The Selkie Bride (9 page)

I knew from past conversations that Mistress Mac-Laren had lost a son, a brother and two nephews all at Vimy Ridge on Easter Monday in 1917. Poor woman. When fate decides to bludgeon you, all you can do is duck and run and pray the cudgel is short enough that you can escape. Sometimes you get away; sometimes you don’t. Knowing how my own losses had affected
me, I bit my tongue when she was especially sullen or nosy. We all grieve differently, and she offered no true incivility.

The death-cold cloak of storm and mist had parted by the time I left the shop, and when I looked seaward I could see the weekly mail steamer coming our way. When I say “weekly,” I mean that according to Murray’s Diary it endeavored to come every seven days. It was often delayed by bad weather, as I’d pointed out to Lachlan.

The distant whistle shrilled again as I tucked my small parcel into the bicycle’s basket, and I noticed a small boat setting off from the chafed jetty where the larger fishing boats were usually moored. Securing a mooring between the two vessels would be tricky because the sea remained rough, but I had no doubt that the harassed men would manage in spite of the turbulence. Angry seas were nothing new to these fishermen, and they did this every week—or ten or twelve days, or whenever tide and fog permitted.

The whistle sounded again, shriller than birds, which called to mind the sound of the calliope I thought I had heard the night before. Had it perhaps been a ship at sea and not the storm winds singing through the pass that had frightened me? The throbbing in my leg said no. Something unnatural had been abroad last night. Something evil, and it had come close.

I shrugged deeper into my cape and realized with surprise how much I had come to appreciate the usual quiet of Findloss and how much I resented losing it, now that it was threatened. I was beginning to feel
knit into the fabric of this country, albeit on the very edges. Perhaps it was the blood of my ancestors at last awakening in my veins. Maybe it was just finally being free to make my way in the world.

Wind blew back my hair with a salty breath that was unique to this village. I marveled again that though raised in a city, most days I did not miss the bustle of the exciting annoyance of my earlier and more materialistic life in the United States. Industrial progress no longer seemed as much like progress to me. I did not like the noise and agitation that came with the convenience of my old life enough to wish its return. Like Lachlan claimed of himself, I lived in two worlds and probably couldn’t stay in either. What would become of us? Where do people go when home isn’t home anymore?

I looked seaward, but the ocean offered no answer. The tiny bit of aureate light that slid between clouds brought no real warmth, and the sun’s routine creepings toward the western horizon—growing shorter every day—seemed suddenly sinister. Did Sol, like the tide, conspire with the finman? Evil surely went about in the day, but it was most active in the dark. There seemed an increasing number of dark hours where wickedness could hold sway.

The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee, Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging sea
.

—Rudyard Kipling,
“Seal Lullaby
”

I prepared a pot of tea and baked some scones, and enjoyed them; though, since I am not British enough for tea to be a panacea, the ritual calmed me only slightly, even with a dram of whisky added to the pot. Some of the local whisky is appalling, unsafe unless you are a ruminant with more than one stomach to spare for digesting toxic things. I paid extra for something drinkable, but used it sparingly. I simply couldn’t afford to be an alcoholic.

A part of me was watching the sun creep westward, waiting impatiently for Lachlan and his promised charm of protection, though this wasn’t reasonable; he had never come to visit the cottage except in full darkness.

The sleet that attacked at sunset was sudden and fierce, and I lost heart that Lachlan would come, but appear he did, just before the midnight hour. On his
shoulder was a fresh wound that I knew could only be caused by the bite of a shark. Or maybe a finman.

I did not immediately ask questions, just went to fetch linens and some hot water for cleaning the wound. Once again he’d been out in the cold without a shirt or overcoat, but this state of semiundress seemed almost normal now. Certainly it was no hardship for me to look upon him.

“Take off that plaid before you freeze,” I said, handing him a large sheet of toweling and turning my back politely until I heard the sodden wool hit the hearth.

“I am modestly draped,” Lachlan said, and I thought I heard some amusement in his voice. This surprised me, given the depth of the bite and how much pain he had to be feeling.

“I understand from my most recent reading that drinking from a selkie’s footprint can cause a person to shape-shift.” I said it lightly as I set about washing the jagged tear that was healing even as I dabbed at it. That was fortunate, because I am fainthearted and don’t do well with the sight of any blood other than my own. Setting stitches would have been out of the question.

Lachlan didn’t laugh at the superstition as I had hoped, and his next words indirectly confirmed my belief that he was a seal man. “Nay. But it might just be possible that a bit of…anesthetic might linger there. And if the drinker were someone who had previously been exposed, they might be affected in the mind.” His face was very close to mine and I could feel his breath on my cheek. As ever, his body was warm. He also smelled heavily of clove, and I realized
that it was his blood I was scenting. A part of me wanted to taste that, and the thought made me a bit dizzy. I had to put out a hand to steady myself but opted for a lower arm instead of the chest.

“I shall be careful what footprint I slurp from,” I joked, then changed the subject. “Mistress MacLaren tells me that the Devil was seen in the kirk last night. I don’t suppose that it was you checking on church records as we discussed.”

I felt the weight of his eyes as they settled on my own. “Nay.”

“Then I suppose we had best have a look at it tomorrow and speak to a few people. Perhaps someone else in the village saw something useful.”

I guessed that this suggestion probably wouldn’t be met with enthusiasm, and I was right.

“I will gae out and ask questions when I deem it prudent. Ye’ll stay here and not gossip wi’ the villagers wham may be dangerous tae ye. Wi’ this hanging aen the door,” he added, leaning over and pulling something from under his sodden plaid. He laid the small wreath of sea wrack and a metal spike on the table.

I was tempted to ask what else he had had under his kilt but refrained. I also decided against arguing with him about the kirk. I was beginning to believe that Lachlan was from the kick-over-the-wasp-nest-and-see-what-crawls-out school of investigation. No fan of Conan Doyle’s detective was he; subtle examination and clever interrogation were clearly not his forte. But why should they be? After all, he was a hunter on the trail of deadly prey and intended to kill, not question it. Yet I had a feeling that something
subtler might work better, at least as far as questioning the superstitious villagers, and I was very curious about the church now and wanted to see it before Lachlan pulled it down stone by stone, or whatever else he had in mind.

Lachlan wouldn’t like hearing this intention, though, so I decided that it would be better to seek forgiveness than permission. “Did the finman attack you tonight?” I asked, keeping my gaze on his wound, for fear he might read the intentional disregard of his advice in my gaze.

“His minions, aye. There were twa sharks waiting near the shore. They were big nasty brutes. I had a bit of a battle killing them.” I looked at the size of the bite. Its diameter was twice the length my hand. Then I tried to image how large the shark that had bitten him was. My mind faltered when it came to imagining how Lachlan might have killed two sharks of this size. What sort of seal man was he?

“And they weren’t just…passing sharks?” I asked.

“Nae. Hae ye ne’er noticed the talk among the villagers? There are nae sharks in these waters. My people have made these seas safe for the sea pups and their mithers that come tae the beach fer birthing.”

I had heard something like this before. “Someone must be getting desperate then.”

“Aye. I’ve inkled and spoken wi’ others frae nearby clans, and ’tis believed by the merrows that the finman may have tae find his heart by the winter solstice or perish.”

“What will happen on your way…back? Will there be other sharks waiting to attack you?”

“ ’Tis the maxim of the wise man tae never return by the same road he came—providing there is anither road free tae him. This I shall remember, since I hate tae slay the beasts of the sea wham are but innocents enslaved.” He changed the subject. “Have ye read anything else of interest in Fergus’s cursed books?”

“I have been reading some about pookas.”

Lachlan snorted. “Be glad I am nowt a pooka.”

“Why?” I asked, genuinely curious and glad that Lachlan seemed in a mood to talk. This was not his normal state, and I felt that I’d best take advantage of any loquaciousness.

“Because in general they’re rather nasty and hae an indefatigable sense of humor. Their relentless cheer and pranks are exhausting and can lead them intae trouble. It nearly also leads tae humans being deid.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said. “I was also reading about brownies and wondering how I could go about getting one, since there is no such thing as a housekeeper in this village and I would love someone to spin some yarn for me. I’m actually a pretty capable knitter.” No one would admit it to an outsider, but I had noticed that the few women who still spun their own yarn took down their spinning wheels at night so that no supernatural being might use them. Until I met Lachlan I had told myself this was just more local nonsense. Now I was less sure.

“That’s just silly superstition,” Lachlan said with a sniff.

“Is it now?” And then I laughed. The sound was weak and tentative, but quite real. “How am I to know what is real and what is not? You are all fable to me.”

“Sweet reason, woman. Magical house keepers?”

All I could do was shake my head and reach for some strips of linen to tie over the makeshift bandage, which was hardly necessary now. “I rarely see you during the day. Is it because the sun hurts you?” I asked, since he remained in what seemed for him a fairly garrulous mood.

“Nay. There are twilight people and Night Side people, but very few fey gae about aen the day anymore. There’s too much ill will and cold iron aboot. I had an uncle wha used tae visit a lady friend in daylight, though he was warned tae stay away, but he tempted fate once tae often. I think he was more than a bit mad frae the contamination in this warld and none tae gifted with sense tae begin with. It happens sometimes when we are tae lang alone. He was hunted down and his skin taken.”

“Every family has its black sheep—or seal,” I added with a small grim smile, making note that in spite of the harsh tale my mood had lifted. In fact, I felt a bit intoxicated and suspected it was the prolonged contact with Lachlan. “Ours was Uncle Milo—though he was not a blood uncle, so the title is only a courtesy. He was an elixir salesman and dishonest enough to have you counting your fingers after you shook his hand. As the saying goes, he would steal candy from a baby—or in this case, a niece—and then resell it as soon as he found another buyer. That was usually my cousin, Torquil. I think he may have been a bit mad too. Certainly he had no grasp of what was acceptable behavior in our home.” He had, for instance, once tried to reach under my dress. I had poured my milk
on him and threatened to tell my father. Now, as an adult, I sometimes wondered if Milo had not perhaps been doing things to Torquil. If he had, it warped my cousin into a sadistic and dishonest man.

“And where are this Milo and Torquil now?” Lachlan’s voice was gentle, but I was not deceived. Somehow he had guessed that there was more to my story and was angered on my behalf, even though in that moment I felt no rage myself.

“On the road to fame and fortune, or so my aunt says. I haven’t seen them in years and likely never will again.” I had finished wrapping Lachlan’s shoulder. The temptation to drop a kiss on his wound almost overcame me, but I managed to step back without doing anything foolish. My breath was a bit rapid, but I could always blame that on the sight of the injury if Lachlan said anything. “There! That’s tidy now. And I didn’t faint on you—so there.”

“I thank ye. I can tell that ye are near swoonin’.” He flexed his arm and rotated his shoulder.

“Well, it is expected from a gentlewoman when confronted with blood,” I pointed out, wondering what my parents would have thought of Lachlan and my reluctant physical attraction to him. They would probably be shocked by my romantic transgression. Or perhaps not. They might have considered him a step up from Duncan. Certainly I did, though I also knew he was far more dangerous.

“Yer smiling. Now, why? The sight of my blood amuses thee?”

“I was just thinking how much my parents would have disapproved of my friendship with you.”

“And this makes ye smile, lass?”

I shrugged. “I have always had an odd sense of humor. Perhaps I am not entirely sane either. At least, not around you. Somehow you affect me even when I am not drugged. I just wonder sometimes if it’s deliberate. Do you like me off guard? Can you make me so by some other means than a bite?”

“ ’Tis better than making ye struck dumb, aye?”

Struck dumb. That reminded me of my dream, and all playfulness fell away in a rush. “Lachlan, have you ever heard of a…a kind of pixie or familiar who would try to cut off someone’s shadow?”

“Aye. Ye’ve seen one?” He wasn’t smiling anymore, either.

“Yes. In a dream. Last night. When I woke up…well, come and see.” I led him into the bedroom, for once unconcerned about having a strange man near my bed. I pointed at the bloody print of the shears. “It’s my blood, not theirs. That thing bled white glop.”

“This is all?”

“No. I think Herman saw them too. He attacked them and then scratched me to wake me up.”

“Herman?”

“The cat.”

There was silence for a long moment. “What cat?”

“Fergus’s cat. I call him Herman.”

“Megan…” For once he seemed disturbed. “Fergus had a cat called Og. But it likely perished when he did, killed the same night. He was a big black beastie.”

“Yes. But…” I was blank. “Then it must be a
neighbor’s cat. I mean, it’s a real cat. And black cats are quite common.”

“Yer certain it is a cat? Where is it noo?”

“I…I don’t know. But Herman is real, Lachlan. He—he relieved himself on the floor one day when I locked him in by mistake. A…a
ghost
wouldn’t do that.”

“Nay, not a ghost. There is a task I maun dae tonight, but I shall be back tomorrow eve,” he said abruptly. “Meantimes, worry nowt about the apparitions in yer dreams. They’ll nowt return noo that the salt has worn away. Fergus’s creatures cannae reach ye unless yer…infl uenced. And ye’ll stay away frae the kirk, aye? And keep yer
cat
close if he’ll dae it. He’ll ken in which quarter the wind blows.”

“Go to the kirk? At night? Do you think me stupid?” I asked evasively, forcing myself to meet his eyes. That seemed the innocent thing to do.

“Nay. But by yer aen admission ye maun be a bit mad.”

I opened my mouth to argue my state of complete reason, but he laid his index finger against my lower lip and narrowed his eyes. Instead of answering I made my gaze limpid, and not knowing me well, Lachlan was fooled. I did not let myself believe that he was actually distracted by my charms, though the longer he touched me, his expression grew closer to bemusement and further from chiding.

Before he left, Lachlan took up the spike he’d brought and with one blow, drove it into the outside of the door. “Don’t forget to hang the charm when ye gae
out,” he reminded me. “The finman has become bold, and I’ll not hae you risk yerself needlessly.”

“I will hang the charm,” I promised with all sincerity. “Thank you for it.”

Lachlan nodded and then closed the door softly behind him. It was only when he was gone that I realized he had left his sodden plaid behind along with the borrowed linen. Apparently wherever he was going, it didn’t require clothing.

I did not go immediately to the kirk upon rising the next morn, though this was not because of Lachlan’s admonition or any change of heart. The sun was out, so I made some porridge and fed the cat, who had mysteriously reappeared, and then hung my charm on the door. I took a stroll down to the emerging beach where I could get an unimpeded look at the village and surrounding cliffs—and the various tunnels and caves carved into the terraced cliffs by the ocean or man’s hands. There were a lot of them. Too many to explore in a day or even a week, supposing one was capable and brave. I hoped Lachlan had some means of limiting the search.

The water shushed and gurgled as it withdrew from the land. Until recently the sea’s murmurings had been an excellent barometer of things to come. (
Voice in the north, sailors gae forth!
A voice from the south was another matter, or so the fishermen said.) But now the tides and storms were unpredictable, the weather able to turn without warning. The waters remained rich with fish so men ventured out, but they all knew that the danger had grown.