A Day in the Life: The Selkie

The Deep Green

She is a torpedo of muscle and blubber, shooting through the cold, green Atlantic water. To her, the ocean is not silent; it is a symphony of clicks, moans, and the distant thrum of engines. It is music.

She chases a school of mackerel, faster than them, turning on a dime with a body that is flexible and perfect. Unhinging jaws, she snaps the fish and swallows it whole. Surfacing, her head breaks the water into sharp, salty air. She barks—a rough, happy sound—and other heads bob in the surf nearby. Her kin. They play in the waves, ungainly on the rocks but graceful in the foam. They are free.

The Shore

The tide is low, and the sun warms the basalt rocks of the cove. She drags herself out of the water, the transition difficult as the weight of gravity returns. Finding a dry, flat stone, she shimmies and pushes.

The skin splits down the chest. It is not painful; it is like taking off a heavy, wet coat. She peels it back, pulling her arms free, kicking her legs free. She steps out. She is a woman now. Pale-skinned, dark-eyed, naked in the salt air. She shivers. The wind bites at her human skin, which feels so thin and fragile compared to the blubber. She folds her seal skin carefully. It is soft, dark, and smells of the deep. It is her soul. It is her freedom. She hides it in a crevice between two boulders, covering it with dried kelp. Sitting on the rock, she combs her hair with a piece of driftwood and sings. Her voice is the sound of the waves in a sea cave—hollow, mournful, and beautiful.

The Watcher

She does not know he is there. A fisherman walks the cliff path, hearing the singing. He peers over the edge and sees her. He sees the skin. She is looking at the horizon, lost in the song. The man creeps down the goat path, quiet as a shadow. He moves toward the crevice.

She turns. She screams. Scrambling over the rocks, cutting her human feet on the barnacles, she reaches for the skin. It is gone. It is in his hand. He holds it up and looks at her. He does not look cruel. He looks lonely. "I will keep this safe," he says. She sinks to her knees. The cold of the air suddenly feels unbearable. The sea is right there, licking at her toes. But without the skin, she cannot enter. She would drown. She wraps her arms around herself, staring at the skin in his hands. It is the most precious thing in the world, and it is held hostage.

The Cottage

She is in a house now. It is warm, and there is a fire. She is wearing a wool dress that scratches. He puts a plate of stew in front of her. "Eat," he says gently. She looks at the window. It is dark. She can hear the sea roaring in the distance, calling her name. She eats, but the food tastes of nothing.

He has locked the skin in a wooden chest. He wears the key around his neck. She looks at the key. She looks at the fire. She will be a good wife. She will bear him children with webbed fingers. She will sweep the floor and mend the nets. But she will never stop looking at the key. She will wait. Seven years. Ten years. It does not matter. The sea waits for the river. She will wait for her skin. She closes her eyes and listens to the waves, dreaming of the green deep.