Land Sick

Robert would be furious if he knew I had ventured this way, so close to the seashore. In the summer, Milport is teaming with visitors from the mainland with ferries offloading tourists in their droves. Families with their wee kiddies, paddling in the shallows and making sand castles along the shore, with sticky fingers clutching at dripping ice cream cones or half-eaten sticks of rock. The shop fronts glisten with life and energy, the tangy aroma of salt and vinegar intermingling with the briny sea air. The adventurous types whizz past on their push bikes or bob around on the ocean’s waves on canoes or paddle boards. The sound of laughter and excitement drifts on the breeze. I do so love Cumbrae during the summer.

Now, however, as the air has chilled to a biting frost and the sky has dimmed to a hazy grey, the island sees very few visitors. The shop fronts sit vacant, the cafes and fish and chip shops deserted. The island lies still and dormant, forgotten. As the bitter wind lashes my face, burning my cheeks, I notice the troubled sky on the horizon. The blackened clouds swirl thick and heavy, ready to burst open. There is a storm coming. I wring my hands anxiously, knowing that Robert will be returning to dock shortly. During the summer, he works long hours, sometimes leaving for days at a time. I am free to do as I please, for the most part, as long as he comes home to a clean house and a hot meal. However, as the nights draw in and the waters churn and swell unpredictably, Robert’s days shorten. He is often home by the early hours of the afternoon.

I can’t stay out here much longer; I know I am cutting it close already, wasting precious time. He will want the linen folded, the basins bleached, the tatties peeled and the mince stewed. If he comes home from a hard day at sea to find I’ve been neglecting my chores, he will make me atone for my laziness. I should go. But the sea air, the way it chills and warms my bones at the same time, the way the salt prickles my skin, the lashings of the bitter wind as it steals my breath from my lungs, I crave it like a wain craves its maw’s embrace. Just a little longer.

I remember how I used to play here as a wee one, right here on this very beach. The other pups and I, we would play and scrap for hours, before our maws would call us back onto the shore to warm up. I remember it clear as day, as if it were yesterday, basking by my mam’s side as she slept, feeling the sun’s rays heating my skin. I remember the visitors of Cumbrae would watch us from afar, sometimes even snapping photos as we basked upon the pebbles. All the maws would warn us wee ones to never let a stranger get too close. They would bark and scald anyone who dared try to. I think about my dear mam often. I think of her sweet face and her kind eyes. I think of how I should have heeded her.

As the storm begins to break on the horizon, I turn to make my way inland. The bairns will be finishing school soon, and I don’t like them to walk home on their own. Robert will want the three of us back at the house by the time he gets back.

Later that afternoon, as I get ready to dish up tea, Robert returns home. I smell him before I see him, the smell of fish blood and slurry stinging my nostrils as he walks through the door. Isla and John go to greet him and he rustles their golden hair with his dirty, unwashed hands. I wish he wouldn’t do that. He goes to me, my back is kept turned towards him but the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, pre-empting his touch.

“Whin is tea duin?”

“Just a few minutes.”

“Aye, that's a guid lassie,” he purrs as he strokes the space between my shoulder blades, leaving an invisible trail of filth. I turn to face him, plastering on my sweetest smile before I do so. He likes to see me smile. It takes every ounce of strength I can muster not to grimace as his blackened fingers trace the line of my jaw.

“How was your day?” I ask, my voice high-pitched and girlish. Saccharine, sickly sweet.

“A' th' better fur comin' hame tae yer bonny coupon,” he coos. I stare into his face, weathered by years at sea and outlined in grime. I gaze down at his rough, calloused hand as it rests on my chin. I remember the feel of it around my neck, fingers grasping, the other hand clutching the blood-splattered blade, slicing, ripping and tearing. My smile widens.

“I’ve missed you,” I lie.

After we’ve eaten and I’ve washed and dried the dishes, I take the bairns upstairs for their bath. Luckily for me, bath time has never been a struggle for Isla and Jon. Since they were babies, they’ve always loved the water. Of course, Robert would never allow me to take them to the sea, nor even teach them to swim. But I suspect they’d be naturals at it. Sometimes a fussy child, John quietens right down and smiles broader than I’ve ever seen him when it’s bath time. Isla takes her favourite toy with her, a mermaid doll with a shimmering pearlescent tale and vibrant, turquoise hair. I watch as she plunges the doll to the bottom of the tub and weaves her gracefully through the bubble-topped water, flicking her tail fins as she goes.

“Mummy, why are you crying?” Isla asks, her sweet voice tinged with worry.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Mummy’s just got a sore eye,” I smile to reassure her. I do try not to cry in front of the weans. I don’t want them to feel afraid, like I do. They carry on playing and I watch silently. It warms my heart to see them enjoying the water. I would so like to take them to

the shoreline, to let them splash and enjoy the feeling of the waves lapping at their ankles, gasping and giggling at the pleasant cold. There are times when I am left too long with my own thoughts that I worry that my babies might take after Robert as they get older. It is a thought I can barely stand, that they might inherit some of his traits. His cruelty. However, as I watch them giggling and splashing amongst the fragrant, warm water, I have hope that they may take after me more so, after all.

After bath time, it is time for their bed. I read to them every night. John asks for his favourite, Treasure Island. The Little Mermaid for Isla. Once they have drifted to sleep, I take a deep breath and make my way downstairs to where Robert waits for me. As I take the last of the stairs, I see him exit the cellar. He shuts the door firmly and turns the key in the lock. He then tests it, jostling the handle firmly, whilst turning to meet my eye. He smiles as he places the key back in his shirt pocket.

“Ach, darling. Yer looking bonnie as ever. Ma wee maigdean na tuinne.”

He approaches me. His eyes are hazy from his nightly wee dram. His breath is heavy with the grainy, slightly sour scent of whiskey, lingering on my skin as he leans in close, hot and clammy. I smile endearingly and wither inside.

I rise early the next day, ensuring John and Isla arrive promptly for their morning lessons. This time, I walk straight to the seafront. The wind is fierce this morning, bringing tears to my eyes and chapping my lips. The ashen clouds swirl and contort above me. I breathe in the wild, bracing aromas of earth and brine. I take my shoes off so that I can enjoy the coarse feel of the sand between my toes as I make my way towards the shore.

In the distance, far from land, amongst the moss-covered rocks, I see them. Their silvery, speckled bodies melding with the terrain. They lay still and peaceful. I cast my gaze at their intermingling, vast, fleshy bodies. I listen to the faint sounds of barks and honks carrying over the wind. I look carefully around me, making sure I am alone, before calling to them. None of them stir and I feel my heart drop. I want to go to them. I imagine laying down alongside them and closing my eyes. Surrounded, enveloped and safe. But I know too well that they would not have me. Far too many times I have gazed into the familiar eyes of my past to find them staring back warily at a stranger. My heart breaks that little bit more, and I turn to make my way back home.

That evening, I linger by John and Isla’s bedsides, watching their sweet, sleeping faces. I picture them smiling, darting and weaving below the gentle waves, their golden hair swirling around their dear faces. I imagine leading them amongst the swirling kelp, brushing the ocean floor as we twist and twirl, effortless and weightless.

“One day, my dears,” I whisper, before taking my leave. Robert waits impatiently downstairs. I join him in the kitchen, where he nurses his whiskey, swilling the amber liquid in his glass.

“Whit sort o' time dae ye ca' this?” he grumbles. I can feel his irritation like an insect burrowing under my skin.

I hold my smile, though my nerves threaten to give me away.

“I’m sorry, the weans were restless,” I lie.

“Ach. Come ‘ere.” He leans back and gestures towards his lap, the front of his jeans shiny with dirt and grease. “A’ve missed ye.” He leers, his breath reeking of whiskey.

I do as I’m told, perching myself upon his lap. He nuzzles in close and I fight to steady my breath, feeling my pulse quicken. I know it’s now or never. I cannot live as a prisoner any longer. The sea calls to me like a siren calls to a weary sailor. With Robert’s face against my neck, he doesn’t see the paring knife in my palm, concealed up my sleeve since this evening’s tea. I brandish it and take a deep breath. I wince at the ease of which it glides through his flesh, passing through muscle and tendons as if they were butter. He jolts backwards at once, his eyes wide with fear and shock. He goes to speak but sputters uselessly. Jets of blood shoot from the hole in his neck. He places his hand over the wound, but it does nothing to stem the flow. I step back and watch in horror as he falls to the ground, a crimson circle widening around him. After some time, he is still and silent. I take a deep breath. It is only then that I allow myself to place the knife down onto the table, alongside his half-drunk glass of whiskey. Tentatively, I crouch down to search his breast pocket. It is there, of course, like it always is. The key. I don’t hesitate to make my way to the cellar door, turning the key in the lock.

As I ease the door open, I am hit with a rush of cold. Despite myself, I am nervous. The cellar is off limits to me, even lingering too close to the door for too long would mean dire consequences if Robert caught me. I have spent so long not even daring to gaze upon it, my complete obedience is so ingrained that I still fear Robert’s wrath, even though I know he cannot hurt me anymore. I take my first apprehensive step down the narrow staircase and fumble for the pull cord switch, flooding the room below with a dusty, golden light. As I continue into the depths of the cellar, my eyes immediately lock onto what I have come here for. A pained cry escapes my lips, and I bring my hands up to my mouth.

Hanging from the ceiling by a collection of hooks, it glistens like wet leather. Slick and shiny, the steely, speckled fur lays flat, giving it the appearance of wetness, despite having been confined to this prison for more than five years. Its form is still perfectly retained, as if frozen in time. The flippers and tail, though inanimate, appear as if they could flutter into life at any time. I don’t realise I am crying until the cold air settles on my damp face.

I try not to think of that wretched morning, though there are some things that are impossible to forget. I was so young then and trusting, I hadn’t listened to my maw’s warnings. I had not yet learned the dangers of those on two legs that ventured close to our pod. I was, in fact, curious of them, just as they were of me. Those that approached warily, with their cameras in hand, wanting to see us up close. On this morning, the elders growled and barked, heaving their bulk menacingly. My maw ordered me to get back, but I was foolish and didn’t heed her. Before any of the elders could rush to my aid, I was grabbed and dragged away from the pod, across the sharp and jagged rocks, towards the sandy shore. I yelped and cried, my flippers digging deep into the sand as I tried with every ounce of strength to get away. But he was so quick and so deft with his knife and I was so young.

I remember the first plunge of the cold steel into my belly as I yelped. Then the blade was dragged upwards, towards my throat, as my rubbery skin split and parted, opening me up like a gutted fish. The blood flowed freely, tainting my downy, white fur. Then forceful hands tore me wide apart. I still remember the unimaginable agony as my flesh was peeled up and over my screaming face, as I was forced face down into the sand. The skin was then peeled away from my back and from my limbs, one by one. I was sliced and peeled as if I were a piece of ripened fruit.

He skinned me from head to toe, leaving me writhing naked and shivering on the ground. My newly exposed skin was so sensitive, so fragile. Every touch sent shockwaves of pain rippling through me for days. The fine sand beneath me felt like shards of shattered glass burrowing into my raw flesh. Uncaring, Robert hauled me up from the ground and flung me over his shoulder. My screams had devolved into agonised whimpering by then. As I was carried away, I turned to take one final look back at the shore. My pod was retreating into the safe haven of the ocean, but I caught one final look at my dear maw, her eyes wide and glassy, before she disappeared below the waves.

Deep down in the cellar, I embrace my precious skin, inhaling deep of its sweet, oceanic scent. I think of my family. Would they still be waiting for me? Are they even still out there? I have tried to approach the pods that rest on the shore since my skin was stolen and I was imprisoned on land, but they bark and growl at me, shielding their young from me and brandishing their teeth. To them, I am just another that walks on two legs. Just another thing to be feared. But not for long.

Once I don my skin, I will be one of them again. I picture myself drifting along the current, leaping and twisting with such freedom, freedom that has been stolen from me for so long.

“Mummy? Where are you? I’m thirsty. Can I have a glass of water?” It is Isla. She calls from upstairs, snapping me from my fantasy. My wee ones. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten my pups. When I first started planning my escape, I knew I could not leave them alone with Robert, my captor. He had no love in his heart. He had spared them his cruelty only because I was his focus. His wife. His treasure. His maiden of the sea. I knew the only way was to end his life, to spare the children. But now, I am faced with a choice I must make, no matter how much it breaks my heart to do so. I have long feared that John and Isla would take after their father. John inherited Robert’s smile, Isla his thick, dark hair. But they both have my eyes. Although I was forbidden from taking them swimming, their joy at bathtime gave me hope that maybe they would take after me in other ways. I leave my skin in the cellar, not wanting to frighten them with the sight of it, and go upstairs.

“Of course you can have a glass of water, my dear. But first, it’s bath time.”

They both look confused.

“But we’ve already had a bath tonight.”

“I know, but you weren’t in there long enough. You need another one. It’s okay, it won’t take long. I’ve got a new, fun game to show you.”

###

I wait until I am near the water's edge to slip inside my skin. It slides over me so seamlessly, as if we were never parted. I try not to think of the splitting, tearing agony when it was stolen from me, but I can’t help it. Some wounds never heal. It takes a few moments to readjust to the feeling of my flippers and my sizable bulk. Although my kind is graceful and effortless in the water, we are cumbersome and slow on land. I drop to the ground and ease myself along the sand until I am finally greeted by the glorious feel of the waves lapping on the shore, and soon I am carried forward and immersed within the ocean’s foamy embrace.

Although I am joyous, I return to my home with a heavy heart. I imagine John and Isla beside me, how gleefully they would frolic and play together, leaping and diving with such wonderful, childish abandon. I had so hoped they could have come with me.

After I had run their bath, colder than usual, in an attempt to acclimatise them, I had told them about our new game. They protested at the frigid temperature as I eased them into the water, but I told them not to worry as they would soon get used to it. Then I told them about the rules of our new game, “Mermaids”. To play the game, they had to see who could hold their breaths the longest underwater. I’d be watching closely to make sure nobody cheated. Then, whoever wins, gets an extra scoop of ice cream when we go to the seaside the next day. They were so excited, that was all the convincing they needed. I counted them down, so they had a chance to take a deep breath. “One, two, three…”

My kind can hold their breath for well over an hour, but being that the bairns were only half-selkie by birth, I didn’t expect them to be able to last that long, of course. Once they were under, I placed my hands on top of their dear little heads to make sure they gave it a good go. I knew this was new to them and they were likely to panic, to want to give up too quickly. And I had to be sure. I so wanted to take them with me, I wanted us to be together.

Isla started to wriggle first, then John soon after. Then their wriggling got more desperate. I knew they were panicking, but they had to stay under, to be sure. Otherwise, we’d never know. People would soon start to question Robert’s whereabouts, and when they learned what I had done, they would come for me. Take me away from my children. And I would be a prisoner once more. This was our only chance. So I held on firmly, pushing them far down beyond the surface. Their little hands grabbed at my fingers, trying to pull them away. Their legs kicked at the side of the tub.

“It’s okay, my angels. Mummy’s here. Just a bit longer. Just hold on a bit longer…”

Then their struggling started to become weaker. I thought maybe they were getting used to it, becoming less afraid, maybe even starting to enjoy it. But then Isla stopped kicking and her hands dropped back down into the water. Then John’s did the same. I kept holding on for a few moments longer and then they were still. By the time I realised my mistake it was too late. I wept long into the night into the early hours, holding their cold, little bodies in my arms. I begged for their forgiveness for my stupidity. They didn’t take after me after all. At least they wouldn’t live to become anything like their father. That is my gift to them.

Now, as I bob along the surface of the icy water, the sky above me grows heavy with the promise of rain, whilst the wind bears down on me relentlessly. However, my blubber shields me from the cold. I take one last look towards land, at my clothes discarded along the sand and the houses in the distance, lighting up one by one at the first signs of a dawn breaking. I hear a grunting sound and turn my head to see a flipper break the surface of the water. I turn away from the shore, take a deep breath and disappear under the waves.