The Selkie (6 page)

Startled by a stray wave, which shoved at her rudely, she took a tumbling step back, nearly sitting down in the freezing surf as she turned an ankle on the edge of a submerged stone.

Just as Rory’s movements had betrayed him to her searching eyes, so her own careless movement gave her away to him.

“Dae ye plan tae run from me, lass?” he asked, tossing his fish aside. “But why? Yer drawn tae the sea as well, are ye not? And ye seem tae find me pleasing.”

Hexy shouldn’t have been able to hear his voice, but somehow it carried to her over the sea and stroked her ears.

She swallowed twice and cleared her throat, but found that she could not answer.

“Listen now. The sea has a music tae it,” he said softly. “And the music is like the People. It was born wi’ us; we grew as it did, married with others, mingling our waters and blood, and we both gave birth tae new songs and new lives.”

Rory drew closer, his great, dark eyes unblinking and filled with heat.

“But then the waters and the People ceased tae thrive. Little new music was written, and what there was of it became sad. Still, the sea can renew herself and sae shall the People. And ye can be of help tae us both.”

Part of Hexy understood what Rory was saying and wanted to run, or at least avert her eyes from his, which were fathomless in their depths. Another part wanted to rush forward and throw herself into his arms and maybe into the sea. But she did neither. Instead she stood calmly, ignoring her twinging ankle, and even offering him his damp shirt as he reached her side.

“I think we know what happened to your last shirt,” she managed to say at last, amazed at the tranquillity of her voice and proud that she could still speak sensibly after the spell of his words had enfolded her. “Your kilt is safe enough, but I don’t know about your shoes.”

Rory studied her for a long moment and then turned to look out at the sea. He nodded once at something there and then reached out for her with his hands and eyes.

“Ye didnae run from me, but ye’ll not come willingly tae the song, will ye, lass?” His voice was whimsical, yet also deadly serious. “Yer resistance is strong. Someone gave ye a reasoned mind. This is new tae me.”

She gave up trying to change the subject.

“Yes, I have a mind. And I’m not going anywhere until I am certain it is where I want to go,” she warned him.

“Then sae mote it be. I’ll just hae a talk with yer blood and the memories therein, instead of yer shut-up mind.”

Run,
a voice whispered.

I will not!

But even as she thought this, fingers, incredibly strong and yet gentle, curled about her nape. He touched a place behind her ear and pulled her forward so that he could bend down and kiss her there. He touched her with the tip of his tongue. The kiss startled her into immobility,
and after a moment, Hexy’s legs began to buckle.

Rory quickly caught her, pressing her against his body—impossibly warm, even after his prolonged immersion in the sea—and held her until she had regained her balance. As soon as she was steady, he turned her so her back was to the ocean and the disappearing sun. For one moment, she feared that he was going to carry her out into deeper water and perform some sort of strange baptism that would completely subjugate her will.

“Ye’ve questions about what ye’ve seen?” he suggested, his face buried in her tangled hair. The intimacy seemed normal. “Ask me, lass, fer I’ll tell ye anything ye wish tae know, teach ye anything ye need tae remember.”

“No, I have no questions,” Hexy denied, leaning against Rory because her own limbs seemed unable to support her. But she lied. She did have questions, if only her sluggish brain could sort them out!

“It must seem passing strange, what ye’ve seen and felt this day. But ’tis not sae odd, Hexy lass. Sometimes I ween the old smell and come down tae visit here. Through the years I’ve made friends with the ocean and almost all who live in her.” His voice was persuasive. “Ye can understand that, can ye not? Yer brother loved the sea tae, did he not? Sae talk tae me. Tell
me yer thoughts, yer memories, what ye see when ye dream. Ask me what ye wish tae know.”

Hexy swallowed. Though it was silliness, perhaps it
was
better to ask Rory about what she had seen—what she was feeling. Maybe he could explain the incredible thoughts running through her head.

“You were playing with a seal.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but not strong enough to be a declarative sentence either.

“Aye, I was. He’s a young one yet and still a wee bit frolicsome.” Rory fisted a hand in her hair and tilted her head upward so their eyes met. “Were ye frightened? Ye shouldnae be. Seals are gentle creatures, nae threat tae any man. They shouldnae disturb ye.”

“I’m not disturbed. I—it was fun to watch. I would have liked to have come, too, but I was afraid of the tide.” And she was not ready to put off her clothes and wade into the cold.

“Would ye have liked tae come wi’ us? Well, mayhap one day ye will.” His hand loosened in her hair, and he caressed her gently. His smile was pleased. “And when ye come ye’ll hae nae fear. I promise this.”

“You saw your brother, Keir, too?” she asked, aware that she was standing in the arms of a naked man—a very strange naked man—but finding it beyond her power to move away.

“I did. He was settin’ out on yon rock,
croonin’ like a daft mavis. He never could sing.”

“And he had news?” In spite of Rory’s heated flesh, Hexy was beginning to tremble with cold. The ocean was draining the very life out of her through the soles of her feet.

“Aye.” Rory frowned, noticing the tremors that were moving through her body. His voice was brisk, yet suddenly more normal: “Come out of the water, Hexy lass. Ye’ll catch yer death. Poor love! Ye look as miserable as a sheep in a snowstorm. Mayhap a bit sadder even.”

Not waiting for her to move, Rory lifted her in his arms and walked swiftly up the beach, apparently unbothered by her wet weight or the sharp-edged grains of sand beneath his naked feet. They were jagged enough to cause lacerations, but perhaps he always went barefoot and his soles were more calloused than usual.

“Wring out yer skirts and empty yer shoes whilst I dress in this sheep’s clothing,” he instructed her, setting her on her shod feet. His voice was very practical. “Keir tells me that the circus has come tae town, and I need tae see something that they have wi’ them.”

Hexy found his words bizarre, but no more so than anything else she had experienced that day.

Finally finding some inner strength and a
soupçon of modesty, Hexy turned her back while Rory dressed. As she wrung out her waterlogged skirts, it unhappily occurred to her that her outlandish actions—like watching a strange man bathing in the nude—required some explanation.

“The reason I came to find you,” she began, standing carefully on her twisted ankle, “is because there was a message from Mr. Campbell at the post office. Jillian has discovered the mixup with the coats and is returning yours right away. It should be here in a day or two.”

“Aye?” Rory didn’t sound as happy as she had expected him to be, and she risked a quick peek at his shadowed profile.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” she said. “You seemed so worried earlier.”

“That I am, lass—more pleased than ye’ll ever ken.” Rory belted his plaid in place and pulled on his shoes without bothering to brush the sand from his soles. “But things hae happened in the last day, and there’s something else we maun dae right now. Something just as important tae me as finding my skin, and more urgent tae the People.”

“Yes?” she asked, meeting his eyes squarely as he came to her, holding out his long-fingered hand. It seemed only natural that she should take it.

“I’ll tell ye about it after we’ve climbed the
trail.” Rory jerked his head to the left. “Up wi’ ye, now.”

“The trail?” Hexy asked, confused. “But the path is that way.”

She gestured in the opposite direction.

“I ken a shorter way through these caves. We maun hurry. Haste ye now, lass. Just stay behind me and dae not let go of my belt for even an instant.”

“But, Rory, it’s dark in there—and the tide is turning—” she protested, for some reason greatly fearing the sea cave he indicated. Perhaps she had dreamed of one after her brother died. After his death she had had many bad dreams and many new fears about the ocean.

“I’m sorry, lass.” Rory touched a finger to his lips and then touched her again behind her left ear, pressing on the spot he had kissed earlier. This time her legs did not buckle, but she had another moment of weakening vertigo that sapped her will to argue. Fighting dizziness, she shifted more weight onto her left foot and winced.

“What ails ye, lass?” he asked, frowning. “Are ye injured?”

“I twisted my ankle on a rock,” she answered, waving at the stony ridge as it disappeared into the sea.

“Let me hae a look at ye.” Rory knelt down
and shoved her clinging skirts aside, then rolled down her stocking.

Hexy watched, slightly shocked, as he reached inside his already drying shirt and ran his palm down his chest; then, withdrawing it, he laid his warm hand over her right ankle and rubbed gently, as though spreading an unguent.

Immediately, inexplicably, the small pain there faded. Warmth traveled up her body, flushing her skin.

“How did you do that?” she asked. “What…?”

Rory quickly pulled off her slipper and brushed the sand away from her chilled toes. He did the same for her other foot. His touch was matter-of-fact through the stockings, but it still made her feel weak and trembly, and far too warm. And it got worse as he smoothed the stocking back up her leg.

“That shall dae for now.” Rory stood up. Looking into her eyes, he said with the air of a man taking a solemn oath, “Stay close, Hexy lass, and hae no fear of the cave. I swear by all I hold dear that darkness or not, tide or not, I’ll never let anything happen tae ye.”

Quite without reason, the unusually docile and feverish Hexy believed him. “Wither thou goest,” she answered, reaching out for Rory’s hand.

The last thing Hexy expected to see at the head of the beach trail when they finally emerged from the black of the cave was a torchlight procession of colorful strangers. The huge, garish wagons were easy to recognize even in the twilight, as were the parading plumed horses. But even if they had not been visible from the cliff trail, Hexy and Rory would have known that the circus was in town. There was no escaping the calliope’s shrill, steam-driven notes once they were outside the hidden tunnel, where they’d heard nothing except the sea’s tidal roar.

They stood quietly and watched with interest—Rory’s more critical and focused—as first
the bright clowns and then the jugglers came marching by. There were tumblers, too, but they had abandoned their acrobatics once the procession started up the hill and their followers from the village forsook their escort.

Aware that Rory was sniffing the air and suddenly frowning, Hexy turned to examine his face. He glanced down at her, his expression abstracted in the torchlight, and then urged her toward the parade.

“I need tae see something here, lass,” he told her again. “Ye’ll speak wi’ the men there beside the wagon and keep them occupied for a bittock whilst I look about.”

The tone was something more than a request and Hexy felt obliged to protest. “I—”

“Please, lass. ’Tis important.” He touched her behind the ear again, causing her a moment of vertigo. She tried to look into his eyes, to see the thoughts and plots that lingered there, but he dropped his long lashes over them like a widow’s veil. “Lass? Will ye nae help with this small thing?”

“Very well,” she agreed, feeling disoriented and more baffled than ever, but willing to help Rory if it was important.

“
Tapadh leat
,” he murmured.

“Speak English,” she said absently, the only tone her voice seemed to have that evening.

“This is the one,” Rory whispered, placing a hand to the small of her back.

At his urging, they fell into step beside two slightly muddied tumblers who were bringing up the rear of the procession, save for two wagons, one of which was a droll booth, presently without puppets in its curtained window. At Rory’s nod, Hexy engaged the two men in polite conversation. She hoped that in the dim light her damp skirt, wet to the waist in the back, and her sagging hose, peppered with sand and sea wrack, were not apparent, because there was no respectable explanation for their condition.

“What is the name of your circus?” she asked, her eyes wide and her voice loud enough to compete with the music. It took some effort to pretend that she didn’t see the very large sign on the side of the yellow wagon that proclaimed HECTOR’S GRAND CARAVAN CIRCUS SINCE 1894.

“We be the Grand Caravan Circus, missus, up from Lunnon way, and making our long-awaited reappearance here in the wilds of Cal-e-don-ia,” the elder of the two tumblers announced proudly.

“From London!” Hexy shouted admiringly, glancing back once at Rory as he stepped closer to the yellow wagon. She added the next thing that came into her head: “That’s a long way. It
must cost a great deal to travel here to Scotland with all these people and wagons.”

“Aye, it do. It do. But we aren’t worrit about making the nut here, mistress. Folks in the north is real friendly—”

“And bored. People get a little weird up here after a long winter with just theirselves for company,” added another man, an impertinent youth, also dressed as a tumbler but rather taller and more mud-spattered than his companion. His comment seemed a bit disrespectful as he was staring at her squeaking shoes as he made it, but she supposed she couldn’t blame him for being interested in her odd appearance.

“—so we always makes good money on the Scotch run in the spring. Manny!” The older man reached out and cuffed the teenager, who’d started to turn and look at Rory, who had fallen back to the rear of the yellow wagon.

“Ow!” The youth grabbed his ear and glared. “I was just lookin’ at that odd man what—”

“Ain’t I told ya that lookin’ backward durint the parade is bad luck? Leave that odd man to hisself and mind yer marchin’.”

Hexy, not wanting to be cuffed or draw attention to Rory’s strange behavior, also refrained from looking back at her now missing companion, though she was horribly curious about what he was doing. She had just noticed
that above the Grand Caravan Circus sign there was another banner. This one said FREAKS AND ODDITIES.

“My goodness!” Hexy gestured at the sign. “What sorts of things do you have here? I once saw a chicken egg that had three yolks and a lamb with two tails.”

Since it had been her brother’s field of interest, and Rory Patrick had never given up his search for a reasonable explanation regarding the creatures of legend their grandfather had talked about, she had also seen some revolting sirenoform fetuses both pickled and waxed while accompanying him on his investigation.
Phocomelus
was the term her brother had used for the poor souls born with foreshortened and sometimes fused limbs. He’d seen some of the crippled wretches in medical school and admitted that short of making a living in a circus, there was very little that many of them could do to earn their keep.

And there had also once been a Frankenstein horror of fish and monkey parts sewn together and passed off as a mermaid. Hexy had been appalled at the display of withered remains, but Rory Patrick had snorted with derision at that one—
see the pelvic fin. It’s the same as you would see in a quadruped, but the actual pelvic ratio of transverse dorsoventral diameter is all wrong. It’s an
obvious fake. Who would be taken in by something so poorly made?

“Are there a lot of freaks and oddities like those here? I’d love to see a horse with two tails,” Hexy lied.

Both tumblers snickered at what they thought was her bucolic naïveté, the younger one going so far as to sniff with disdain that they would have anything so mundane in their sideshow.

“Missus, that’s all very well for a small, countrylike fair. But we are pro-fe-shun-els and we have us some world-class wonders in there.” He leaned toward her and said significantly, “For tuppance ye can see the taxidermied remains of a two-headed, four-tongued snake from Arabia and the skeleton of the great mythical beast, the merman of Sule Skerry!”

“A merman!” But it wasn’t that fantastical word that sent shivers down her spine. Mermen she had seen, and thanks to her brother, she understood the trickery that made them. It was the mention of Sule Skerry that disquieted her. She had an unpleasant premonition that it was this that was attracting Rory’s attention and would probably get them both in trouble.

It was a moment’s work to force the flimsy lock on the old door and boost himself into the wagon. In the shadowy recesses of the rocking
caravan, Ruairidh lifted the cover off the glass-topped display case nearest the door and looked down without surprise.

He’d known what to expect after his brother’s warning, but still the sight filled him with rage. He did not know for certain which of the People had been the unwilling doner of these stolen bones, but that they were one of his kin he did not doubt. And some foul magic had been worked upon them.

But how? How had the humans come to possess such a skeleton? Only a selkie or some other sea creature could have journeyed into the deep caves where his ancestors’ remains were kept and taken one of them away.

Sickened at the desecration, Ruairidh closed the box and then drew the tarp back over the case. Taking a quick look through the open door, he dropped lightly back onto the road and wedged the door more or less into place. There was nothing he could do about this now, not with Hexy there and so many people about. But he would be back later to retrieve his ancestor’s bones and return them to the sea, where they would be cleansed of their taint.

In three strides he had regained Hexy’s side. A quick look at her pale face told him that something had disturbed her. He reached out a hand to touch her neck, trying to soothe her in the only way he knew how. The sweat from
his palms should have immediately calmed her to a soporific state, but it did not. Instead of immediately soothing her, he found it was growing more difficult to control her the farther they got from the sea. Perhaps it was because his own agitation had increased.

Hexy had had the oddest effect on him from the first moment they met. Perhaps it was the tears that had welled from her eyes—those beautiful eyes, the color of spring when it came to the land in a rush in May. But it was something else as well. The curves of her body, the very feel of her. Everything about her was different from any female he had ever known. His own body was emphatic about its attraction to the variation of woman that was Hexy Garrow. The pleasure of exchanging passion with her would extend far beyond the satisfaction of having done his duty by contributing to the survival of his clan.

The thought of it made him impatient, but fulfillment would have to wait while he dealt with this new outrage. The two facts in conjunction incensed him and made serenity impossible. He would have to be careful. Being separated from his skin was making him irritable.

“Rory, did you know that they have a merman from Sule Skerry in this wagon? Imagine that! We’ll have to come see it tomorrow, won’t we?”

“Aye,” he agreed, his voice a shade grim as he stroked his hand down her nape and then behind her ear. He could almost feel her rebelling thoughts buffeting her captivated brain with their great disembodied wings as they attempted to escape his control. He could not allow that to happen. Whatever else occurred, he could not allow her to panic and run away. “We’ll come and see it, there’s nae doubt of that.”

It was impossible for any of the People’s beautiful brown eyes to ever appear cold, but Ruairidh knew from Hexy’s reaction that his expression was far from the reassuring one he wanted to wear.

He renewed his petting, stroking salt into the skin over her veins, and forced his features to relax so that she would not be frightened and fight its effects.

It bothered him to do this, to use his gift in this way. Hexy’s contentment was something needed for the collective good of the People, and perhaps for himself as well, but this constant interference with her thoughts was too close to the subjugation the amoral finmen imposed on their women.

The People had always prided themselves on their society, which allowed for individual thought and choice.

Of course, some would say that Hexy was not
one of the People and therefore not entitled to the privileges of the clan. And so much was at stake—the selkies very survival, in point of fact—that he could not risk losing her before she understood her importance to the People and to him. And his importance to her.

In the meanwhile, he could not waste time in questioning the philosophies of his clan. There were concerns of more immediacy.

“Where came ye by such a wondrous thing?” Ruairidh asked the young tumbler as the older one stopped long enough to hike up a drooping sock. “It must hae cost ye a shilling or two tae buy something sae rare.”

“Nay, it didn’t,” the youngster said. “Hector never paid a brass farthing for it. It was brung to us last year while we was in Scotland by two bullyboys named Turpin and Brodir—compliments of a Mr. Sevin. Muffled up to the eyes they was—two strange blokes, and that’s no lie.”

Ruairidh stiffened in shock at the name, and so alarming was his posture that Hexy actually laid a restraining hand upon his arm. At any other time, he would have found the gesture amusing, for the People were not usually violent. But in that moment he was glad of her reminder to use caution. It was improbable that this boy knew anything of importance, but the
urge to drag him away and question him roughly was nearly overwhelming.

“Manny!” the older tumbler warned as he rejoined them. “Ain’t anyone learned you not to discuss business with the townies?”

“Well, aye, but—”

“But nothing! Shut yer gob and go check on the horses. I think one is throwin’ a shoe.”

The youngster glared at the other tumbler but went off without protest.

“Boys! They’s all chatterers. Ye mustn’t mind him.”

“That’s quite all right. We must be going, too,” Hexy said. She offered a smile, which was too friendly, but she didn’t want the older man looking too closely at Rory, whose expression was far from calm. “We shall certainly come see your exhibit when you are all set up. It sounds wonderful. Good luck to you.”

“Thankee, missus. We’ll see you on the morrow. Sir.” He nodded to Rory, but true to his lecture about bad luck, he didn’t turn his head to look at them as Hexy dragged Rory off the path and into the gradually quieting darkness.

They stood without speaking as the last of the circus disappeared over the hill. Slowly but surely, the shrill music faded.

“Was it really a merman inside that wagon?” she asked at last, looking down at her clammy shoes, which felt as though they were shrinking
around her freezing feet. “Not just a seal or a fish, or some cobbled-together horror they’ve concocted to extort money from the masses?”

Rory hesitated.

“It wasnae a merman, a seal, nor a fish.”

Hexy nodded jerkily. What she was thinking was impossible—quite insane. But that didn’t seem to matter to her brain. It was beginning to embrace an impossibility, and this fantastical thought made her want to both run and hide and yet also seek out the possible wondrous truth.

For the time being she was caught between the wild conception and the discovery of an improbable reality, stranded between the thought and some moment of inescapable proof. Until she could decide what to do and believe, she would have to manage to live with two simultaneous and contradictory thoughts.

More than ever, she missed her brother and wished that he were there to talk to.

“How is yer ankle, lass?” Rory asked, his tone solicitous. “Shall I carry ye back tae Fintry? We cannae go by the beach as the tide is in now and would be tae strong for ye.”

Hexy shivered, her strength draining away with the light. They were half an hour from the castle, and every step of it was steeply inclined, but she had no doubt that Rory could easily bear her up the hill if he needed to.