The Visitors (18 page)

But this racket didn’t go unnoticed. Down on the shore, a selkie man heard the music. He was intrigued. He wanted some of the celebration for himself. Hiding his sealskin beneath the sand, he stole clothes from a washing line, and dressed himself for the ceilidh. Up at the hall, he found the dancing in full swing, with more than a hundred couples reeling and swinging and carousing. And there, at the centre of it all, was the bride. Glowing with joy, she danced the finest of them all, turning a fair mad jig with her new beau.

When he saw the bonnie lassie, the selkie knew right-aways that he would have her for his own. Nothing would stand in his way. And with that, the selkie started to dance. He matched the islanders step for step, feet flashing as he danced. He joined every reel. Like the lassie and the shepherd, he danced every dance, and he was soon into the thick of it. The selkie man was uncommon fair, and many a fine island girl tried to catch his eye, being unaware of his true nature, but he brushed them aside. He had eyes only for the bonnie bride.

Couple by couple and dance by dance, the islanders fell away exhausted, until only the shepherd, the bride and the selkie were left.

O, but how they danced. The three of them reeled and jigged like pure mad things, growing flushed with motion, dancing blinder, madder, ever faster. The shepherd and the selkie spun that bonnie bride between them for hours, dancing every dance they knew, then dancing them again, then
dancing new reels, ever faster and more frantic. The musicians struggled to keep up and fell away, one by one. But when the last fiddler and the last drummer collapsed and fell quiet, a fiendish music took up the rhythm, pounding out the beat, as though the hall itself had come to life with music. They danced until the sun came up, and only now did the young shepherd grow weary. He didn’t know the stranger, but he sensed the danger. Flushed, his heart pounding, he begged his new wife to rest a while. But his new wife was gone and lost to the rhythm. Mad with music, she was in love with her own dancing. As they danced, she grew ever more aware of the handsome stranger who somehow matched her step for step.

Aghast that he might lose his new bride, the shepherd tried again to compete, renewing his pace, but he couldn’t match the selkie man. He fought and fought to keep the rhythm, pushing himself harder and faster to match the reel, but the selkie man only grinned and increased his pace again, his feet no more than a blur on the battered floorboards. The bonnie bride now had eyes only for the stranger, and they danced together as though they were a single soul.

The poor young shepherd, well – in the heat of the dance, his heart gave out. Driven by his love for the lassie, he was cheated by the magic of the selkie. Overpowered by the exertion, he collapsed. Even as her poor young love lay dying beside her, the lassie danced on, transfixed by the handsome selkie and his devil’s reel. The shepherd’s last heartbeats hammered out a rhythm, and this dreadful beat was taken up by the ghostly music. At last, with the shepherd dead, the selkie had her for his own. With the wedding dance become a funeral dervish, the selkie reeled the bride down to the shore. As they danced, he stripped. His stolen clothes turned to rags and flapped and flew away, snagging themselves in trees,
hanging from the branches like dead men. Collecting his precious sealskin from the sand, the selkie danced the bonnie lassie straight into the shallows, wrapped her in the fur, and carried her to the bottom of the ocean. Down there, in the darkness, he made good the marriage of the poor dead shepherd. Utterly bewitched, the bride gave birth to a clutch of selkie pups, each with their own little skin.

Given time and madness, the bonnie lassie lost her looks, and so the selkie man lost interest. He sent her back to the shore and there she was found, many a year since that ghastly wedding day. Shivering and senseless, she wandered the rock-pools, clawing rags from clootie trees, calling for her long-dead shepherd love. And I tell you this: she never once stopped dancing. Bound over to the rhythm of the selkie’s magic, she spent the rest of her miserable days dancing a gruesome jig. Barefoot and bloodied, her legs and feet twitched out of her control, jerking and flitting, tapping to a beat that no one else would ever hear.

I woke to only a moderate headache. I felt a little woolly, certainly, but I’d had worse. It wasn’t bad at all. Surprised and pleased with myself, I sat upright, and that was the moment the hangover descended, slopping through my brain like wet concrete. Someone was frying bacon. I stumbled into the bathroom and threw up in the sink. It was tinged pink from the schnapps. Bile ran ragged in my throat. Back in my room, I found some clothes. Any clothes. I dressed like a rag doll, and pulled a brush through my hair.

When I finally dragged myself into the lounge, Ailsa was kneeling on the floor, playing with the baby.

‘Morning,’ I croaked.

‘Morning,’ she said, cheerfully. She checked over her shoulder, back towards the kitchen and the smell of bacon. ‘How’s the hangover?’ she whispered at me.

‘Foul. How’s yours?’

‘Oh, I’m fine. I told you. Nothing like a wee swim to clear the cobwebs.’

‘Swimming? You went swimming?’

‘Do you not remember?’ she grinned at me, wide and clear.

I searched my memory, searched her face for clues. Glimmers emerged, hazy and unsure. Drinking schnapps on the headland. Cackling like witches. The moon, reflected in the sea, rippled in a shifting jigsaw. Someone jumping into water,
over and over again. Ailsa dived into the sea. Ailsa swam in Still Bay.

Startled at the thought, I stared at her. She blew a raspberry at the baby.

‘Morning, Flo,’ hollered Ronny from the kitchen. ‘Want a bacon piece?’

Nausea rose in my throat again.

‘Christ, no,’ I said. ‘I’m turning vegetarian.’

‘That bad? You should have drunk some water.’

‘Three glasses,’ I said, holding up the fingers to match.

He whistled low in understanding. ‘I see. Then there’s nothing I can do for you but this.’

He stepped out with a glass of orange juice and paracetamol.

I retched over the chalky pills, but the juice was cold and sharp and refreshing. I started making sense of the day.

‘OK. What’s the plan, Teenwolf?’

‘Breakfast first, then off to see Nana and Grandpa for lunch, then we’re going on to Anders’ place. We’re going to drag his Danish arse back here and feed him up before he heads back to the rigs.’

‘OK, that’s a good plan. I can handle that plan. When are we leaving?’

Ronny took a bite of his sandwich. He checked his watch.

‘Five minutes,’ he said.

‘Two minutes,’ called Mum from the hallway.

‘Two minutes, Flo,’ grinned Ronny, and took another bite. Ketchup burst down his chin. My stomach lurched, and I bolted once more for the bathroom.

We said goodbye to Ailsa and drove off in a rattle of loose gravel. I turned to look out the rear window. As the car turned a corner and Grogport fell out of view, she was walking back along the road towards the rickety jetty.

‘How does she get home?’ asked Mum.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Either her dad comes across to get her, or she’ll have left the rib on our side.’

‘Fancy that fuss every time you want to pop round and see your neighbours.’

‘Can’t be easy,’ I agreed.

‘Still,’ said Mum, ‘she seems a nice girl. I like her.’

‘Yeah, me too.’

‘I’m glad you’ve made a friend.’

In the back seat, I rolled my eyes.

‘And it must be hard on her, too. Having no mother. It’s not easy for teenage girls.’

‘Really? Is that right? Is it hard for teenage girls?’

‘Wheesht your cheek, Flora. Remember you’ve got us.’

‘Well, she’s got her dad,’ I protested.

‘I haven’t met him yet,’ said Ronny.

‘No one has,’ said Mum. ‘He seems to do fine by himself.’

‘We should have him over. Ask them both for tea.’

‘Aye, I was thinking that too.’

Ronny was a good driver, but the roads were bumpy, rough and bendy, and they did nothing for my hangover. I hunkered down into the car seat. While my folks argued recipes and dates, I spent the rest of the journey trying very hard not to lose my stomach.

My grandparents lived in a bungalow in Tighna, set back from the main road. The decor was about as twee as it comes. Flowery wallpaper, china birds, china dogs. The cup of tea my Nana made me was the best thing that had happened all day. The heat and sugar put some life back in my belly. Ronny talked snooker with Grandpa, and Mum nursed Jamie in the spare room.

‘And how about you, Flo?’ asked Nana. ‘How are you getting on at school?’

‘Pretty good,’ I said, then wondered if I meant it. ‘Well, History is interesting at the moment.’

‘What are you working on?’

‘We’re doing a big project about myths and legends. I’m researching selkies, where they come from, things like that.’

Across the room, there was a startled, harrumphing noise from my grandfather. He struggled to lean forward.

‘Selkies,’ he said. ‘My god, Flora, it’s a while since I heard talk of selkies.’

‘You know some selkie stories, Grandpa?’ I asked, bemused to see the old man so energised.

‘Stories that’d curl your toes,’ he said, confiding in a conspiratorial whisper.

‘Wheesht your noise, Jim,’ said my grandmother, ‘you daft old fart.’

‘But the lassie said,’ he protested.

‘She doesn’t want any of your nonsense,’ said Nana, firmly, and that was the end of that.

‘Ach, off with you,’ he grumbled, settling back into the depths of his chair. I kept watch on him for a minute longer, but he didn’t say anything else, his overgrown brows knitted together in concentration, his lips moving with a silent memory.

After a lunch of trout and shrimp and new potatoes, I stacked dishes in the kitchen and started on the washing up. The water ran dark with peat and white with suds, steam filming on my face. The heat stung, tingling my fingers. There was a noise behind me.

‘Pst!’

My grandfather grizzled from the gap in the doorway.

‘Grandpa?’

‘Shhh,’ he hissed, ‘come on.’

‘I’m doing the dishes.’

‘Bugger the dishes. You want to know about selkies, I’ll tell you about selkies.’

I dropped a mug back into the foam, and rubbed my hands dry on my jeans. I followed him out the back of the house. With exaggerated, nervous secrecy, he opened the door and ushered me into the crisp autumn sun. I followed him, creeping round the bungalow, then down onto the road. He scurried ahead of me, peering round corners, and didn’t relax until we were out of sight.

‘That was close,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?’

‘Grandpa, it was you that brought me out here.’

‘I did?’

‘Aye. You were going to tell me about selkies.’

‘Aye, I know that.’

‘Um. OK then.’

‘Right, listen, lass. Here’s the truth. I knew a selkie.’

I was half-amused. Grandpa’s stories were always worth a listen.

‘Is that right, Grandpa?’

‘It’s true. It was right here on the island. Lord help me, but it was the days before I was married to your Nana. She was a fine looking woman, your Nan—’ he started.

‘Grandpa,’ I interrupted, not wanting another rambling story about my grandparents, ‘the selkies. You said you knew a selkie.’

His face clouded, then cleared.

‘Someone told you about that? They shouldn’t of, but I don’t mind. The selkie,’ he mused. ‘Aye, the selkie.’

The conversation was frustrating. I started thinking about steering him back to the bungalow before he got cold. The
distraction must have shown on my face, because he caught my arm fast.

‘That selkie,’ he said, ‘saved my life.’

I studied his face. His eyes were more lucid than I’d seen in months, as though a mist had lifted from them.

‘I was fishing. I was fourteen, and I was fishing in the Sound.’

Memories passed across his face.

‘I was having a terrible day of it, and I stayed out late, setting more lines to try and get a bite. I remember it was uncommon cold. I should have been checking the skies, but I was fourteen and fearless, and stupid, and I was angry. I cursed the sea and the fish and my own bad luck.’

I imagined the boy in his boat, the trailing lines.

‘If I’d been watching the skies, I’d have seen the squall. It blew in out of nowhere, coming right across Bancree. By the time I felt the rain, it was too late. I turned and it was on me. The sea blew up something vicious. In a flash, I cut my lines and turned for Tighna, but the seas were rougher than I’d ever seen. I started rowing, but there was no use trying to fight those waves.’

He laid his hand on my arm again. ‘I fished the Sound for fifty years,’ he said, ‘and I’ve seen worse seas than that. But not often, lass.’

I watched his face as he told the story, talking more to himself, now, than me. I could see him as a boy. I could see the fright in his face.

‘I wrestled the boat for God knows how long, turning her to windward, and then it was no good. I was exhausted, and the sea knew it. The boat turned side on and tipped over. I was wearing my boots, my jumper. I was sinking. I could see the boat as a shadow above me, dark against the sky. I was done for, lass. I was done for and I knew it.’

I could barely breathe. ‘So what happened?’

‘The selkie. I was sinking deep, and she came for me. There was a seal swimming round me, even as I was sinking. It came up close, and it was smiling. Then it was sort of a seal and a woman at the same time. And then it was just a woman. She was in the nip, if you’ll forgive me, and she was treading water right beside me. She lifted me up, dragged me to the shore, brought me up on the beach at Rachinch.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Oh, she was bonny. She was the fairest thing I ever saw. And that includes your Nana. She had dark hair and dark eyes, lovely eyes. She brought me up onto the shore, and she kept me warm the best way she knew how.’ He gave me a filthy wink.

‘You were fourteen!’

‘Damn right. And I’d do it all again, too.’