Long ago, on an island
at the northern edge of the world, there lived a fisherman called Neil McCodrum.
He lived all alone in a stone croft where the moorland meets the shore, with
nothing but the guillemots for company and the stirring of the sand among the
shingle for song.
But in the long winter evenings he would sit by the peat-fire and watch the
blue smoke curling up to the roof, and his eyes looked far and far away as if
he was looking into another country. And sometimes, when the wind rustled the
bent-grass on the machair, he seemed to hear a soft voice sighing his name.
One spring evening, the men of the clachan were bringing their boats full of
herring into shore. They swung homeward with glad hearts, and their wives lit
the rushlights, so that the wide world dwindled to a warm quiet room. Neil McCodrum
was the last to drag his boat up the shingle and hoist the creel of fish upon
his back. He stood a while watching the seabirds fly low towards the headland,
their wings dark against the evening sky, then turned to trudge up the shingle
to the croft on the machair.
It was as he turned he saw something move in the shadows of the rocks. A glimmer
of white and then - he heard it between birds' cries - high laughter like silver.
He set down the creel, and with careful steps he neared the rocks, hardly daring
to breathe,and hid behind the largest one. And then he saw them - seven girls
with long dark flowing hair, naked and white as the swans on the lake, dancing
in a ring where the shoreline met the sea. And now his eye caught something
else - a shapeless pile of speckled brown skins lying heaped like seaweed on
a boulder nearby. Now Neil knew that they were selkie, who are seals in the
sea, but when they come to land, take off their skins and appear as human women.
Humped low so he would not be seen, Neil McCodrum crept towards the pile of
skins, and slowly slid the top one down. But scarcely had he rolled it up and
put it under his coat, than one of the selkie gave a sharp cry. The dance stopped,
the circle broke, and the girls ran to the boulder, slipped into their skins
and slithered into the rising tide, shiny brown seals that glided away into
the dark night sea.
All but one. She stood before him as white as a pearl, as still as frost in
starlight. She stared at him with great dark eyes, then slowly she held out
her hand, and said in a voice that trembled with silver:
"Ochone, ochone! Please give me back my skin." He took a step towards
her and she stared at him with large brown eyes that held the depths of the
sea. "Come with me," he said, "I will give you new clothes to
wear."
The wedding of Neil McCodrum and the selkie woman was set for the time of the
waxing moon and the flowing tide. All the folk of the clachan came, six whole
sheep were roasted and the whiskey ran like water.Toasts overflowed from every
cup for the new bride and groom, who sat at the head of the table: McCodrum,
beaming and awkward, unused to pleasure, tapped his spoon to the music of fiddle
and pipe, but the woman sat quietly beside him at the bride-seat, and seemed
to be listening to another music that had in it the sound of the sea.
After a while she bore him two children, a boy and a girl, who had the sandy
hair of their father, but the great dark eyes of their mother, and there were
little webs between their fingers and toes. Each day, when Neil was out in his
boat, she and her children would wander along the machair to gather wild parsnips
and berries, or fill their creels with carrageen from the rocks at low tide.
She seemed settled enough in the croft on the shore, and in May-time when the
air was scented with thyme and roseroot and the children ran towards her, their
arms full of wild yellow irises, she was almost happy.
But when the west wind brought rain, and strong squalls of wind that whistled
through the cracks in the croft walls, she grew restless and moved about the
house as if swaying to unseen tides, and when she sat at the spinning-wheel,
she would hum a strange song as the fine thread streamed through her fingers.
McCodrum hated these times and would sit in the dark peat-corner glowering at
her over his pipe, but unable to say a word.
Thirteen summers had passed since the selkie woman came to live with McCodrum,
and her children were almost grown. As she knelt on the warm earth one afternoon,
digging up silverweed roots to roast for supper, the voice of her daughter Morag
rang clear and excited through the salt-pure air and soon the girl was beside
her holding something in her hands. "O mother! Is this not the strangest
thing I have found in the old barley-kist, softer than the mist to my touch?"
Her mother rose slowly to her feet, and in silence ran her hand along the speckled
brown skin. It was smooth like silk. She held it to her breast with one hand,
and put her other arm around her daughter, and walked back with her to the croft
in silence, heedless of the girl's puzzled stares. Once inside, she called her
son Donald to her, and spoke gently to her children: "I will soon be leaving
you, mo chridhe, and you will not see me again in the shape I am in now.I go
not because I do not love you, but because I must become myself again."
That night, as the moon sailed white as a pearl over the western sea, the selkie
woman rose, leaving the warm bed and slumbering husband. She walked alone to
the silent shore and took off her clothes, one by one, and let them fall to
the sand. Then she stepped lightly over the rocks and unrolled the speckled
brown parcel she carried with her, and held it up before her. For one moment
maybe she hesitated, her head turning back to the dark, sleeping croft on the
machair; the next, she wrapped the shining skin about her and dropped into the
singing water of the sea. For a while a sleek brown head could be seen in the
dip and crest of the moon-dappled waves, pointing ever towards the far horizon,
and then, swiftly leaping and diving towards her, came six other seals. They
formed a circle around her and then all were lost to view in the soft indigo
of the night.
In the croft on the machair, Neil McCodrum stirred, and felt for his wife, but
his hand encountered a cold and empty hollow. He knew better than to look for
her and he also knew she would never come to him again. But when the moon was
young and the tide waxing, his children would not sleep at night, but ran down
to the sands on silent webbed feet. There, by the rocks on the shoreline, they
waited until she came - a speckled brown seal with great dark eyes. Laughing
and calling her name, they splashed into the foaming water and swam with her
until the break of day.
Originally published in Dalriada Magazine:
subscription info:
Dalriada Celtic Heritage Trust
Dun-Na-Beatha
2 Brathwic Place
Brodick
Isle of Arran
Scotland KA27 8BN
email: dalriada@dalriada.co.uk
Mara Freeman has produced an audiocassette series of Celtic storytelling called,
"Stories from the Otherworld."
Tape One:
Celtic Tales of Birds and Beasts: 4 animal stories including "The Selkie"
Tape Two: Tales
of Love and Transformation: Love-Stories of mortals and faery-folk
Tapes can be purchased from:
Mara Freeman
The Chalice Centre
P.O.Box 3839
Carmel, CA 93921
U.S.A.
email: office@chalicecenter.com
408/622-0330
$12.00 within the U.S.A.
$15.00 International Money Order elsewhere
Chalice Center: Mara
Freeman's beautiful new site.