skara brae chapter 1

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My mother was a selkie queen, one of those creatures of mystery and mist who never quite belong anywhere in the wide world. She came from the realm of faery, assuming human shape to stay among us and walk upon dry land.

The way of it all is easy for me to picture, for the memory of my father’s voice telling the tale is as strong upon me today as when he first recited it. How much was contrived on his part and how much was real, who can know? I remember that his words held a fascination and a magical rhythm that caught his listeners in a tight web of believing. It was a subtle twist of his own mysterious talent that made people want his stories to be true, uncaring that his words shifted and slipped like the ever-changing sands of the beach that lay near our tiny village.

My father was the shimor, the magic user of our village on the edge of Orkney Mainland. He brought our mother to him from beneath the sea waves, against the laws of her people and his. The way of these thefts was an old tale even then. Men have always coveted the selkie folk for the good luck they bring to those favored by their presence.

Father told my sister and me about it many times when we were small; how he hunted for days until he found a tiny selkie band that came to our beach in the early mornings. He hid behind the dunes and watched as the seal folk threw off their sealskins and basked on the sun-warmed rocks at the shore’s edge. Sometimes they sang together, their uncanny yelping cries sounding like human voices. In mortal shape, they were graceful and winsome, and none more so than our mother. As the days passed, he fell in love with the fey creature for more than just her magic.

"It was her eyes," he said, "her sorceress eyes that enspelled me."

But each time he approached them, the selkie folk scattered back to the sea, taking their skins with them. Finally my father went to talk to the old man who was the head priest of our tiny village.

"You must wait until she sleeps," the wise one told him, "and go silently to where she cast aside her sealskin. When you have it in your hand, she will follow you."

"I cannot go silently enough," my father argued. "Always the seal folk sense my presence and flee into the water."

"Watch them," said the old man. "Wait until late one morning when their bellies are full of fresh fish and they all lie sleeping. It will be easy then."

The shimor of a village is cunning as well as gifted with magic, and Father did not want to wait long for the prize he coveted. He bartered with a fisherman the next morning. A fat calf for the man’s entire basket of fish. He took the basket to the shore and scattered the fish near the rocks.

The scent drew the seal folk as he had known it must. They feasted happily, ignorant of the danger that waited behind the dunes. At last, sated by the combination of the warm rocks and the good meal, they began to take off their soft skins.

The seal fur of my mother was lush and dark. She moved out of it like a ritual dancer removing a mask, and laid it on the sand with gentle hands.

When he told the story, my father talked about how her human skin gleamed like wet gold in the sunlight and her sea dark hair streamed in long damp ribbons over her shoulders. All around her the seal folk slept. She sat for awhile looking out over the waves, and then at last she too lay down on the warm beach and dozed.

Father crept without sound to where she had laid her seal fur. Not a single selkie sensed the danger. But when the mortal hands touched the fur, the fey folk arose with a fearful cry.

The shimor clutched the beautiful skin to his breast. He stared at the panicked selkie queen, my mother, as all around her the seals fled from the eyes and threat of the man in their midst.

Only my mother was left on the beach, trembling in her nakedness before the man who would take her, unwilling, as his wife. He rolled the seal fur up and put it in the crane bag that held all his magic amulets.

He draped a red-gold deerskin over her soft shoulders, then walked slowly back to the village, the selkie queen following him with dragging steps. He took her underground, into his house, and made her pregnant.

The villagers were overjoyed at the news. My father was at the height of his power then. Once he had mated with his selkie, he was able to draw power from her. He used her singing to fill the fish traps and keep the flocks in good health. He made her walk the fields so that the farmers would have good crops.

So jubilant were the villagers that they put aside the old man who had been head priest and made my father their leader. See how powerful is the shimor, they chanted, he has brought magic to walk among us and increase our wealth!

There was a romance to the story as my father told it, but there were also tides of grief underneath it that tugged and twisted at my heart. I remember only rare smiles from my mother, and also the fact that she left the shimor’s bed each night as soon as his sleep was too deep for him to miss her.

Eni, my sister, was born first. When the wameer, my father’s second woman, lifted the child to show Mhathair, the selkie turned her face away. "That is a child of sorrow," she said, her deep dark eyes brimming with weariness at some sad future only she could see. The wameer flinched at the prophecy, but she remained there beside the bed, holding the infant out to the melancholy woman. The baby yawned and stretched, stuck a tiny fist in its mouth and made greedy little sucking sounds. My mother’s face softened.

"Give her to me," she said, and she accepted the babe to suckle. But the story was repeated throughout the village.

Two harvest seasons passed before I was born, as different from Eni as was our father from our mother. The selkie took me to her arms immediately, as she had not done with her first daughter. And that, too, was gossiped about from hearth to hearth in the houses of Skara Brae.

These are my earliest memories; the only ones I would care to relate were I given a choice. The telling of what came later is both my curse and my hope of release. I am a singer, and this is the song I must share with any who will listen, hoping that someday, somewhere a listener will hear and feel compassion for all the players in my story. Even for me.

Read Ms. Donalds thoughts on Scottish Folklore

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