The Scottish Selkie (14 page)

Malcolm spoke only of how far they had ridden that day. Then he asked her about her home in Scone. Simple talk to pass the time as they ate and drank a round or two of ale. 

After draining the skin of ale dry, they both rose. Malcolm banked the fire, then spread their bratts on the feathery grass. She lay down and he stretched out beside her to sleep. Bethoc shut her eyes, but tossed and turned throughout the night, thinking of Malcolm's secret.

****

Malcolm shut his eyes and drifted off to sleep. The sensation of tumbling down a bottomless well overcame him. No stopping, just falling until an unnatural quiet seized the air. Everything came to a halt, all sounds, all movement ceased. Mist swirled around him. Malcolm bobbed his head above water. Pointing his wet nose up at the white moon, his cold, whiskered face basked in its soft glow. Briny waves rippled across his dark sealskin as he glided onward. 

In dreamtime, it had only been a year since his transformation. Malcolm had put aside his old human life, until at ten and six turns of the year, when the feasting and revelry of Samhain called to him. At sixteen he planned to have fun for one night as a lusty lad, flirting with young maidens around hot bonfires. 

As his fin touched the shore, he looked up at the full moon. His spirit absorbed its power as he freed his body, to stretch, pull, and change. He breathed deeply, becoming more and more relaxed. His human body shifted into place. A tinge of pain cut into his marrow at the final stage of transformation. He let out a deep grunt and shed the sealskin from his body.

Malcolm stood on the sandy shore, with two legs rather than fins, human once more. He grabbed his pelt and folded it with a ritual air. If any harm came to his roan skin, he would die. Stretching his legs, he walked across the rugged shore to a large rock dusted with sand. With more than human strength, Malcolm pushed the rock aside. With his bare hands, he scooped up the moist sand and dug a hole in which he laid his pelt. After sliding the rock back, he picked up a small stone with which he scratched a mark on the boulder, so he would find his way back to his most precious belonging, his only belonging, his selkie skin. 

It was Samhain, and intending to have fun as any young man would, Malcolm headed toward the village. At first sight of a man approaching him, he wanted to run. But Malcolm kept his feet firmly on the sand and looked closely at the tall, muscular warrior walking toward him. 

A surge of relief shot through Malcolm. “Kenneth?” He reached out and embraced his cousin. 

“Greetings.” The lines of Kenneth's lips and brows reflected shock and puzzlement. 

Malcolm stepped back and took in the changes a year had wrought in Kenneth. His cousin was a bit taller and more muscular, but in other ways he hadn't changed. He noticed Kenneth clutched a wad of clothes to his chest. 

“Yes. I am glad to meet up with you anew.” With his free hand, Kenneth gave Malcolm a hardy pat on the back. “It has been a long time, cousin. Glad I am to see you hail and hardy,” he said in a jubilant tone. “I blacked out and by some means washed ashore. When I came to, a seal stood over me. Its eyes were your eyes.” 

“I remember.” 

“Do you forgive me for not saving you?” 

“You could not save me, cousin. It was the selkies who saved you. You were still alive when they came upon us. I was not.” 

The gleam flickered out of Kenneth's green eyes as they widened and seemed to droop with sadness. “Yes. I hoped you had transformed. Old Fergus told me the seal I saw was a selkie.” He looked past Malcolm as if watching someone further back on shore. 

A feeling of foreboding crept over Malcolm. Then Kenneth redirected his gaze. 

“You live. It is all I hoped for.” The gleam returned to Kenneth's eyes as he grinned and clasped Malcolm on his upper arm. 

“It s good to be back.” 

“Much has happened since you left.” Kenneth paused as if the next words were difficult for him. “I have doleful tidings.” 

“What say you?” 

“First, a boon to bestow. I recall the legends say selkies transform on Samhain, so I thought you might be visiting us.” He handed him the bundle of clothes. “I brought these.”

“My thanks. I knew not how I would explain my lack of attire,” Malcolm said as he pulled on his braies. “Tell me of these doleful tidings, cousin.” He pulled the tunic over his head. It felt strange to have clothes against his body. He wanted to strip them off. 

“Malcolm, both our sires lie dead at the hands of Picts.” 

“What say you?” 

“It is worse. Their heads are hanging from the wall of Scone as we speak. They were slain in battle with the Picts. Our war band was outnumbered.” 

“No.” Malcolm's knees went as soft as a jellyfish. “Da? My da is dead?” He spread his legs and braced his feet, to stop from tumbling to the ground. “Da, dead. No it cannot be.” Malcolm could hardly breathe. It was as if he was drowning again, though he stood on land. 

“Yes, it is true, but there are good tidings with the bad,” Kenneth said with a gleam of purpose in his eyes. 

“What tidings?” 

“Well, the Picts had no time to celebrate victory over us. After our battle, Vikings attacked, and slew the King of the Picts and his bravest warriors.” 

Malcolm paused. “What say you?” 

“It is time to take my place as King of the Picts. As I dreamed, I will form a united kingdom of Picts and Scots. I shall call it Alba.” Kenneth said each word with full conviction. 

“Hence, I regret I will not be here to see you crowned.” Abruptly, a hard pain pierced Malcolm's heart. He knew the words he just uttered were untrue. The pain was a warning, he had lost his most precious possession. 

Malcolm lifted his head and peered into Kenneth's eyes. The cold orbs staring back at him made Malcolm want to punch out Kenneth's green eyes.

“You ... you stole my sealskin.”

“I need you. I cannot win against the Picts. I cannot be king unless you fight at my side.” 

Malcolm turned to see Donald, Kenneth's brother, coming up behind him. His gaze fell to the overturned rock. A hole lay where his pelt had been.

“You lay in stealth and watched where I hid my skin.” Malcolm's voice was heavy, harsh, without mercy. “Where is it Donald?” 

“I cannot tell you.” Donald cast his eyes downward. 

A fire burned in Malcolm's head. He drew back his arm and rammed his fist into Donald's chest knocking him to the sand. Malcolm swung at Kenneth with one fist, then the other. “Where's my skin? Did you have your man take it to the castle?” 

Between grunts, Kenneth uttered, “It is safe. But Dalriada is not. We need to unite the Picts and the Scots. Our fathers died for freedom.” 

Malcolm swung again. “I want to return to the sea, where I belong.” 

Kenneth threw a counterpunch and Malcolm stumbled backwards, giving his cousin time to speak. 

“No. You want a free Dalriada more than you want to return to your selkie life. Listen to me, Malcolm. Avenge your father. You are a Scot first, a selkie second. Well you know it.” 

Kenneth's words pierced Malcolm. It made him even madder he couldn't deny the truth of them. He threw another punch, but this time a sharp pain shot up his hand. He let out a hard grunt. 

“You broke your hand, did you not?” Kenneth asked. 

“On your jaw,” Malcolm retorted through gritted teeth. 

“You held your fist wrong.” Kenneth cupped Malcolm's hand in his.

 “Yes, it has been a while since I had a fist.” 

“It is true.” Kenneth rubbed the back of his cousin's hand. “Does it pain you?” 

“No,” Malcolm lied. 

“Good.” Kenneth rubbed his jaw. “Let us go to the bonfire and celebrate. I need ale.” Kenneth looked down at the large lump in the sand. “Donald arise, we are going to the bon fire. Our cousin is coming with us.” 

Malcolm shook his fingers, trying to shake off the pain. But it would be harder to shake the image in his mind of his sire's eyes staring at him from a severed head stuck on a pike and posted on the wall of Scone. Yes, his cousin knew him well. The need to avenge his father was stronger than the calling of the wild sea. 

Malcolm heard a female voice call to him. It was Bethoc. What was Bethoc doing in his dream? She hadn't been there that night. Malcolm woke up with a start.

Chapter Eleven

Bethoc sat up on her blanket as Malcolm yelled out in his sleep. He jerked awake.

 Leaning over him, she asked, “Another nightmare? What upsets you so?”

Malcolm shook his head. “Naught but a dream. A memory really, nothing more.”

A surge of anger shot through Bethoc at the pain reflected in his eyes.

“I tire of secrets. You must speak to me of these dreams.” 

“Not now, Bethoc. There is no time. Dawn’s light shines and everyone is breaking camp. We must hasten.” 

He pushed himself to a standing position and reached his hand down to her. She wrapped her fingers around his and he pulled her up.

“If we need to head out now then so be it but you will tell me what these dreams are about, if not now then tomorrow night or I will not travel on with you.” 

“You are too headstrong for your own good, princess.” He rubbed his head. “If I must, then yes. I will tell you tonight.”

He led her to her mount and wrapping his warm hands about her waist, Malcolm and lifted her onto the saddle. He pointed to the priest climbing into a wooden wagon.

“Ride at his side. You shall be safe with him. And tonight I have much to tell you at last.”

 He nodded to her as she spurred her horse toward Father Degnan. Bethoc kept her mount to the side of the wagon as the priest drove out of the camp.

As she kept her horse to a cantor, she glanced at Malcolm, Bethoc admired the way he held his head high as he rode. He had such a noble bearing.
What was the man hiding?
Bethoc rubbed her forehead as if she could bring the answer forth, but she couldn't. He had thought to satisfy her curiosity by promising to reveal his secret this eve, but it didn’t matter to her, for one she did not trust him to tell her and second she couldn’t wait, not even for tonight.

She glanced at Father Degnan as he sung old Scottish song while she rode at the side of his wagon. The melody was soothing, but lively. Suddenly, Bethoc realized he could tell her what happened to Malcolm when he supposedly drowned. As the priest, he would know and even better he was bound to the truth, he couldn’t lie.

But before she could ask Father Degnan about her husband’s secret, she spotted men approaching, about ten, at a fast gallop, heading straight for the wagon.

 Her mouth fell open and she wrenched out a blood-curdling Pictish war cry.

****

A blur of mounted Norsemen, in bright red, blue, green, and orange tunics with braies, burst across the ground, toward the wagon, faster than the slash of a whip.

“The hellions must be mad,” Malcolm bit out with disgust. A thick-chested, orange and green clad youth, charging toward Malcolm, suddenly toppled off his horse.
 

It is good they are young and drunk, they will be easy to kill.
Roused by Bethoc's voltaic bray of a Pict warrior's cry, Malcolm unleashed his sword which was thirsty for blood. 

Brandishing the long blade high, as if stirring the air, Malcolm snapped the leather reins, and his horse's powerful muscles bunched and flexed beneath him as the steed charged. 

Thorseth's horse kicked up dirt as he headed straight for Malcolm. Though the shortest and youngest of the twelve Viking's, he wielded the deadly broad axe as well as any man. 

Before they collided, the two men jerked their steeds to a halt. Both Viking and Scot looked each other in the eye. Though he was young, Thorseth's arms bulged with muscles, plainly from lifting that heavy axe. Stringy yellow hair framed his pale eyes, which gleamed with the zeal of battle lust. 

Malcolm knew even if he couldn't out-weapon the eager lad, he would out-smart the youth. With whetted blade, Malcolm thrashed the wickedly, keen edged head of Thorseth's battle-axe. Thorseth swung and Malcolm countered. Each man struck again, to try and bite their blade into the other’s flesh. If not for his selkie strength, Malcolm would never have been able to fend off an axe with only a sword.