Song of the Selkies Page 2

  Ellen drains the last drop of draught from her glass and burps loudly in appreciation. Camilla turns up her nose in absolute abhorrence and rises to pay her bill. Ellen grins, hoping her small, ungracious act of defiance may put Camilla off. Unbeknown to her, Camilla’s great joy in life is converting heathens and pagans like Ellen to her path. She approaches such tasks with missionary zeal, and as she pays her bill, is already planning her tactics, gleeful that she will have the chance to examine these pagans at close range, in an island setting where they cannot escape easily.

  [3]

  Fire lights the night sky. From a distance, giraffes poke their heads above the bushes. Lions roar, elephants grunt and springboks leap, as the flamebearer advances, his face painted with berry juice, his eyes wide and lit from below, his ears peeled, waiting for the unexpected. In the blink of an eye, a monkey lands on his head and his spears scatter over the floor of the theatre. The other creatures, African men and women painted and prancing like the animals they mimic, roar into the audience, running away from the flame and the cries of the man. As he struggles to free himself, a lion purrs hungrily next to Sahara, on the edge of her seat in the auditorium. The theatre lights black out, leaving the audience to wonder who is victor and who is victim, after they have watched scores of hunters shoot native animals and cut off their heads as trophies, selling them to the white men who came to hunt or take back souvenirs of their extinguished manhood.

  As the lights come up, the animals remain in the aisles and among the audience, to remind them they are still present, but they might not always be there. The lights fade and silently, the animals move back on stage, ready to grunt and roar and cry as the fire flames the stage for the last time and the crowds roar their appreciation back to the African storytellers and performers from Ethiopia, Kenya, South Africa and Namibia, who make up the troupe performing tonight at Theatre in the Round. As the actors crouch in their animal positions, the audience cheers and claps and stamps its feet noisily.

  ‘This is great, Sah. I could be back home.’ Cowrie murmurs to her friend, enjoying the rowdy audience response.

  After several curtain calls, the animals in different poses each time, the director comes out to explain that this troupe comprises people from many different tribes all over Africa, that there are fishermen and teachers and nurses and street people represented, that each of them brought their own stories and traditions to the theatre piece and that they still need funding to get home after the festival. Buckets are handed out to the audience and people give generously, knowing the cheap ticket prices would have barely covered the theatre hire let alone any other expenses.

  Afterwards, Sahara drives Cowrie to the top of Arthur’s Seat, the impressive hill sculpted like a brooding beast, which overlooks Edinburgh. They look out over the city lights and the mist appearing around the edges of the perimeter. Cowrie has never seen an ancient city with such an appealing atmosphere — haunting and yet romantic, buildings huddled together in gorgeous embrace, from Newtown to the old structures, intricately planned and beautifully orchestrated, while still pleasing to the eye. From above, the city looks almost circular, its outside buildings nurturing and encasing its heart like a living, pulsating creature.

  ‘Could be the shell of a giant sea turtle,’ whispers Sahara in Cowrie’s ear.

  ‘Not so fantastic, Sah. You know that in many Pacific myths, the islands are depicted as turtles who swam to their current destinations, then their fins were cut off, so that they would stay floating in the same place, unable to move.’

  ‘Ugh. That’s nearly as morbid as the father who cut off the fingers of his daughter that they could become seals,’ replies Sahara.

  ‘Well, yes. But we all have different ways of explaining how we came to be here, eh? I can’t see that the stories from the bible are any different from these other tales, except that the bible stories have had heaps more propaganda and publicity.’

  ‘Sure. But why did I never hear any of these other stories while growing up in England? I mean we colonised the West Indies, Australia, Africa, New Zealand, just to name a few countries, and yet we still never heard any of these alternative stories which must have been known by the colonisers.’

  ‘Maybe, but I bet the Christian missionaries who were a vital part of the colonisation had no intention of bringing stories back home. They went to rid the heathens of these tales and replace them with their own. It was never supposed to be a two way process — until now, perhaps. I have to rethink a lot after this awesome storytelling festival. Thanks, Sah, for organising it.’

  ‘The least I could do, as a British kid, I reckon,’ laughs Sahara. ‘Maybe it is my small way of righting the balance.’

  ‘Well, we need more of it. Reckon we reach far more people by celebrating the differences than arguing over who is right.’ Cowrie looks down onto a rounded building, impressive in its semi circular structure. ‘What’s that, Sah?’

  ‘That’s the old Scottish Parliament, before us Poms took away their government.’

  ‘Yeah, but didn’t they fight for sovereignty and get it back?’

  ‘Yes. But people in Britain have no idea of the real issues. They just see Wales and Ireland and Scotland as a part of “Great Britain” and can’t understand what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Too close to home, maybe? Okay to fight the battles overseas, but this is just too bloody close for comfort, eh?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sahara moves over to the edge of Arthur’s Seat. She points north. ‘The Orkneys are up there. I’m glad you are going to stay with Ellen afterwards. You’ll love the ruggedness of those islands.’

  ‘Will you come up after you’ve finished the festival work?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Sahara grins. ‘I have a reason to stay actually. You know that West Indian dancer we met the other night?’

  ‘Yeah. Awesome dreads.’

  ‘We’ve been reading poetry together at nights and there is something very special between us. Maybe I’ll stay to explore it before the group leaves.’

  ‘You old devil, Sah.’ Cowrie grins. ‘You kept that quiet.’

  Sahara smiles. She takes Cowrie’s hand. ‘C’mon turtle. I want you to see something.’ Together they walk over the hills along tracks and breathe in the crisp night air. Eventually, they come to a grove of trees with a small lake behind. As they approach, Sahara puts her finger to her lips. Quietly, they tiptoe to the edge of the lake and peer through the leaves. Gliding eerily across the lake are sleeping swans, their necks tucked delicately into their bodies, some under their giant wings. They watch the swans in silence for some time, hearing only the beating of their own hearts, as the Edinburgh mist gathers around them, enclosing them in a gorgeous blanket of sweet moisture.

  [4]

  Beneath the Orcadian waters of the Bay of Skaill, the seaweed dances, twisting her tentacles with the olivy branches of her sisters and the seals nuzzle into the deep as the wild surf pounds over their heads. They frolic and play, aware that they will be called to the surface soon, for they each must take turns to swimguard the reefs in case the Nofin humans try to invade their sacred birthing sites.

  ‘Looks like Morrigan has begun her task. Laukiamanuikahiki says she is bringing the Nofin storytellers to our sacred Orkney Isles, that this is the place for their initiation into the Otherworld.’

  ‘Do you think they are ready for this yet?’

  ‘I’m not so sure, meself, but she believes it’s a good place to start. At least they acknowledge there is more to our survival than merely a material existence.’

  ‘Aye, Fiona, there’s many a lass who found her ways into the sea to learn this very lesson, you included.’

  Fiona scrunches up her sealy face, her whiskers twitching, then replies with a swish of her oily tail as she does a loop over the head of Sandy, as if in denial of her once human form. Sandy grins, knowing he has touched a raw nerve in his mate. For Fiona was once Nofin living on the land beside the sea. She came from a very affluent family, de
scended from the Viking invaders of Orkney, and lived off the riches of her elders, dispersing charity more as an extension of her churched ego than because she cared for others. Fiona never believed in anything other than a material existence, until one day, she was walking along the Bay of Skaill and a beautiful, dark man approached her. She was normally afraid of strangers, but he held a magnetic charm she could not defy. She let him come near, and he pulled her into the sea. From that day forth, she became a selkie, never wanting to return to her former life, but often wondering what had become of her family and friends. Sandy was the name of the man, and he became her mate for life.

  [5]

  ‘Oh, God, I’m about to vomit.’ Camilla holds her stomach as she leans over the port side of the ‘St Ola’, bound from Scrabster to Orkney.

  ‘Hang in there, Camilla. You’ll be okay.’ Morrigan holds her steady as Camilla’s face reflects all the subtle shades of seaweed green that Morrigan has noticed in the rock pools and low tides at the Bay of Skaill.

  ‘Stand straight and think of England,’ Cowrie adds, with more than a light touch of irony in her voice. This is what they’d been taught in the British school system before kohanga reo and kura kaupapa education began. It has always seemed an appropriate expression coming from a culture that taught their colonies how to grin and bear their slavery by adopting a ‘stiff upper lip’.

  Camilla glares at her from behind her dark glasses. She does not like this Cowrie woman much. Too wild and arrogant and needing more discipline in her life. Nevertheless, despite herself, Camilla enjoyed Cowrie’s storytelling session, though she did tend to idolise the natives a bit much for Camilla’s liking. She put it down to current trendiness and was determined not to let it get in the way of a free holiday in the Orkneys. She had wanted to do that for ages, but the B&Bs were far too expensive for an island devoid of trees let alone culture. Still, it would be superb to see St Magnus Cathedral. That would make the entire trip worth putting up with some of the other storytellers less educated, in Camilla’s opinion, but perhaps in need of her guidance.

  ‘Wow, check out those awesome mountains,’ yells Cowrie, against the wind blustering into them from the open deck. She points to the other side of the boat as the Hoy Hills rise like a taniwha from the wild ocean crashing around them. They make their way across the sway ing deck to get a closer look, Camilla following behind like a drenched sheep about to withstand another Orkney storm. The magnificent Hoy Hills erupt from the swirling ocean, their towering cliffs revealing layers of sculpted sandstone. Hidden in high crevices in the rock face are nesting fulmars with their mates gliding above them, their wings silently outstretched, letting the winds play with their flight.

  ‘Aaargh … aaargh … aaargh …’ Camilla vomits into the wind and the full force of her greasy ‘St Ola’ breakfast special, fried eggs, sausages, baked beans, chips drenched in vinegar, comes flying into the faces of the group lined along the deck. Unfortunately, it also catches the freshly dry-cleaned suit of an Orkney Islands Council Department Head who was keen to make an impression since he had won his job over a local Orcadian and knew already the task ahead would not be easy. He glares at her and takes out his handkerchief, mumbling something about people who ought to vomit into prepared bags and not over the side of boats, and especially not into a head wind. Morrigan strides towards him. ‘Sorry about that, Sir. Let me help you.’ She pulls off her woollen scarf and rubs the vomit deeper into his suit, giving the impression she is out to help. The man is dumbfounded, not quite realising what is happening but knowing somehow, deep inside himself, that this woman who is trying to help him is also making it worse. He pushes her away briskly.

  ‘Lay your hands off me, young man. I am perfectly capable of cleaning myself.’ With that, he strides off down the deck, rubbing his suit furiously, knowing there is not much time before he will be met by his new bosses on the pier at Stromness.

  ‘There was no need to be so rude to him, Morrigan,’ whispers Camilla, offended by her arrogance.

  ‘Well, clean up yer own vomit then,’ replies Morrigan, and heads for the cabin so she can prepare for the rush to the cars once they round the bend into the harbour. Cowrie grabs her arm before she can enter the stairwell.

  ‘C’mon Morrigan. I know Camilla can be a pain but it never occurred to her not to vomit into the wind. She lives inland, remember.’

  Morrigan grimaces. ‘Bloody Poms. They’re so helpless.’

  ‘Maybe so, but let’s hang out on the deck until they call us below. I want to see the village you described that you love so much.’

  Morrigan returns to the deck, making sure she does not stand downwind of Camilla, and points out the Hoy lighthouse as they round the bend, and the seashore leading up to Stromness, which she says is full of fossils and relics. Out of the distant mists, the ancient town of Hamnavoe rises from the water like a whale floating towards them. Gradually, they pick out houses dotted about the hills and fishing boats along the shore. Shops and homes hang out over the harbour like they were born this way, as if an extension of the land itself. It is impossible to see where the land ends and the water begins until they sail closer to the shore. The call to return below deck comes but Cowrie cannot tear herself away from the sight. She has the strange feeling she has been here before, as if some ancient memory is stirring within her.

  Morrigan leans over the edge, staring intently into the water. Cowrie glances down and notices two seals beneath them swimming alongside the boat. They are staring up at Morrigan and she looks as if she has entered another world. She has not even noticed the ship’s call for passengers to go below deck and collect their belongings. Cowrie nudges her, saying they should go. Morrigan cannot take her eyes from the water and the seals cannot stop swimming alongside the boat. It’s as if an invisible thread connects them. Suddenly, Morrigan breaks away and heads for the stairs. As if heeding her movement, the seals dive out from the boat’s side wake and head off toward the Hoy coastline.

  [6]

  ‘Eets Morrigan all right. Sandy spits out some seaweed caught in his teeth. ‘Eye’d know thaat feece in a school of sharks.’

  ‘So she wus reet then, the turtle woman. Morrigan is bringing the Pacific turtle woman back heer to see her Orkney roots then?’

  ‘Aye, looks thaat way, Fiona. Seems leek she’s een for a bitterashock.’

  ‘Aye, yer coold be right theer, Sandy.’ Fiona flicks her tail in his face, hoping to get him to dive after her and play in the swells off Hoy.

  But Sandy is preoccupied. He is thinking about the con sequences of too many Orcadian secrets being let loose on those who may not be ready to hear them. Coming to terms with one’s past, be it communal or individual, requires preparation and a willing readiness. Otherwise things can go very wrong. He knows this well, since his own sister was told she was related to the sealpeople. It sent her right loopy and she ended up in a looney bin. She never recovered and eventually died from loneliness and isolation and perceived madness. She feared that all her family were animals, that she had lost her connection to civilisation after the disappearance of Sandy and all the rumours that abounded on the island.

  She moved from the Mainland to Sanday to escape the stories, but they knew her past before she had even stepped off the boat there. She lived in an old stone cottage, knitting jumpers for tourists under a scheme launched by some enterprising women. But she was let go because no matter what the pattern that was given, she always knitted seals into the design. She could not stop herself. Finally, one of the shrinks from down south had suggested she would be better in some looney bin in the Scottish Highlands. They came and fetched her and took her away. She continued to knit seals. Her room was full of tea cosies and half-finished jumpers, scarves and socks, all with black seals swimming across them. The occupational therapists had seen wonderful progress with her work, until one day she sewed together all the knitted items and hung herself from the bed-end with them. They found her dangling from the bedpost, seals swimming
around her neck and body and legs.

  She had cut herself trying to remove her skin, to give it back, so that she could be free again, she had told one of the nurses. They had thought her stark raving mad the first time she cut into her flesh, and upped her pills. The lithium simply made it worse. She knitted frantically until she had the means to secure her end. Some of the other residents held a funeral service for her and they all donated stuffed seals to her memory, little realising how this would haunt her beyond the grave, be one final mocking from a world which had rejected her for her marine connections.

  Sandy had never gotten over her death. He felt powerless to do anything. He loved life from the moment the seals had come to claim him back to their fold. But she could not cope with the truth and he could not reach her and tell her it was all right, that it was an honour to be related to the sealfolk, not an insult. Part of his desire to lay claim to Fiona was that he hoped she would return to the shore to convince his sister that all was well. But Fiona never wanted to do that. She felt it was best to leave things as they were. She knew only too well the difficulties of coming to terms with her destiny, and she felt it was up to Rita to make peace with her life. Sandy gradually accustomed himself to this idea, but deep inside he still felt some guilt that he could not have done more for his sister.

  Fiona makes one last attempt to gain his attention by doing an eskimo roll over and around him, flicking her tail fins up his body as she passes by. Sandy flips himself into action and chases her along the coast of the Hoy Hills. Fe never liked to be away from home too long. She feared the Nuckelavee, an ancient sea monster that was said to haunt the oceans surrounding Orkney. She should know better, of course, Sandy always argued. It was simply a Nofin myth trying to make sense of an undersea world they knew too little about. But Fiona’s human past always ruled her reason when it came to such issues, so he usually gave in gracefully.