She was a dry land selkie: four whelps and a mate, all of them born dry-landers. But she was the dry land selkie who’d shed her skin, turned shore bound and not looked back. Not the once.

 

It was a few years ago now, the night she came. The spring moon was lit broad on the water, ripe and creamy, low hanging on the horizon. The tide high and full to the wrack-line, sea foam pushing, nosing at the edge of it. Marking the edge of land and sea, sweet and salt, they and us.

 

Stepping out of her skin, she’d brushed it free of the lot of them, bound it with threads of her own hair: oiled and dark as it still was, and did not turn back to look, not the once.

Every step of her was firm and full beneath her fresh drawn feet. A thousand tiny rocks and stones rolled and waved with each tread she took. And as she drew near upon the town, the cobbled streets tilted and drew in towards her.  She had that way about her.

 

She hadn’t come for a man.

Hadn’t come for love.

She wasn’t tricked and she wasn’t kept captive.

She knew where she was heading.

And why.

 

 

Pups was what she wanted, and pups was what she got. Didn’t find it hard to find a mate. Selkies seldom do. Found fresh matings wherever she went: the lonely, limpid-eyed, grinding their jaw bones over their losses, their dreams and their ale. Each street and corner held them. So, she took her time about choosing. Wanting the strongest, the broadest, the fullest of chest – and she had her pick of them.

 

Those first years were a glamour for us all. She wore her selkie skin to tempt us: wound it about her breasts, her hair, her tight slithering hips. She pulled eyes and drew maws in her wake. Hair still strong with salted sea-musk, a strong scent, her true scent. ‘Til she shed that skin as well.

 

Sure enough she found the one.  Mated, settled, brooded and milked. And that was enough for her. It was what she had come for - shelter for her young to grow and for her to see them, free of nets and the dragging boat hooks and the changing lie of it all. She had one or more of them at her hips and feet wherever she went, gliding in the lee of her.

 

I used to see her, most days, but especially when it was hard on at sea, her long wet hair stranding her face – turning into the wind and the blast of it. Eyes black and shining, feet rooted, the blades of her back wide and long.

 

* * * *

             

Then I heard she’d grown big again – a fifth time. And from what I could tell, this one wasn’t as welcome. This one wasn’t bid to come. This one was not what it ought to be.  Instead of her round, high belly she was carrying a long, oval load. Kicking and flipping moons too soon for the quickening.

 

Some say this one’s a quick-silver.

I’d say this one’s not long for land.

We all say: this one’s got teeth.

 

The birthing is a tight one and no mistake. Don’t slip out like the others have. Breached and bloody it is. And when he does come, he’s long and wide, small head, thick of frame and she’s not as young as she used to be. The others are dark as her, smooth oiled, clear skinned, black eyed. His hair’s pale as milk froth, skin dark as storm churn, mouth mewling, spilling his feed.

 

Self-seeding, I did hear.

Not come the natural way.

As if Selkies have only the one way.

 

And she’s walking wide, heavy like as if she’s been shovelled through. Carrying a load. Weighted down: land locked. He’s lively from the off, slipping through the swaddle, bitey. You can see it in the way she holds him out away from her, breast oozing through the cloth.

 

‘Wrap it in your skin and send it off on the float!’

But she won’t.

She came here for breeding and breed is what she does.   

 

He takes his time weaning, sucking his way clean through her. And when he starts to walk, it’s a flapping waddle, schooner-swift; heading straight for the harbour as soon as he scents the air.

 

‘Leave him be, let him forage if that’s what he wants.'  

 

But she won’t. She swore to keep them on land, out of the sea, and so she does. But the toll on her is hard to take. He bites through to the bone, turns on a hair, quick as a fish.   

 

* * * *

 

The end of it is fair coming for all to see. It was never going to turn out as she wanted – but you cannot change what is in the blood and you cannot stop the tide from turning.

 

Spring full moon once more, just a sup past the equalling out of the nights.  Moon high and loaded, and there they are by the shoreline, all her pups behind her - ‘cept that one.  And he’s belly flat, making his way out. Sculling his way down to the edge.

 

She lets him taste the water first, it’s only what’s right. Squats down, her feet neither touching him nor the water, takes up a long flat one and sees to him. The hot salt of his blood a hiss on the air.

 

Standing by the wrack-line, her face lined now and grey in her hair, she watches as his limp body, pale as churned cream in the moon light, sinks a little deeper with each pull of the off tide.  There’ll be no more whelping – she’s made sure of that. Cleaned herself out. Brutal. But it is what it is.

 

And when he’s no more than a crescent moon on the horizon she turns, away from the sea and the town, and makes her way inland towards the hills. Her four pups a sleek line behind her.  There’s clean water up that way, fresh: rivers and lakes. Maybe they’ll be sweet enough to heal her bones, soothe the cuts and ease the ache of it all.  Maybe they’ll be good for something else. But that was the last I saw of them.  Their heads a faint shine, feet rocking, hips swaying, all of a line, heading off into the wide channel of the night.