks above the shore and rolled down the windows so he could taste the salty air. He’d closed his eyes and smiled. She’d squeezed his hand and rubbed a thumb across the back of it, feeling his bones beneath his fragile skin.
Her brother Tomás had stepped in when Ian progressed into the final phase, renting out the cottage, doing maintenance. Since then Tomás kept pushing her to sell it.
Saoirse pulled into the driveway, got out of the car and inserted the key in the front door. The lock opened with a soft click, smoother than she remembered. Inside, she ran a hand along the wall, feeling for the light switch and blinked in the sudden brightness. The cottage smelled of cleaning products and fresh paint.
Returning to the car, she ferried in boxes, her suitcase, a backpack and groceries. The mobile vibrated in her jeans pocket.
‘Are you there yet?’ Tomás’ voice was taut.
‘Just arrived. Great job. It looks fabulous.’
‘You okay, Saoirse? You shouldn’t be there on your own.’
‘We’ve been over this. My therapist thinks it’s time.’
‘Fuck the therapist.’
‘She’s really not my type.’
A packet crinkled, lighter clicked. She waited for the sigh of his exhale before continuing.
‘Smoking again? Seriously?’
He coughed. ‘My therapist says the odd fag does no harm. Relieves the tension.’
‘Fuck the therapist.’
‘He’s not my type.’ Tomás took another drag. “I can be there in a few hours. You shouldn’t be alone.’
‘I’m okay. I can handle it.’
‘Yeah, well. There’s no shame in… Ah, you know.’
‘Goodnight Tomás.’ Saoirse hung up, tossed the mobile onto the couch.
She unpacked before walking through the house. Tomás had been thorough – new colour schemes and furniture. The earlier, mismatched pieces scoured from eBay now gone. She paused at the back door where Ian had planned to add another bedroom. For their mythical children.
Two years ago while she was on what the family kindly called her “retreat,” Tomás had added a sunroom instead. Curious, she opened the door to survey it: white tile floor, wicker chairs holding bright cushions, a side table with an aromatherapy candle and match box. All it needed was a cat to complete its air of forced cheer. She bit her lower lip.
In the kitchen, Saoirse opened the bottle of Jameson she’d brought along just in case. On the third shot she imagined Tomás asking if it was okay to mix with her meds. On the fifth, she heard Ian’s voice admonishing her. Wiping her eyes with the cuff of her shirt, she put the bottle away, collected her mobile and stumbled into bed.
The phone alarm woke her just before sunrise. Pulling on wellingtons and a jacket, Saoirse left the cottage, heading down towards the waves. The wind whipped salt spray across her face. Snuggling her chin inside her jacket she breathed deeply, jaw muscles relaxing. Round, flat stones lined the top of the strand: dull purple, grey, and mauve in the dim light of dawn. When she walked on them they shifted and rattled under her feet. A tower of the stones was stacked up on the strand ahead and Saoirse smiled, imagining child-sized hands balancing each addition with care. Despite the strong wind, the tower stood firm.
Stepping off the stones, she continued along the empty beach. Feet sinking in the powdery sand, she angled towards firmer ground at the ocean’s edge. Water swirled in and out, occasionally lapping against her boots.
In the distance, she spied a row of what looked like giant teeth – the ribs of an ancient boat wreck. Drawing closer, she circled around the skeletal hull, caught landlocked in sand drifts, curving wood ribs distressed and worn by the tide. She stepped inside, bent down to run her fingers along the rusting metal spine. Splayed and empty, its substance sucked away by a stronger force. Her throat tightened.
Saoirse walked back to the shore. Water, ankle deep, splashed against her feet and then withdrew. Her feet began to sink, the wet sand pulling her. She looked down, tears running the length of her nose, dripping into the surf. She counted seven drops before smearing them across her cheeks and continuing her walk.
When Saoirse came to the end of the strand, she sat on the beach and looked towards the horizon - sky and water a conjoined blue-grey.
‘You’re not from here, but you know Rossbeigh well.’
Saoirse flinched. A man was sitting beside her, near enough to touch if she stretched out her left hand. Her eyes darted down the strand towards the dunes behind them but she didn’t see a second footprint trail. The stranger wore a sueded shirt and moleskin jeans, their dark brown tones matching his longish, wavy hair. His feet were bare.
She eased the mobile out of her pocket, relieved to see the signal bars. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ The words came out before she could think of something better to say. She shuffled a few inches away from him.
The man smiled. ‘No, I’m well used to it.’ He turned to face her. His eyes were large, deep brown, almost black. ‘So, you’re back?’
“Ah, yeah.’ She looked at him in surprise. ‘I’ve been away for a few years, but I used to come here a lot with my husband.” As the stress on the last word settled between them she wrapped her arms around her knees, gauging her ability to jump up and sprint in wellingtons.
The man nodded, untroubled by her disquiet. He started to talk, telling her how recent winter storms had changed the area, how the undercurrent had become stronger. ‘The Castlemaine beacon washed away in 2011. After one hundred and sixty years.’ He sighed then and went quiet.
‘This area used to have loads of seals,’ said Saoirse. ‘Are they all gone?’
‘Not all of them,’ he laughed.
They sat in silence watching the sun rise, sky and sea splitting the horizon, then the stranger stood up. ‘And now I must be off.’
‘It’s nice meeting you…ah?’ Her eyebrows rose.
‘Murray. And you are…’
She watched his lips form her name even as she responded. ‘Saoirse.’ A weight in her abdomen shifted. ‘Most people think it’s crazy to come to the beach in winter. I guess we’re the diehards.’
He inclined his head. ‘You’ll always find me here in the transit hours.’
‘Transit hours?’
‘Dawn and dusk. The time of change.’
A sudden squall pelted her with fine sand from the dunes. When she opened her eyes, Murray had disappeared.
Back at the cottage she checked her phone. A missed call and three text messages from Tomás. She made coffee and settled into a chair before calling back.
‘Tomás, stop panicking.’
‘I prefer to consider it as brotherly concern.’ His lighter clicked. ‘So, you writing?’
‘Not yet. Maybe I’ll try today.’ She picked at a loose thread in her jeans.
‘It helped before. I think it would be good.’
‘Yeah well, I’ll see.’ She took a swallow of coffee. ‘Listen, I met a guy on the beach this morning.’
‘A guy?’
‘Some local. Remember that stone beacon? Completely gone now. Washed out during a storm, he told me.’
‘Uh-huh. Be careful. Don’t let him take advantage.’
‘For God’s sake. I thought you’d be happy. You know, me mixing with people again.’
Her brother drew on his cigarette and exhaled. Saoirse visualised him: head lowered in thought as he tried to find the right words.
‘Listen, I’ll talk to you later. Okay?’
Without waiting for an answer, Saoirse hung up, switching the phone to silent. Putting the mobile aside, she moved around the cottage: wiping down counters, fluffing cushions, vacuuming rugs. In the living room, she chewed on a thumb nail while she unzipped her backpack, pulled out a laptop and several books. While the computer was booting up, she flicked through a copy of her last poetry collection, Alone. She frowned at the cover: a distraught shadow woman looking at an empty bed. The American edition was worse, its cover reminding her of Edvard Munch’s dismal image, The Scream.
During Ian’s last months, the poems had come out in a rush. Since his death, propelled by caffeine and emotion, she’d spent hours typing but her thoughts were splintered. Now, although she had hundreds of disconnected fragments, she’d been unable to finish a single complete piece since his death.
Opening a new Word file she stared at the white screen, sighed and walked to a window to look out at the strand.
At four-thirty, Saoirse hurried down to the beach to watch the sunset. Knee-high white spume collected along the firm sand – a cascade of marshmallow stacks, jiggling in the rising wind. A jogger loped towards her. ‘Storm coming,’ he called over his shoulder as he ran past.
She arrived at the furthest point of the strand breathless and turned in circles, scanning the beach and sky. Clouds massed, transforming from ash to charcoal as the sun sank into the sea. She walked to the water’s edge. Offshore, white caps dotted the surface, rising and falling.
‘It will be a rough night. You shouldn’t linger.’
Murray was standing next to her, the tide swirling water and froth around his bare feet, soaking the hem of his brown jeans.
She stepped back in alarm. ‘Murray! You startled me.’
He smiled.
‘So, you live around here?’ She hoped her voice sounded casual.
Murray shrugged. ‘I have been here always.’
‘Hmmm.’ Saoirse chewed the side of her cheek and turned her eyes towards the water. ‘I’ve never seen so many white caps.’
‘Some believe Niamh and Oisín’s white stallion took them from this very beach. All the way from here to Tir na nÓg.’
‘Yeah. I wrote a poem about that. Love wasn’t enough for him. Oisín left her.’
‘Love is always with you and love is stronger than death.’
‘Oscar Wilde.’ She sighed. ‘But you left out:
Death must be so beautiful.
To have no yesterday and no to-morrow.
To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.
That’s the best bit.’
Murray shook his head as though to say that wasn’t important. ‘The rain will come soon.’
Saoirse walked away, back towards the cottage, eyes narrowed, chin and nose buried in her jacket. As she turned into the driveway, a heavy downpour made her run for the door. Inside, on impulse, she filled the house with light, snapping the switch in every room. Later, wrapped in a blanket, she sat on the couch, sipping tea. A howling wind funnelled down the chimney, rain pelted the windows.
The tea warmed her and she felt her muscles relax, her eyelids drooping. Placing her empty mug on the coffee table beside her mobile, she turned over and fell asleep. Ian’s low chuckle and gentle touch filled her dreams until he faded, slipped through her grasp. Saoirse called out after him. ‘Ian! Ian!’
A sudden boom rattled the cottage windows, startling her awake. She sat up. Opening her eyes, she tried to focus, saw only black.
A flash of lightning lit the room, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Saoirse felt her chest tighten and in the next flash, she got to her feet. Arms out straight before her, she reached into the dark, slid her feet along the floor. Two cautious steps and a knee struck the coffee table. Stifling a cry, she rubbed her kneecap.
Another brilliant flash transformed the furniture into crouching animals. Frightened, she made her way to a wall, skimming her hand along its dimpled surface to the sunroom door and then felt her way to the side table.
The small box rattled as she fumbled for a match. Lifting the candle, flame tilted towards the wick, she tried to still her trembling hands. Startled by yet another flash, the flame burned her fingers and she dropped the candle, hearing it strike the floor and roll away in the dark.
‘Ian, Ian. It’s too bloody hard.’
Saoirse stumbled desperately back through the doorway, bashing against walls and furniture. At the front door, her fingers found the raised metal rectangle of the Yale lock. Turning the bolt, she yanked the door open and ran out into the storm, down towards the strand. When she felt the stones begin to slide beneath her feet, she slowed, followed the slope towards the water. Cold foam brushed against her knees as she walked into the surf.
Pushing against the waves, she waded in until her feet no longer touched sand then flung her arms forward and kicked. Saoirse swam until her muscles burned, her limbs heavy in the sodden jeans and winter sweater. She sank below the churning surface. Water filled her ears, silencing the storm. A stream of air bubbles seeped out of her mouth, slowing until the last popped against her lips. Her chest throbbed. She thought of Tomás searching for the note she didn’t write.
Sinking deeper, the water became peaceful. Saoirse imagined a dark hole, the void swallowing her.
Seaweed brushed against her hands. Something bumped against her back and then nosed under her arm, halting her descent. Instead, she was propelled upwards. Breaking the surface, her natural instincts suppressed her intent. She struggled for air. A wave crashed over her head, filling her mouth with salt water. Saoirse steadied herself against the body next to her. Stiff whiskers nuzzled her cheek and she caught a glimpse of a pair of large, brown eyes.
Buoyed by the harbour seal under her arm, they moved back towards land. Ripples streamed past. Her feet began to snag along rocks, shells and sand. Nudged out of the water by the seal, she lay limp on the beach. Rain splattered exposed skin. The tide swirled around her ankles. Her mind drifted until a pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and dragged her up the slope. Pulling her onto her knees, a forearm slid around her waist, one hand held back her hair.
‘Release, Saoirse, release.’
The arm pressed against her stomach. She retched several times, the clear fluid absorbed by the sand. A bare male foot – calloused and scarred - stood alongside the fading puddle.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’
Murray grunted in response and carried her into the dunes. At the entrance to a rocky shelter, he placed her on a bed of sea grass. She watched him reach behind a rock and unroll a dappled brown pelt, smoothing it out on the shelter floor then he knelt down beside her. His wet hair hung loose around his face, dripping onto his shoulders. She tried to speak through chattering teeth, but he hushed her, rubbing a finger across her lips and shaking his head. She didn’t resist as he peeled her out of her sodden clothes.
Lying on the pelt
, she sank her fingers into the deep pile. He pulled her close against him. Skin to skin, his warmth calmed her shivering. Feeling the rub of his nose along her neck. Saoirse stiffened.
‘I can’t. I can’t do this.’ She tried to roll away.
Murray loosened his grip, but remained beside her.
Saoirse turned to face him, drawn by the smell of salt and seaweed. ‘I know what you are, what you seem to be,’ she said. ‘But you can’t be real.’
He shrugged. ‘Then dream,’ he answered. ‘Dream with me for a little while.’
‘Ian … Ian used to say “Dreams are what makes life tolerable”. But … You probably knew that since you seem to know everything about Ian and me.’
Murray smiled and stroked her back.
Later he woke Saoirse from an untroubled sleep. Outside the shelter, a hazy purple light signalled the incoming dawn. Murray pointed to the patch of brightening sky. ‘I must leave,’ he said.
Gathering up the pelt, he waved at her then turned and made his way out of the dunes.
In silence, she dressed in her damp clothing and went down the beach, walked along firm sand and turned up the road towards the cottage.
The door stood open when she returned. The welcome mat squelched beneath her feet. She switched the lights off and straightened the disarray before she turned on her laptop and began to type.
Mythological Context: The Selkie
As with the earlier ‘A Mainland Mansie Meur’, Marie Gethins’ tale involves a folklore creature – the Selkie – helping a human being through a difficult period of grieving for a loved one although, on this occasion, in a much more direct manner. This particular story involves the presence of a male selkie (a derivation of the previously mentioned Fear Mara).
Once again, most of the folklore with respect to the male selkie seems to originate predominantly from the romanticised tales of Walter Traill Dennison in his ‘Orcadain Sketches’ and other writings. According to Denniston, the selkie-men were very handsome in their human state and had great seductive appeal for mortal women. Denniston’s writing also outlined a ritual that was to be followed when a mortal woman sought contact with a selkie-man. This involved walking towards the seashore at high tide and shedding seven tears into the sea, an action that has great ramifications for the wounded protagonist in this story.
The Celtic Mythology Collection 2016 Page 5