The Selkie (7 page)

However, she had had quite enough of being hauled about for the evening. Even if she suffered the agonies of the damned, she would manage the slope on her own.

“No. I can handle it.”

For a moment, she thought Rory was going to ignore her words and again force her into doing what he wanted. But he merely nodded and laid a gentle hand on her arm.

“Come away, then, Hexy lass. We’ll see ye warm and dry, and with a meal in yer belly.”

“We’ll have a fire?” she asked, finally looking up at Rory’s face.

His nod was reluctant, but he said, “Aye. I believe ye’ve need of one, and I can bear it if I maun.”

“I think these shoes are ruined,” Hexy added as they started up the hill toward the castle. The footwear was beginning to chafe and squeak alarmingly when flexed. “And your kilt is about the sorriest thing I’ve ever seen. It looks like it has seen a hundred years of war.”

“True enough. Things frae the land rarely fare well in the sea.”

She paused, trying to sort that out. At last she said, attempting to lighten the mood, “It doesn’t seem to have done me any harm, though. I am still whole and unscathed except for my ankle—but it was a rock that did that.”

Apparently she succeeded in hitting the right note of airiness, for Rory smiled widely, his teeth white in the new moonlight.

“Aye, that is true enough. But, Hexy lass, I suspect that is because ye belong more tae the sea than ye realize yet.”

“Perhaps,” she heard herself agree. What she really thought was that she might belong to Rory.

The thought was a little frightening and a lot wonderful. She hadn’t belonged to anyone since Rory Patrick died.

“Someday soon I maun take ye tae meet my family. Perhaps at the dark of the moon, when the tides are nae sae strong.”

Hexy wondered which village they lived in. There were several along the coast that could only be reached by boat or by hiking overland.

“I’d like to meet your family,” she answered.

“Da will be delighted with ye—I can swear to that, Hexy lass.”

Westward across the small sound there was a tiny islet, hardly more than an upthrust of pulverized granite slightly taller than most of the sea’s waves. It was one of the many bits of land that littered the coastal region, usually pretty places where bog myrtle, crinkle root and odorous cotton grass grew out of the gray stone in delicate-colored puffs. Hexy had visited a few of the islets near
Tresh nish
and knew that there would be small stands of fragrant plumage, as the asphodels were thick on the ground this time of year, when they could find fertile soil for their roots. In summer, Rory said that there would be a profusion of wild orchids, as colorful
as exotic butterfly wings, but the season was still too early for them even though there was a tropical flow.

Still, Hexy thought optimistically, even without the wildflowers, it would be a lovely place for a picnic. The sun was shining, the breeze was moderate and she was wearing a pretty frock of lavender silk tulle with a bronze underslip, which brought out a colorful heat in her dark red hair.

Their movable feast, which Hexy had herself prepared, was packed carefully into the hamper at her feet, lifted off the boat’s damp floor by a small pile of rushes. The basket was a heavy one as it bore not only the food she had made but also a blanket, crockery and a flask of precious lemonade whose rare, tangy fruit had been purchased at three shillings and sixpence from the village’s tiny store.

As they drew closer to the shore, Hexy was reminded that the island would not be a silent one, because there were birds of every kind nesting on these tiny bits of land, and feeding in the nearby waters. The palest blue sky above was full of diving avians that were clearly happy to be out in the gladsome weather. She was pleased that she had planned their excursion with care and had brought a generous amount of food, because doubtless they would be asked repeatedly to share it.

Hexy smiled at Rory, watching the muscles of his arms and chest as he pulled on the oars. One stray lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, so that he reminded her a bit of an affectionate sheepdog when he grinned at her. Though, of course, she had never seen a canine with hair of that glossy brown shade.

Her own hair had worked its way loose and probably looked like a shaggy aster on a windy day, but she did not bother to try and neaten it. That would have been an exercise in futility, and besides, the breeze combing through the loose strands was delicious. She planned to spend the entire afternoon relaxing and getting to know more about the mysterious Rory.

In spite of this resolve, from the moment the boat’s keel touched the stony shore of the fisherman’s island, Hexy could not shake off a feeling of unease.

Part of her discomfort could be explained by the mission they were on. Someone—this missing furrier, John of Crot Callow, most likely—had been attacking seal pups on Rory’s family lands. Rory had said he was not certain whether it was an act of vengeance against his people for the loss of the furrier’s son in their waters, or if the man sought to take the pups hostage as a bargaining tool. He and Hexy were looking for some evidence of where he was hiding, and of the missing man’s state of mind, since it
would determine how the poor soul was dealt with. Poaching was a serious crime here in Scotland.

Rory stepped out into the calf-deep water, and with the casual use of what looked like inhuman strength, pulled the rowboat up onto the gritty shingle with but a single hand. He turned and offered his arm to her.

“Careful now, lass. Yer shoes are lovely but not made for rough sand.”

Abandoning the picnic basket, Hexy allowed him to assist her onto shore. His touch, in spite of his previous show of force, was as gentle as sunshine, and as warming. That was pleasant, because she felt a sudden, unexpected chill creeping over her body.

“What dae ye feel here, lass? What dae ye smell?” he inquired of her, his head cocked as he asked that rather strange question. “Ye sense something, dae ye not? Yer kind always could talk wi’ the dead.”

Aware that she had been holding her breath, Hexy finally released a sigh and sampled the isle’s atmosphere. Peat reek was strong in the air, even with the cyclonic breeze that wrapped the tiny island. And though not far from the mainland, the air of isolation was profound. Even the birds had abandoned them once they came on shore.

Hexy turned her head slowly, trying to identify
something that was at once foreign and yet familiar. This seemed like a place she might have known long ago in a dream.

There were the odd ruins of eighteenthcentury habitation about them, erected when stone was quarried here, and a few shacks along the grass fringes where lobstermen and other fishermen kept their extra nets and pots, but that was all, except for a small stone vault, perhaps six feet by eight, and five feet high.

She recognized the building’s purpose and suffered a chill. Such vaults were erected on islands that the tide favored. They were used to temporarily house the bodies of drowned seamen who washed ashore until coffins or shrouds could be brought to the island by the families of the deceased.

Yer kind always could talk wi’ the dead
.

Nonsense.

Hexy turned away, searching for some sign of modern habitation, but there was none. There was no town, not even a single croft with a friendly chimney. It was, in fact, the loneliest place she had ever seen.

“I don’t like it here. It’s too quiet. Let’s just do what we must and then leave. Where do we start our hunt? He could be hiding anywhere,” she added, staring at the roofless buildings and wishing they needn’t explore the island.

She didn’t bother to protest the search,
though. Obviously Rory took the matter of poaching very seriously. Just as seriously as he had taken whatever had been in the wagon of the circus.

It made her doubly uncomfortable to think about that, because the disappearance of the freak-show oddity was being talked about all over the village and even up at Fintry. The only certain fact seemed to be that the remains of the merman had been taken during the night, before the circus even opened. There was a great deal of speculation about
why
, and the scandal was shaking the village. A nervous Mr. Campbell himself had come to Fintry to tell her of the event and to leave some old books about mermen in her care.

She was certain Rory had taken the merman’s body—but why?

Rory took a deep breath of air and then pointed at a sorry-looking structure whose threshold had been swept away, leaving nothing but sand on the stoop.

“Here.”

Hexy turned. The building was gray, canted crazily, and had strange wounds in its walls. It was wrapped in an atmosphere of neglect that seemed to repel the sun. No more dismal dwelling could be imagined; just looking at it made the sky seem suddenly overcast with sickly green, and it was easy to imagine that it was
lowering upon them, ready to crush them into the earth.

“That is the place. This is where the evil lies. Can ye not feel it, lass? Can ye not smell it?”

Hexy tried to think of something to say to this odd observation, but speech failed her. Evil? No one spoke of evil these days.

She shifted restlessly from foot to foot, uncomfortably aware of the unpleasant chill creeping in through the thin soles of her shoes and ghosting up the back of her legs with icy fingers. She suddenly wished that she were wearing leather instead of thin silk. A tea gown and slippers seemed inadequate protection against whatever was waiting inside that building.

Rory began pacing toward the weathered shack. After a moment, Hexy reluctantly followed.

The warped door opened without any audible protest and Rory disappeared inside, leaving only his footprints in the sand. Taking a final lungful of the clean, outside air, Hexy trailed him into the dark interior.

She paused three steps inside the door, unable to force herself any farther indoors. It was as though she had been entangled in a spider’s web.

Danger. Insanity. Evil
.

She looked about hurriedly, trying to find
some reason for her growing alarm, but nothing obvious leaped out at her. Nothing touched her limbs or face, nothing spoke into her ears.

Shutters had been fastened over the windows, closing out most of the sun, which made the room uncomfortably shadowy. The paving stones of the cottage floor had been upset, as though heaved about by a fearsome sea. The uneven ground was littered with dark casks, ropes and assorted nets that coiled menacingly like so many snakes. But that was all. No living thing stirred in the room.

It was hard to imagine that any living thing had ever been here.

Hexy looked up into the dark rafters. One particularly large net had been hung on a pulley rather like a stage curtain, partially veiling a small, high table set at the end of the room. She shivered, staring for a long moment at what should have been harmless rope but that seemed transformed into an instrument of torture and death that waited for her to walk beneath it.

And it
was
just that, of course, for the many sea creatures who had died within its grasp. But that was no reason for her to fear it.

Still, fear it she did. Profoundly.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, Hexy could see that there was actually some order to the placement of the fishermen’s goods.
There was also no mistaking the straight aisles with their pews of barrels, or the broken Celtic cross and candles placed on top of the lectern.

“It looks like a church made by insane people,” she whispered.

“It is. But I cannae imagine what sort of worship happens here. Look ye! See yon pieces of wood. They come frae a wrecked ship. There maun be the remains of a dozen boats here. I can smell something else as well.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Slowly his head turned toward the darker shadows. For a moment, he didn’t look at all human, but rather like some beast of the hunt.

Hexy’s sense of sanity and safety began to unravel. They were standing in the presence of lunacy and hatred. She could feel it all around them. The place was haunted.

You don’t believe in ghosts
, she scolded herself.

I do now,
a frightened voice answered.
And I don’t want to talk with the dead
.

“Rory,” she whispered, her throat dry and constricted as it tried to keep the room’s dank, spirit-poisoned air out of her lungs. She couldn’t imagine how Rory managed to take in such deep breaths without retching. The atmosphere was vile, venomous.

Rory grunted but continued to walk among the upturned casks that led to the altar.

“Stay away from that net,” she warned suddenly.
Good sense was shrinking and congealing into a useless mass of quivering nerves, leaving room for fearful speculation to eddy around the edges of her consciousness. Not even Rory’s presence could keep it at bay.

“There’s a Bible here. ’Tis covered o’er wi’ salt,” he said, not touching the lectern, which had been fashioned out of a ship’s rudder and a rusted anchor, lashed together with rotting rope. He examined the strange, cracked cross with several deep breaths, being careful not to have contact with the icon made out of a ship’s wheel.

“Salt?”

A talisman to ward off evil
.

“The son was a fisherman. He drowned some weeks past.” Rory’s voice had to fight to reach her. The oppression was thickening, darkening, closing in around her, and it swallowed light and sound. “Old John thinks that the People took him, but he’s wrong. All we did was bring the body home.”

“Why?” Hexy cleared her throat and put a hand to her temples, trying to keep the fear at bay and to make sense of what Rory was saying. “Why does he think that your people took him?”

“The son had a red nose and the marks of what looked like needle teeth upon it,” Rory answered, gazing up at the fishnet. Clearly disturbed
at the instrument of murder, he was careful not to step beneath it.

Hexy stared at him, trying to create order of his gibberish. “What? What has that to do with anything?”

Rory glanced at her assessingly. “Ye ken the answer tae that, down inside, don’t ye, lass?” he suggested. “Look inside yerself and tell me what ye feel.”

Hexy began to back toward the door. Rory’s word were strange and frightening, and the hostile atmosphere was overcoming courage and reason. Her brain was not functioning as it should, but she knew that she couldn’t stay in the tiny chapel any longer. Something there hated her, hated all women. Something not dead but still full of death.

“I didnae think on the body’s state at the time. Sae many things might have been at it. But now, wi’ Wrathdrum awake…” Rory’s voice faded in and out of hearing.

“Rory?” Her voice was weak. “I have to go outside. Now. You should leave, too. It isn’t safe here. Something is very, very wrong with this island.”

“Aye, lass, it is far wrong. But ye needn’t fret so. I ken this taint. And I fear that John may have the right of it, though he’s wrong in blamin’ the People for what happened tae his son.”

“Rory, please! Come away.” Hexy forced herself to stop at the doorway. By turning her head, she could see the sun outside and breathe the clean air. This was enough to keep panic at bay for a few moments more. “What do you mean he blames
the people?
Are you saying that someone actually drowned John’s son?”

“Aye, I fear sae. I believe he was wrapped in that very net and left tae the sea. It smells of a shroud. And this whole place has the stench of the finmen aboot it.”

“
Finmen?”
A sudden image, dark and horrifying, bloomed in her head. It was another part of some half-recalled nightmare. Knowing it was a completely irrational question she still heard herself ask, “Like mermaids? Rory, is it…You are saying that the old legends are real, aren’t you? That’s what you were hinting at last night.”

“Aye, of course I am. These are evil creatures, though, not like the People. They are the sorcerers of the sea come over eons past frae Norway. They’ve been moving down frae Hildaland, making a new kingdom in Wrathdrum.” His voice faded further as he peered behind the altar. “I right pity their womenfolk and cannae blame them for trying to escape their fate by lying with mortal men. But many a time it leads tae trouble.”