Maggie and the Selkie

That morning the bodies were counted. Twelve in all, and one still missing.

Hamish.

When the families took the bodies home to prepare them for burial, Maggie sneaked down to the beach to walk the shoreline. Five miles north, and five miles south. Through her tears, every piece of driftwood and kelp was a human figure; an arm reaching for help, a crumpled body found too late. Maggie’s hope disappeared with the sun and a low, slow groaning emerged from her throat as she sank to the sand. The pain in her heart was so strong she didn’t notice the water rising around her, the cold seeping into her skin.

She thought of her dream of the previous night, of thrashing seas and the stabbing hollow in her chest.

‘I saw what was to come. I should’ve made him stay!’ She squeezed her eyes shut, tears slipping over her cheeks to add to the salty water about her knees.

‘And how would you have made a fisherman stay when there was food to be caught for his village?’

Maggie started, tripping backwards in her haste to get up and landing awkwardly on a wrist as the waves splashed around her.

The man before her stood knee deep in water, his bare legs protruding from a strange coat that hung around his shoulders.

‘Perhaps I can help you?’ He held out a hand, and Maggie took it, the warmth of his grip waking her up to the fact that her body was numb.

He pulled her towards him and carried her the few steps out of the water to above the high-tide mark. He sat her down at a pile of sticks, and she was aware of him doing something before her. When a flash sparked a fire, she realised what he’d been up to.

‘We need to get you out of these wet clothes.’

Maggie should have felt embarrassed at a strange man undressing her, but there was nothing as he peeled off her dress and undergarments, wrapping her in his cloak before spreading her clothes out across sticks wedged in the sand.

He disappeared for a time. Maggie must have dozed, for when she woke the fire was loaded up with logs, crackling and popping from the heat. She sat up, and held her hands out to the warmth.

‘You feel better?’ His voice was deep, and when Maggie looked up she realised he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Her cheeks burned as she averted her eyes.

‘You need your coat.’ She went to remove it from her shoulders, but he held out a hand and stopped her.

‘Not as much as you do.’

‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asked, staring into the flames to avoid looking at him.

‘No.’

‘How did you find me? Where did you come from?’

‘You called me,’ he said.

‘I called you?’ Maggie frowned. ‘How?’

‘You cried seven tears into the sea.’

Vague memories surfaced of tales her grandmother had shared with her as a child. She stood up, and met his gaze. ‘You’re a selkie?’

He nodded. ‘I am.’

‘You live under the waves, out there.’ She gestured to the sea.

‘I do.’

Hope quickened her pulse. ‘Can you bring someone back?’

He frowned. ‘If you have a friend among the selkies, I cannot force them to return.’

‘No.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘No. Not a friend. A... my husband. He was swept out to sea yesterday, his boat was capsized—’ Maggie bit her lip as the pain tore at her anew, blinking away fresh tears.

‘I cannot take what the Sea has claimed.’ The selkie man reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘All I can do is offer comfort.’

Maggie crumpled and the selkie man caught her. She allowed him to pull her close, resting her head on his chest as a torrent of sobs tore through her body.

After a time her breathing calmed, and he tilted her face up to look at him. His eyes were a soft swirling grey and when his gaze held hers she found she couldn’t remember why she’d been so sad.

‘Your husband was a good man?’ he asked.

Maggie nodded. ‘The best.’

‘Then be happy you knew him. That you were the one he called wife.’ He kissed away a tear that trickled down her cheek.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Caelan.’

‘Caelan.’ She liked how the name sounded on her tongue, and when he kissed her full on the lips a warmth spread through her, all memory of her sorrow fading.

She knew she should push him away, but she couldn’t remember why. When he laid her down on the damp sand she welcomed his touch.

He was gentle, but all too soon it was over and he was dressing her again in her warm dry clothes and kissing her once more. He picked up his coat and wrapped it around his shoulders, pressing his forehead to hers one last time. But then he pulled the hood over his head, transformed from man to seal, and disappeared into the sea.

With his absence the loss of Hamish tore at her afresh. She pulled her oilskin coat tight around her shoulders, her gaze caught by the distant glow of lanterns coming along the shore.

The villagers were looking for her, and no matter how she might like to join Hamish, she knew she had to go back. But now her sorrow over Hamish was joined by an anguish at the loss of her selkie lover. He’d taken away her sorrow, completely lifted the weight from her shoulders. Could he do it again?

She shook her head. He was a seal, most of the time, and if the stories were right, the seal folk never remembered their human lives. He would have forgotten her already.

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