Song of the Selkies

  Cathie Dunsford is director of Dunsford Publishing Consultants which has brought 148 new authors into print in the Pacific. She has taught writing, literature and publishing at Auckland University since 1975 in the English Department and through Continuing Education, and was Fulbright Post-Doctoral Scholar at the University of California Berkeley 1983–6. She has co-directed three national writers’ conferences, and her work has been published in the USA, Canada, the UK, Australia, New Zealand and in translation in Germany. Her writing has achieved wide acclaim and she is recipient of the Scholarship in Letters and the Established Writers Grant from CNZ Arts Council. She recently completed a book tour of Germany. Cath Dunsford believes readers are vital to the life of an author and welcomes your feedback: .

  Other books by Cathie Dunsford

  Fiction

  Cowrie

  The Journey Home: Te Haerenga Kainga

  Kia Kaha Cowrie (Rogner & Bernhard, Germany)

  Poetry

  Survivors: Uberlebende

  Anthologies

  New Women’s Fiction

  The Exploding Frangipani (with Susan Hawthorne)

  Subversive Acts

  Me and Marilyn Monroe

  Car Maintenance, Explosives and Love

  (with Susan Hawthorne and Susan Sayer)

  SONG OF THE SELKIES

  Cathie Dunsford

  Spinifex Press Pty Ltd

  504 Queensberry Street

  North Melbourne, Vic. 3051

  Australia

  women@spinifexpress.com.au

  http://www.spinifexpress.com.au

  First published by Spinifex Press, 2001

  Copyright © Cathie Dunsford, 2001

  Copyright © on layout and design: Spinifex Press, 2001

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of both the copyright owners and the above publisher of the book.

  Copying for educational purposes:

  Where copies of part or the whole of the book are made under part VB of the Copyright Act, the law requires that prescribed procedures be followed. For information, contact the Copyright Agency Limited.

  Typeset in Sabon by Palmer Higgs Pty Ltd

  Cover design by Deb Snibson

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Dunsford Cathie, 1953– .

  The song of the selkies.

  ISBN 978-1-74219-187-4 Master e-book ISBN

  ISBN 978-1-74219-466-0 (ePub Format)

  ISBN 1 876756 09 8

  I. Title.

  NZ823.2

  Dedication

  For Keri Hulme:

  I hope this helps your Orcadian ancestors

  to swim with your Kai Tahu ancestors.

  We’ll celebrate together in Orkney and Okarito! —

  Nau te rourou, naku te rourou ka ora te manuwhiri.

  (With your food basket and my food basket,

  the guests will have enough.)

  For Karin Meissenburg,

  inspiration for Song of the Selkies:

  Mahalo for your aroha, advice on the text and

  your warm hospitality in Orkney.

  Acknowledgements

  The Broomsbury Writers and whanau: especially Beryl Fletcher and Susan Sayer.

  Mark Weighton (artist), UK, for the stunning cover for this book. Mahalo.

  Dorrie (author) and Donald (artist) Morrison, Stromness, Orkney, for their hospitality, local knowledge and great talks during the writing process.

  George Mackay Brown (author), Orkney, for ongoing inspiration and for bringing the poetry of Orkney up from the soil and seas.

  Tam (Stromness Books) for providing the best bookstore in Orkney; and Gunnie Moberg for her exquisite photographs of Orkney.

  Susan Hawthorne for sharp editing skills. Susan Hawthorne and Renate Klein for their vision with Spinifex Press, their wonderful support for the Cowrie series worldwide and their ability to get our work global and in translation.

  Laurel Guymer for all of the above and her humour and energy while representing our books worldwide.

  Barbara Burton for her astute copy-editing.

  Maralann Damiano for her stunning production skills.

  All the staff and agents of Spinifex Press worldwide for their dedication and support for multicultural literature. Jenny Nagle and the staff of Addenda for their promotional skills in Aotearoa. Karin Meissenburg and Global Dialogues for promotional skills at the Frankfurt Bookfair.

  Doreen, Noel, Kevin and Debbie — for always being supportive through the process. Mahalo — thanks — to you all.

  Cathie Dunsford,

  Tawharanui, Aotearoa.

  Preface

  ‘In Keres theology the creation does not take place through copulation. In the beginning existed Thought Woman and her dormant sisters, and Thought Woman thinks creation and sings her two sisters into life. After they are vital she instructs them to sing over the items in her basket (medicine bundles) in such a way that those items have life. After that crucial task is accomplished, the creatures thus vitalised take on the power to regenerate themselves — that is, they can reproduce others of their kind. But they are not in and of themselves self-sufficient: they depend for their being on the medicine power of the three great Witch Creatrixes, Thought Woman, Uretsete, and Naotsete. The sisters are not related by virtue of having parents in common; that is, they are not alive because anyone bore them. Thought Woman turns up, so to speak, first as Creatrix and then as a personage who is acting out someone else’s ‘dream’. But there is no time when she did not exist. She has two bundles in her power, and these bundles contain Uretsete and Naotsete, who are not viewed as her daughters but as her sisters, as coequals who possess the medicine power to vitalize the creatures that will inhabit the earth. They have the power to create the firmament, the skies, the galaxies, and the sea, which they do through the use of ritual magic.’

  Paula Gunn Allen, (Laguna Pueblo/Sioux Indian), The Sacred Hoop, Recovering the Feminine in American Indian Traditions, Beacon Press, Boston, USA, 1986, p.16.

  ‘The mother of life. This is my interpretation of the rainbow snake … In the dreamtime, the rainbow serpent lived under the earth, everything lay sleeping, nothing lived. Nothing was dead either, but nothing moved, they were all asleep. Then the rainbow serpent broke through the crust of the earth and opened the way for all creatures. They came to the surface of the earth and lived.’

  Kath Walker, Oodgeroo Noonuccal (Murri), Stradbroke Island, Australia, quoted in Ulli Beier, Quandamooka: The Art of Kath Walker, Robert Brown/Aboriginal Artists Agency, Sydney, Australia, 1985, p.24.

  ‘They were nothing more than people, by themselves. Even paired, any pairing, they would have been nothing more than people by themselves. But all together, they have become the heart and muscles and mind of something perilous and new, something strange and growing and great. Together, all together, they are the instruments of change.’

  Keri Hulme, (Kai Tahu Maori/ Orkney), Okarito, Aotearoa (NZ), from Keri Hulme, The Bone People, Spiral/Hodder and Stoughton, Auckland, NZ, 1983, p.4.

  [1]

  My story is from my Canadian Inuit grandmother and tells about the origin of the Sea Spirit. It begins when a young Inuit girl is forced by her father to marry a dog. After she has born several children, her father drowns the dog and her children seek revenge. They fail in their attempts and are banished. Then a stormy petrel swoops from the sky and takes the form of an ugly man who
m the Inuit marries and she escapes with him in his kayak. Her father pursues them and grabs his daughter, so the bird creates a mighty storm to try to capsize their boat. The screaming father tries to throw the girl at the mercy of the bird, but she clings to the side of the boat. So the father begins to hack off her fingers at the joints until she slides under the water. This is how the sea people were created — the seals from her fingertips, the bearded seals from her middle joints and the walruses from the end joints. The Inuit girl drifts to the sea bed where she is transformed into the wondrous Sea Spirit, surrounded by the sea creatures created from her body. Her husband returns as a guardian sea dog and her father is swept out to sea in his sorrow, destined to remain an angry tor men tor to those humans who transgress against humanity, a father who could sacrifice his daughter to save himself.

  There are many versions of this story — but this is the one my grandmother told me. My uncle sang me a Netsilik Eskimo version where the tribe at Qingmertoq in the Sherman Inlet tie their sea kayaks together to make a giant raft and leave to find new hunting grounds. The raft is very crowded, so when the orphan girl, Nuliajuk tries to jump on board, they throw her into the sea. She grabs the edge of the raft and they slash her fingers off. As she drifts to the sea floor, the stumps of her fingers spring to life in the sea and rise to the surface crying like seals. And so seals were born into life. Nuliajuk becomes the Great Sea Spirit, mother of all sea creatures, and the most powerful and feared of all spirits because she controls the destiny of men. She nurtures all living creatures, including those on land — and is quick to punish any breach of taboo. She hides and protects her creatures when man does harm, and thus man starves, and has to call on shamans to help. She is a woman with great powers and we are taught to respect her. I will now act out both versions of the story without words and let the miming movements speak for me, speak for Nuliajuk.

  The audience watches in silent wonder as Sasha becomes the raft, the people, the fingers, the wind over the water and ocean drift beneath the surface, the new seals and creatures emerging from the fingers of Nuliajuk. She plays a flute to mark the end of one story, the haunting sounds echoing up through the roof of the ruined abbey and out to sea, and then she becomes the girl forced by her father to marry a dog, taking on the shapes of the father, the dog, the stormy petrel, the kayak listing in the storm, the girl, as her father hacks off her fingers. There is a reverent silence at the end as the last of the storytellers finishes and walks to the edge of the open-air theatre created by the walls of the ruined Tantallon Abbey high above the rugged Scottish Coast. Facing the ocean, Sasha plays her Selkie Song, dedicated to the Sea Spirit of Nuliajuk and all her sea creatures, on her delicately carved wooden flute, and as the haunting melodies float out over the hushed waters, Cowrie is sure she hears seals crying out in response.

  [2]

  ‘I never believed you could eat smoked salmon this delicious with steamed clams mounded like Everest and surrounded by Scottish sea creatures. Yum.’ Cowrie is about to tuck into her meal when she glances at Sasha, then hesitates. ‘Maybe we should offer karakia, a prayer, to Nuliajuk, and give thanks for this meal,’ she suggests.

  Sasha grins. ‘Yes. We should.’ The gathered storytellers bow their heads as Sasha takes out her flute and plays. The crowds milling around the tables, swarming over Royal Mile, caught up in the frenzy and excitement of the Edinburgh Festival, stop a moment, listening to the haunting sounds of seal cries as they emerge from the flute under the skilful fingertips of Sasha.

  Then the bustle continues, as the storytellers dig into their shared meal, excited and high after five days of hearing stories from around the globe, and inspired by the wonderfully diverse ways of communicating this ancient wisdom. Sun pours down on them from a brilliant Scottish sky, warming their bodies and highlighting the dazzling colours of the clowns and street performers and buskers. They compare notes on the virtues of performing at the Storytelling Venue on Royal Mile or at the open-air seaside abbey and both have different merits. But all agree that last night’s performance by Sasha was a high point of the festival — and many others heard seal cries in response to the flutesong, though some of the locals doubt this.

  Not far from their table, a mime artist plays a silent viola. He is waiting for something. The audience is not sure what it is. Suddenly he sees what he wants, and plays with feeling. Then he stops and focuses on another group. He stays silent until one of them smiles at him. He picks up his viola and plays. Gradually, people realise what motivates his play, and this brings a smile to their lips. Soon everyone around is smiling, even the tired workers from the Bank of Scotland who have to jostle the crowds to shop in their lunch breaks.

  A circle of bystanders watches another street performer. He asks a frightened child if she could balance on his shoulders. The child nods no. She is afraid. Gradually, the acrobat teaches the child to have courage. First he stands the child on a box, then another box, then another, until she is at shoulder height. The young girl is encouraged by the cheers from the crowd. It is a small, delicate move to direct her from the top of the boxes onto the shoulders of the man. The girl hesitates. The crowd takes in a breath, recalling that moment of fear within us all, then the girl moves one foot, then the other, onto the man’s shoulders and, guided by his hands, stands upright. Trumpets play and the crowd cheers as the girl gradually begins to smile, until her face is transformed by a wide grin. Now a small girl, who was terrified ten minutes ago, stands on top of the world, urged on by total strangers and her tentative parents who had never ventured this far in trust. The girl raises a hand to the sky, holding on with only one hand. She shouts in joy. Her balance wavers a few seconds, but she grabs the hand of the man and recaptures it.

  The music celebrates her success and the crowd roars her on. Such a simple act, such a surprisingly simple act, that will stay in the memory of this girl forever … the day she bravely stood on the top of the world, before a huge crowd, on Royal Mile at the Edinburgh Festival. As she is returned to terra firma, there is a look of courage and determination in her eye that was lacking before, and her parents see their wee bairn freshly as they gather her in their arms, and smile at the crowd, awed that their daughter had such courage.

  Up and down Royal Mile, artists and performers from all around the globe strut their stuff, keen to capture an audience for their night events or simply perform for the pure joy of it. The old cobblestones gleam from the polished feet of passers by and the exhaust-free street, cordoned off from traffic, becomes a human circus in a mass celebration of spirit for the weeks of the festival. Stands selling everything from brightly coloured jester’s hats to paintings, hand-made books and clothes straddle the sidewalks and the atmosphere of celebration is infectious.

  ‘You would not believe how amazing this is after one of the coldest winters on record.’ Sahara sucks a clam from its shell as she tells them how cold and grey and miserable these streets can be in the dark of winter, how the snow and sleet make getting about nearly impossible and how delighted she is that all the hard work in organising the storytelling festival has paid off in the celebrations and atmosphere of the past five days.

  Cowrie grins. ‘Not as freezing as it was when we were in the Antarctic, Sah.’ She winks. ‘That should have prepared you for an Edinburgh winter.’

  ‘Yes, but we expected the cold there and were prepared. I came here in the summer for my first festival so I was shocked when winter came so fast and we could not afford to heat our apartment, so we huddled under blankets in the cold. We fixed the chimney and lit fires in mid-winter, but even that did not heat up all the rooms. I was the only one earning, all the others were students, so it was tough.’

  Sasha nudges into the conversation. ‘You call that tough? You come and live with us then! When your home is made from ice and there is ice outside, you have nowhere to escape into the warmth. That is when you have to warm yourself from the inside. You dream of fires in your belly and you imagine them heating you through
the layers of skin and flesh.’

  ‘Too hard,’ chips in Ellen, an Orkney storyteller. ‘I’d rather a nip of peat-smoked malt whisky. My father makes the best. I’ll give you some to take home, Sasha.’ Sasha grins. Her own father is fond of whisky when he can get it.

  Ellen raises her glass to toast the success of the festival and invites any of the storytellers to join a group planning a holiday after the performances end. Since she has use of a clutch of small seaside cottages in the Orkney Islands, off the north-east coast of Scotland, she can provide free accommodation if they are willing to share living expenses. The group cheers her hospitality and half a dozen performers can take the time off work to come. They plan to hire a van and explore the Scottish coastline, wending their way north to meet the ferry to take them across to the islands from Scrabster.

  Sahara might join them later, but she has to stay to wind up the organisation and report back to the funding groups that underwrote the festival. So far, Monique from the West Indies/Germany, Sasha from the fishing village of Akranes on the west coast of Iceland, Camilla from England, Cowrie from Aotearoa/New Zealand, and Ellen from Orkney can definitely make it, along with Uretsete and DK from the Siliyik performance group. The others need more time to consider. Cowrie smiles when Sasha raises her hand. She’d like to get to know this Sealsinger much better. She likes all the others. Except for Camilla, whose performances she missed. Word came back that Camilla was a committed Christian fundamentalist and Royalist and her version of storytelling lay in embellished tales from the mighty Empire. Cowrie’s defences are likely to rise in such company and her usual hospitality runs on a much shorter string. It’s possible Camilla might rethink her eagerness to be stranded on an island and outnumbered by indigenous storytellers. Then again, the point of storytelling is to develop awareness and tolerance.