The Selkie Bride (12 page)

“Possibly, wi the right spell. But the finman and his confederates need tae be flushed out of hiding, or the evil will simply gae underground and surface somewhere else,” he answered, staring at my hand bemusedly and breathing deeply. “And be certain, should the heart be destroyed afore his ain death, that he shall bury this village again in vengeance, though it be his last living act. Every soul in it waud perish.”

I felt cold and wrapped my arms about myself.
Lachlan’s heat faded from my fingers as soon as contact was broken. “How can he live without a heart?”

“He cannae. He is using anither’s organ. Perhaps Fergus Culbin’s. But it cannae last long. He burns them out quickly and then needs anither. More people—yer kind and mine—shall die if he isnae destroyed along wi’ his black heart.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s horrible. How many has he killed to steal their organs?”

“Countless. And aye, ’tis horrible. But everything aboot this monster is horrible. He waudnae have it any ither way. It is the nature of the beast. Dae nowt forget this.”

A witch is a kind of hare, And marks the weather As a hare does
.

—Ben Johnson,
The Sad Shepherd

“
Bliadh an diugh, agus codagh am mairech
,” Lachlan murmured. I tried to decipher the phrase but failed. “Food today and war tomorrow,” he translated, giving the small smile I was coming to know all too well.

We were sharing some chips, salty fried potato wedges, a new gastronomic experience for a suspicious Lachlan but apparently a satisfactory one. A small hostelry, The Alpine Inn, seemed to be serving customers, but we had chosen instead to patronize a street vendor. Lachlan had said obscurely that the inn had for too many years worn the sign of the peeled willow wand. I recalled that this had something to do with warning away witches or faeries or some such thing, and I was content to be led away to someplace with fewer bad memories.

This was the first time I had seen Lachlan in full daylight, and I have to admit that my eyes were
pleased. I knew his hair was dark, but firelight did not show the deep chestnut and other autumnal hues lurking in those silken depths. His eyes beneath the brim of his tam were eerily black but utterly fascinating, and I had to make an effort not to stare as if besotted. We were attracting quite enough attention as it was.

We had gotten a ride to Keil in Old Man Mackenzie’s fishing boat. The waters were calm that day, soothed by Lachlan though he would not admit to doing it, and we had reached Keil in under an hour. What Mackenzie had charged for the passage I do not know, but suspect that he enjoyed the benefit of a good day’s fishing as well, since we needed him to collect us again around two o’clock and he would be more timely if his nets were full.

This did not stop him from being unnerved by his passengers, however, though he made an effort to hide his misgivings.

All this travel by boat was for my benefit, of course. Lachlan could have easily swum to Keil. Or gone without me. I was very glad that he had not. It suggested that perhaps he truly did trust me.

Keil was very different from Findloss. I noticed first that the docks in town were clean and attractive and bustling with activity. The natural skerries had been extended by a breakwater. Because the waters were so calm here, boats could rest safely at anchor rather than needing to be beached above the tide line as they were in our village, and they lent the sea a certain air of gaiety.

The men on the waterfront were mostly old and
there were also more women than I expected to see on the docks. I heard Norse, Gaelic and lowland Scots being spoken civilly, a thing not so common in days past. But times had changed and circumstances evolved, and the people had too. Many of the long, wearying clan conflicts of the highlands had been left unresolved, if probably not forgotten, when the last of the males went off to war, and there was no one left with sufficient spare energy to prosecute old battles. The few remaining old men and women were too grief-stricken or busy holding their families together to remain embittered. Perhaps it was better that way. Some conflicts never cease until the chain is broken by the death of an entire generation. Rather like those of finmen and selkies.

How to explain this most unusual day to you? It was autumn—normal autumn, with mild winds, brown grass and a scattering of twigs and cast-off leaves caught in the thistledown that had drifted at the side of the town’s main street. Fishing boats went about their business in consistent but unhurried fashion. The docks were populated and busy, as I mentioned, though no one moved quickly there either, perhaps already responding to the onset of the fall torpor that was telling the world to prepare for sleep. Even the chiming of the church bells sounded drowsy and lacking in real ambition to call the sleepy faithful to worship. Winter did not yet reign here, not like in Findloss. We might have been visiting another country.

But what struck me most powerfully was how very sane the village felt. How normal. Unnatural evil had been growing in Findloss for months. I knew that, of
course, but I hadn’t realized how thick the miasma of doom had become while we fought what now seemed a losing rearguard action against a heartless invader from the sea.

The simplest animal, even the smallest of birds, makes reasonable preparation for the winter to survive the dead time. They dig safe dens and hibernate or, more wisely still, migrate away from the dangerous change. Unfortunately, I did not have that option, though I wished that I could be so self-indulgent. Probably no one else in the village had it, either. There was no villa in Italy, no chateau in the south of France. Instead I would stand with Lachlan and fight the cold killer who brought death upon us, as tempting as it was to stay in Keil and forget the horrors of home.

“What are ye inkling aen?” Lachlan asked.

“Winter.”

“Ah.”

In the past I had always associated the season with gentle rains and silent snow that muted passing voices and footsteps. It was the happy season of the Nativity and New Year revels. But not so in Findloss. There winter was turbulent and loud and threatening…if not that day. The weather that morning had been mild enough to justify wearing my one frivolous dress, which was a light blue linen about two years out of style, but still quite pretty.

“See ye those iron brackets on the wall?” Lachlan asked. There were a few old buildings near the docks,
bourachs
built of loose stacked stone and thatched carelessly on unhewn rafters of oak and birch trees grown in a wood that was now long gone. It had been
burned down a century ago in an effort to discourage the brigands that lived there, no thought given to the animals and birds there as well.

“I see them, but please don’t tell me anything horrid,” I pleaded. “I should like to enjoy myself a while more.”

He was amused. “In the days afore oil lamps, these held torches made frae the roots and trunks of fir trees dug up frae the peat bogs tae the south. The peat caused the resin aen them tae burn slow and bright, oftimes with a fire that was blue and green. I recall the smell fondly. My wife used them aen her home. Like sae many things, it is a custom that survives nae more.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure how I felt about his newest mention of his dead wife, whose existence I would prefer to forget completely. “That must have been a lot less smelly than paraffin.”

Lachlan gave me a long look but said nothing, and I began to wonder if his wife had lived in that very village. If so, the visit might be troubling to him, and I felt a bit guilty for dragging him out on what might well prove to be a fool’s errand.

We passed the kirk and a tidy kirkyard that looked quite old. I did not suggest visiting the graves, since his wife might be buried there and I thought it best to let sleeping ghosts lie.

Though I did not study the churchyard for long, Lachlan followed my gaze. “I’ve nae great liking for the joyless human religions, but I maun admit that there was one ceremony I enjoyed wi’ all my heart.” The words and sentiment were unexpected. “It was aen the year when Beltane Eve fell on a Sunday. Though they
called the ritual a mass, the decoration o’ the kirk was purely pagan. The aisle of the auld church was carpeted wi’ a long rug woven entirely of herbage frae the garden, and showed every hue of green that is seen in the spring. The shredded crimson petals from the ancient rose bushes growing in the cemetery lent the air a rich perfume that grew stronger wi’ every passing worshipper who crushed the blooms underfoot. It was one time when yer god seemed beautiful tae me.”

There were no roses in the cemetery now, I noted sadly. No green either. “When was this?” I asked. “Long ago?”

“Aye. I cannae recall the exact date, but it was when the Catholics were new tae the land.” He stopped and turned abruptly. “See yon stony table fast on the water? There was a castle there once, built aen top of a holy well. For sheer vulgarity and ostentation of furnishings it had nae rival in these parts. Nothing expensive and of bad taste was overlooked, and much of it was furnished wi’ stolen goods. The builders were cruel as well, slaughtering every bird and beast they could lay hands and swords upon. Even our people were persecuted for a time.” When I made a small noise he added, “The owners paid for their arrogance. The sea had its revenge. It started with the broad steps and pillars that supported the massive roof. The storms of winter—and soon of other seasons tae—threw spindrift and salt spume ontae the treads, and eventually the gale waters themselves came rushing up tae the castle door. It ate at the foundations. Then a pillar collapsed and then anither. They barred the door and retreated up the stair, but the tide was relentless and
legend has it that the holy well water also rose up against the blasphemers. In less than a century the castle was gone, pulled back intae the sea, the sandstone pulverized and thrown up aen on the beach tae make a sandy bed for the very creatures they persecuted. Only the floor remains, a few pieces of marble that can be seen at low tide if the sand hasnae drifted o’er them.”

Holy retribution? Or had the selkies and finmen had something to do with it? Maybe Findloss was not a unique case.

“You’re not sorry it’s gone.”

“Nae. The humans hae all the land tae be lord o’er. They can afford tae leave the shore for the creatures wham dwell there.” Sometimes when he said the word
human
there was unmistakable contempt in his voice.

“I agree,” I said softly. We turned and continued strolling. The edge of town was scabbed with the tailings from old mines—tin or salt, most probably, though I suppose it might have been for anything.

Other than the piles of ancient discarded scree, furred now with grass stubs of autumn gold shorn down from their summer heights by the fluffy white sheep that dotted the landscape, the hollow was girdled by some dark scruffy pines whose strong and astringent scent mixed pleasingly with the salt air. The scene was quite pastoral, idyllic in a romantic way. There was even a stream to burble but it was placid, whispering quietly that day. There were hills beyond the small pines but no mountains majestic and no stony cliffs. No touch of the gothic or evil intruded here. It took no effort to enjoy the scenery.

The circus was set up at the edge of the village and not hard to find. Its tents, caravans and banners were not of subtle hue and the smell of the animals was also quite apparent when one was downwind. Chaos was being set into order with commendable rapidity by men who had obviously done this many times.

Memory is a fickle thing, and perhaps pricked by Lachlan’s story of the arrogant castle builders I suddenly remembered a poem by Ralph Hodgson that had appeared in our newspaper about the time I matriculated from the Prescott Academy for young women. I had cut out and saved it until I married and disposed of many of my childhood mementos. I couldn’t recall the first part, but I knew the end.

And he and they together

Knelt down in angry prayers

For tamed and shabby tigers,
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind pit-ponies,
And little, hunted hares.

“What is wrong?” Lachlan asked softly, and I realized that I had stopped walking.

I thought about saying that it seemed a sin to step on the last patch of green grass that glowed vibrantly under the low-pitched sun, but that was as sentimental as my real thought, so instead I said: “I have always hated the circus. It’s what they do to the animals—it seems so wrong to me. Even our worst criminals are not put in prison forever.”

Lachlan nodded, either because he understood my
sentiment or because he shared it. Giving in to impulse, I recited the poem. Lachlan made no comment, but he took my hand in his and laced our fingers as if to offer courage, should any be necessary. I did feel much braver, but also a bit dizzy. His touch always affected me that way.

Everything was bright and cheery in a vulgar way, except for one caravan made with wood sides and a black canvas awning, painted around with strange and improbable animals from far-off lands and ancient lore. There was no need to ask which trailer held the oddities.

“They aren’t open for custom yet,” I murmured. “Should we try bribery?”

“Nay. There is naebody aboot just now. So ye’ll wander over tae the men putting up the tent and do yer level best to be charming and vapid and perhaps a wee bit prone tae possibly sinning with strangers, and I shall let myself inside while they are distracted.”

I giggled. I couldn’t help it. I’d never attempted to act the part of a woman of low moral character; it is not my nature to stray so far from reality, and I had never been drawn to theatrics.

“I’ll do it,” I whispered when I had stopped laughing. “But be quick, please. I am not at all certain that I will be any good at this sort of thing, and I should hate to have to fall back on fainting. The dirt would ruin my dress.”

“I should hope ye’d nae be experienced in such deception! Nae man needs that,” Lachlan muttered, turning me toward the group of workmen gathered ’round a small stack of poles and giving me a small
shove when my steps were too laggard for his tastes. Turning my head back, I stuck out my tongue, but Lachlan had already started toward the silent caravan.

Taking a deep breath and pasting on a smile, I began picking my way toward the workmen, who were arguing about something in French and what I thought was Italian. This cheered me considerably. We had a language barrier. It could take forever to make myself understood at this gathering of Babel.

Reaching up, I undid one of the pearl buttons on my dress and let the linen flutter at will. I was glad that I wasn’t a society lady whose clothes buttoned down the back. My wrap fell to my elbows, where it did nothing to keep me warm, but where it would not impede anyone’s view of my camisole and the tops of my breasts.

“Yoohoo—hello, y’all. Are any of you fine gentlemen from America?” I waggled my fingers at them in a manner I believed to be coy. Eight sets of blank eyes looked my way.

I smiled widely. The men smiled back, eyes no longer blank. The wind obligingly brought more of my décolletage into view and whisked my skirt a bit above the knee. Smiles widened.