Selkie, p.31
Selkie, page 31
Quinn pushed his hand aside and stretched up to lay her snout against Oliver’s chest. She could feel his heart beat excitedly beneath his ribs.
Oliver laid his webbed hand against her fur. They stood like that for a moment, connected at two points, with the waves rushing around their feet, endlessly tugging them toward and away from the shore. But the sea would not decide this for them.
Huffing a breath against Oliver’s thick coat, Quinn pushed her nose into his chest until he was forced to take a step back, out of the waves.
Oliver frowned. His hand tightened in her fur. Quinn whuffed again and pushed him back, shuffling herself up the rocky shore until he was all the way out of the water. When he was out of reach of the tide Quinn leaned back to look at him.
Flora had stepped forward when Quinn had begun pushing Oliver out of the water, and Evie came with her, until they stood right behind Oliver’s shoulders.
Quinn rumbled softly in her throat. There was no guarantee that Oliver could make the full transformation. And even so, he already had a family that loved and needed him. She wouldn’t take him away from that. If he could make that choice one day in the future, she swore to herself that she would be here for him, but until then, the sea did not call to him.
Quinn looked at each of her children in turn. There was a chance she would never see them again, and she tried to drink in everything about them.
“Mama,” Flora said quietly. “We’ll take care of him.”
Her oldest knew the burden of what Quinn had given to Oliver better than any of them. But so long as he had his sisters, Quinn knew he would be safe. Once they showed Owen, he, too, would protect his son. He had wanted Oliver so badly, after all.
Unlatching herself from Flora’s side, Evie took a step toward Quinn and laid a small, plump-fingered hand against the other side of Quinn’s head.
Quinn closed her eyes and sighed. She knew there would always be a part of her anchored to this shore, but it would live on in her children. Her children, who had been the ones to finally free her and give her the chance to make her own choices again. She wanted to return the favor in kind.
Blinking her inky eyes open, Quinn twitched her nose and let out a short bark. Oliver and Evie took their hands away from her fur, startled, but then Evie laughed as Quinn shook her head and sprayed them with salt water and rain. Flora circled her arms around Evie’s and Oliver’s shoulders and held them as Quinn backed away.
The waves rose up to meet her and helped her off the rocky shore. Quinn worked backward as long as she could, watching the distance between herself and her children grow. When the seafloor gave way, she swam with her head above water, floating on her back. The rain was coming down harder now, dimpling the sea where it landed and dripping heavily down Quinn’s fur.
Finally, when she could no longer make out the details of their faces, Quinn tossed her head and flipped into a dive. She made sure to make a large splash with her tail as she descended and hoped that it was the sound of Evie laughing again that sent her off.
QUINN FINALLY LET HER instincts take over and began to swim north. She stayed low in the water and only came up to take a fresh breath of air when she really needed to.
The rain at the surface did not cease. When she paused to take a break and float along the top of the water, eyes scanning the thin strips of beach and cliffs in the far distance, it poured as if an endless urn had tipped over. The sound of the rain hitting the water coupled with the ceaseless movement of the ocean made Quinn feel uneasy, but she pushed forward anyway.
How long had the journey north taken the herd when she was younger? After so long of using the humans’ measurement of time, her memories were muddled, and the days blurred together. Even so, she was not the same selkie she’d once been. She was traveling slowly and alone.
Night fell quickly after she left her children on the beach. Quinn had only managed perhaps an hour’s swim north before she had to stop and find a place to spend the night. Cautiously, she angled herself toward the shore again.
She found an outcropping of bare rock to rest on out of reach of humans. Still, she slept very little that night. Without the journey to keep her occupied, the image of Maisie’s crumpled face, of MacArthur’s fractured control, and Jamie’s anger flooded her mind. She wondered what they were doing now that she was gone. Would they be talking about her, and how she had betrayed them? Or had they already begun to forget about her?
She had not been able to resist checking over her shoulder as she swam away to see if the lighthouse beacon had been lit, but the sky had stayed dark.
Quinn had known her leaving would hurt Maisie, but she had selfishly hoped that Maisie would be able to rely on MacArthur and Jamie to hold her together once Quinn was gone. With Jamie and MacArthur likely cursing Quinn for bringing such destruction into their lives, she wondered how long it would take for Maisie to be poisoned against her.
Quinn shut her eyes firmly, back facing the direction of the lighthouse, and tried desperately to sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED rainy and cold. Quinn had managed only a few hours of restless sleep, and the moment she woke, every choice she’d made over the previous day rushed to the front of her mind and filled her with doubt.
Rolling over on the rock, Quinn stretched her tail and looked around. The sea and sky were still swollen with rain. Shaking off the chill from the early morning, Quinn hooked her flippers over the edge of the rock and pulled herself into the water.
Quinn put some distance between herself and the cliffs before diving into the deep water and continuing her journey north. As she dove, swam, rose, breathed, and dove again, Quinn eventually felt her stomach complain. She’d been getting steady, reliable meals three times a day at the lighthouse, but now it was up to her to provide her own food again. She dove deeper in search of a fish shoal.
An hour later, Quinn felt something move in the water. She was deep, the water bitterly cold and influenced by the far stretching currents that wrapped around the land. But this wasn’t the frenzied, scattered movement of a fish shoal. Something large was moving around her.
An orca? She didn’t remember seeing them along this coast so late in the winter season. A whale? No, it was moving too quickly, and it was alone, like her. She listened hard for any clicking or moaning calls, anything that would indicate who was in the water with her.
She had a few more minutes at this depth before she would need to return to the surface for air. Should she try to swim for shore? If she wasn’t faster than whatever was out there, darting away would invite a chase. Maybe if she kept moving forward at the same pace she’d been keeping, it would lose interest in her.
If Quinn had been with her herd, she would have felt safe in their numbers, and known that someone older and more experienced than she was would make the decision about what to do. But she was alone now. The choices were hers.
Quinn wouldn’t race for the shore. She knew the dangers that lurked on land, and more important, she’d only just been able to return to the sea. She wouldn’t let herself be chased off by another sea creature.
She was a selkie. This ocean was her home.
Quinn made up her mind. Twisting in the water, she faced the direction she’d last sensed movement and let out a loud, bubbling bark. Then she shot toward the surface.
The creature gave chase. She could feel the prickle along the back of her neck that meant she was being followed, and she pushed herself faster. Quinn was moving so quickly that once she hit the surface, she went airborne for a few moments before splashing back down.
Sucking in a huge breath, Quinn ducked back into the sea and swam in wide circles around the point where she’d made a splashing reentrance. In the dim light, she could only see shadows, until one broke away from the others. It swam incredibly quickly, slicing through the water like a beam of light through the darkness.
Quinn braced herself as it came closer.
Then, finally, she could make out the details. A long, equine head and neck, a broad, muscled chest, and razor-sharp front hooves attached to misleadingly delicate ankles and legs. Thick, seaweed-like hair led down its neck and far down its back to the point where smooth black skin gave way to closely overlapping scales covering a wide, lethal tail like a whale fluke. The scales seemed black at first glance but shone an iridescent dark green as it moved. There were clusters of the seaweed-like hair at the base of its front hooves, which fluttered madly as it galloped around Quinn. The tail was extremely flexible and moved fluidly through the water.
A kelpie. Quinn clamped down on the breath she’d taken moments before as she circled to watch the kelpie swim around her.
Her mother had told her about kelpies, of course, but no one had seen one since the generation before hers. Quinn had thought they’d all moved on, or died.
Her mother had told her stories about how the humans had coveted the kelpie, like the selkies, for their beautiful human forms and ability to grant them luck. Knowing that the humans’ stories about selkies bringing luck were drastically exaggerated, she mourned the loss of the kelpie to the humans’ greed.
But here was a kelpie, fiercely alive, and circling her like a predator closing in on its prey.
Quinn twisted in the water to keep the kelpie in sight. It moved nearly too fast for her to keep up, its front hooves slicing through the water as it flicked its tail, moving as effortlessly as a bird gliding through the air. Thin streams of bubbles trailed from its wide nostrils.
She could never outswim a kelpie. Quinn’s heart beat manically in her chest as she hovered, her gaze catching on the kelpie’s mouth as it pulled back its lips to bare large, flat, white teeth. Those weren’t the teeth of a predator, but its eyes certainly were. They flashed red even in the dim light beneath the surface.
What should she do? Quinn thought frantically, trying to remember any stories her mother may have told her about escaping kelpies. But her mother had never met a kelpie and she’d probably thought Quinn would never see one in person either. She braced for the right moment when she could break out of the kelpie’s circle.
I have not seen your kind in many moons, selkie.
Quinn jerked, a startled grunt making her lose half her air. The kelpie’s pace slowed, hooves set to a slow trot rather than a gallop. She was looking at Quinn with one red eye, neck extended and head tilted.
She spoke again. I mistook you for a common seal. Had I not noticed, you would have been my meal.
The kelpie’s voice seemed to pass right into Quinn’s head. Her mouth didn’t move at any point, lips still pulled back and teeth pressed together to flash menacingly through the blue haze of the water. The voice was overwhelming, soaked in brine and ageless wisdom, but it also seemed hoarse from disuse.
Where did you come from, selkie?
The kelpie suddenly reared up and pivoted with a massive thrust of her tail. Now she stared at Quinn through the other eye, still circling. Quinn could see a row of jagged teeth marks indented into the kelpie’s right flank stretching between the smooth skin and scaled tail, long healed, but it had obviously been a deep wound.
Quinn thought, Can you understand me like this?
Yes.
Quinn shuddered, a mix of relief and unease as she felt the kelpie’s presence brush against her own so they could speak.
I was on land, Quinn told the kelpie, trapped for seven years. I finally escaped.
Humans? the kelpie asked.
Quinn made an affirming grunt, and the kelpie tossed her head in anger. She stalled in the water again and slowed to a meandering clip. She no longer circled Quinn, but paced back and forth in the water.
Horrible creatures, the kelpie spat. They take and take, giving nothing but death in return. They tear apart the cycles of this world for their greed.
The kelpie threw her head again, and a large burst of bubbles billowed from her mouth, as if she was neighing. Quinn stayed silent. She had no love for humans like Owen, or the people in the town, and she knew that the kelpie spoke truly about humanity’s greed since she had seen it with her own eyes. But still, Maisie lurked in the back of her mind, along with MacArthur and Jamie. They’d been generous with her. How could they be of the same population as the ones who had treated Quinn so badly?
I am the last kelpie in these waters, she told Quinn. I fled to the ocean after my only remaining companion was caught and slain by the river we grew up in. I did not know these waters, but I learned quickly in order to survive. Humans can’t reach me here, but that does not mean I am safe. As you can see, the ocean’s inhabitants tried to eat me. She twisted in the water to show Quinn her injured flank again. But I escaped. Now I hide in the depths, as the salt water slowly wears me away like a stone in the path of a river.
The kelpie ducked her head and gestured to her body. Quinn looked more carefully, and realized that the kelpie’s horse-like front legs did not only appear weak, but they were also too thin for an animal of such size. Patches of skin around its ankles and shoulders had faded from black to gray. A full-grown kelpie like this one should have been able to live for many decades, but they were made for the gentle fresh water of the river, not the abrasive, unforgiving sea.
Why stay in the ocean? Quinn asked her. Why not seek another river, where you may find another of your kind?
The kelpie shook her seaweed mane and rolled a red eye to pierce Quinn with a hard glare.
I am too old for such journeys now. Too weak.
Quinn let out a bark of disbelief. You are faster than any creature I’ve ever met!
Not weak in that sense, the kelpie told her. Too many years have passed since I lost my companion. I am not strong enough to have such hope that I would find another.
This far beneath the surface and away from the shore, especially now that the kelpie was keeping a slow pace that hardly rippled the water, Quinn was distinctly aware of the stillness around her. She had decided to venture out to look for her herd on nothing more than a rumor and a hope. How could she accomplish such a thing, if a creature like the kelpie saw no worth in it? How could she accomplish what a kelpie could not?
The squeezing feeling in her chest was not only anger. With a frustrated grunt, Quinn darted for the surface and took a fresh breath. She dove again right away, worried that the kelpie would lose interest in her and leave her behind.
But the kelpie was right where she’d left her. This time, she closed the distance between them until there were only a few meters of water separating them.
I am searching for my herd, she told the kelpie. I have nothing but the word of a human to go off of, but I am looking for them anyway.
There have not been selkies in these waters for many years, the kelpie told her. You are searching for ghosts.
Better looking for ghosts than sitting around waiting to become one!
Quinn let out an angry bark with this thought, and the kelpie nickered like she was laughing. She swung her huge head around and stared at Quinn with a fierce red eye.
A ghost I may soon be, but I will live out my life as I choose. I can have no more offspring. My companion is long gone to the froth, and any kin I could seek out would not recognize me. My years in the salt water have changed me. I am no longer the kelpie that finds solace in others of my kind. The kelpie pawed at the water. Tell me, selkie. You say you spent years on land with the humans. Have you not changed from who you used to be?
Quinn knew she was changed. Her years with Owen, though she had done all she could to resist it, had changed the way she saw the world. But in that time, she had learned of her ability to influence the storms and send her rage into the world. She had met the washerwoman, who had not been able to fulfill her wish, but instead made Quinn recognize her power of choice. Her children had set her free. Maisie had given her everything and asked for nearly nothing in return, except for what Quinn would be willing to give.
When Quinn had left the herd that fateful night, she had wished to see what the rest of the world had to offer. She had found it, the good and the bad. If she returned to the herd now, if she was even able to find them, how could she ever settle into a life like that again? Her mother had raised her on stories, but Quinn had learned to write the story herself. She was no longer a fish in the shoal. She was the whole ocean.
I am changed, she told the kelpie. But can I not choose the life I want?
The kelpie arched her neck. Of course you can. But are you choosing the life you want, or the life you think you should have?
This made Quinn twist in the water as if she could shake off the feeling settling into her fur. She had left the lighthouse because she thought she should find her herd again and rejoin her kind, and because she was too dangerous to be around Maisie and the others. How could she choose to stay with them when she had caused them so much pain? How could she choose to stay with a human, when so many years of her life had been stolen by a human?
How could she be a selkie and choose a life with Maisie?
Easily, was the answer. She wanted to stay with Maisie. She wanted a life with Maisie in it, whatever form that took. She could face the storms she’d wrought, and weather the storms ahead with the people who had brought her back to life.
Quinn rolled toward the kelpie again.
You hate humans, she said, not really a question.
I despise their greed, the kelpie replied.
Quinn pushed. The life I want, it is with humans. But if I am like you, perhaps the last of my kind in these waters, shouldn’t I try to find the selkies?
The kelpie considered her. Even when her head was still, the deep ocean current tucked its fingers into her mane of seaweed and set it fluttering around her neck. Her broad chest and shoulders, still heavily muscled despite the years fighting against the erosion of the sea, gave Quinn the impression of a great boulder balanced at the edge of a mountaintop. She could hold steady and strong for ages, or one motion could send her charging forward like an unstoppable force.
