Creamy Gold

When I was very young, my mother used to tell me tales of creatures, legends and folktales. Some, she said, were seelie, helpful, returning a good deed with another. Others were not. She told me terrifying stories of the Unseelie Court, where the creatures less inclined to peace with humans dwelled. She spoke of the Horned Man, who, during a Hunters Moon galloped across the autumn sky with an entourage of tormented souls and baying hell hounds, hunters mounted on black horses with iron hooves and fierce red eyes, faeries flittering alongside, the whole procession aptly named the Wild Hunt.
She wove tales of seelie wights, mermaids that lured sailors into the ocean’s welcoming grip, swan maidens that took flight with cloaks of feathers. My favourite stories however, were those of the Selkies.

In Scottish folklore, Selkies were seals with the ability to shed their skin, to take human form and dance upon crystal shores. Tales abounded of their folk, and how mortal men, upon taking a Selkie skin, wins the Selkie as his bride. He must be careful however to hide the skin, and hide it well, for if the wife should find it, quick she would be to abandon husband and children for her true home, with its rolling waves and calling song.

It has been many years now since my mother told me such stories. When I was twelve winters old, she was taken from her husband and daughter. A dreamy holiday to the beach turned into a nightmare when my mother did not return from the frolicking waves. As quick as a pickpocket in Venice, the ocean drew my mother into its wide expanse, and she did not come back.

The loss of my mother changed my remaining parent. He withdrew within himself, as a tortoise withdraws within a shell. He emerged rarely, and bright, happy things frightened him to abandon the world again. Because of this I learned very quickly that my mother did many tasks that kept our house in immaculate condition. I learnt to wash, dry and fold. I learnt cooking, and ironing. I learnt vacuuming, and sweeping, and mopping. I learnt to change sheets, and defrost freezers. I learnt how to make caffeinated beverages, for at the end of this learning, I dearly needed them.

Sometimes, if my work permitted, I would walk to the jetty, down by the ocean, and watch as fishing boats set out to find a daily catch. I watched young children play on the beach, collecting limpets from the rocks. In the midst of this all, I would sit down, and think about my mother.

As I get older, my memory of her appearance fades. I know she had dark brown, eyes, eyes deep, and warm. Her hair was dark gray, almost black, with creamy gold streaks. It hung long down her back and she adorned it with wooden beads, painted with the colours of the ocean. My mother loved the ocean.
She had been born in the Northern Isles, in Scotland. It was there that she met my father, and it was there that I was born. It is here that we still live, on a little island off the north coast of Scotland, close to, relying on the sea, even as it took my greatest treasure from me.

I can recount facts about my mother easily, like the date she met my father, or how old she claimed to be, or when her birthday was. But who my mother was to me, is disappearing slowly. I can no longer remember the sound of her tenor voice, or the way her cheeks dimpled as she smiled, or the way her eyes crinkled with laughter. In fact, about the only thing I can remember about my mother are the stories she told me.

Stories of fey beings and eldritch creatures, benevolent and malevolent towards humankind. Tales of mermaids and fairies, winged horses, and wolves made out of sea foam. And the irresistible stories of the Selkies, the seal people who shed their skin, like water dripping from their bodies. For some reason, as I sat with my legs dangling over the edge of the jetty, gently stirring the water with my feet, I hoped to see one of the fabled Selkies. It was wishful thinking I supposed, but I returned each day, hoping to see one of my mother’s seal people. In a way, I thought if I could see a creature, any unusual creature, that I could remember more about my mother.

On one of my daily trips to the jetty, I felt an urge to dive into the water, and lost no time obeying its call. I had inherited my mother’s love of water, and dived readily from the jetty into the surf. As I swam, I started to see a strange shape surface above the waves, sometimes close, others far away. I tried to swim towards it, to better guess what it might be.

I swam quite far out from the beach, but still not further than the rock wall which encompassed its edges. It was here I saw the shape for what it was. It was a seal, its pelt deep gray flecked with creamy gold. It looked at me solemnly, and I gazed at it in return. I stared long into the deep brown eyes, the eyes warm and kind. And from those eyes I learned many truths. I found the answer to a mystery that always intrigued me, for between my finger and toes was webbing, delicate and thin, and this had made me a fair swimmer. I learnt where my silken hair comes from, hair the colour of water lit by the dawning sun. I discovered why I loved the sea and the ocean with fierce passion, even after it had claimed my mother. For in claiming her, the ocean had returned her home. My mother, my idol, had returned to her true dwelling, and as I tread water, staring into the eyes of this creamy flecked seal, I, too, found my true abode. I remembered my mother.