The Selkie Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

dead man’s grave.
    —Andrew Young, “Culbin Sands ”
    Fear is paranoia’s chief handmaiden, and therefore sometimes an evil influence on even the most rational mind. I had calmed considerably by the time I made porridge and brushed out my hair. It takes patience and time to add the oats little by little to boiling salted water. I don’t care for lumpy porridge, and it is my experience that alarm can only be sustained for a short period of time in the absence of any new threats, especially when doing something so prosaic as whisking oatmeal on the stove with a cat looking on. Still, I was a long way from being completely at ease in my thoughts as I prepared my meal.
    I didn’t need to light the kitchen fire since the embers were still glowing, a further confirmation that my visitor had felt free to make himself at home. However, by the time I had stirred the oatmeal into something nearly edible, my thoughts had turned from tales of devils to stories of night visitors of the amorous variety.Legend had it that the area was once populated with sleagh maith, the local Gaelic term for fairies, notorious for seducing humans. The thought of my alarmed reaction brought the first smile of the day: If my guest wasn’t of the Satanic persuasion and had indeed come looking for a bit of carnality, then I must have seriously alarmed or offended him by fainting. There was no way that my reaction could be mistaken for any kind of coquetry. My faerie would not come calling again.
    Feeling much calmer after this brief flight of silliness, I nonetheless decided to walk into the village to see if there were any reports of boats washing up on shore, or anything else that might reasonably explain why a strange man would be abroad on such a terrible night. I thought that perhaps I would even meet my guest again, since it seemed likely he would have sought out help for mending his boat as soon as the storm abated.
    The day was sunny but the wind brisk, so I bundled up well before leaving the cottage. I thought of taking the iron key that turned the rather stiff lock on the door, but decided against it. No one in the village locked their doors in the daytime. In spite of my nervousness at the invasion the previous night, I decided to observe the custom. After all, sandstorms blew up without warning and a neighbor in some dire straits might require shelter in the cottage. I wasn’t on the best of terms with the other villagers, but I certainly would not begrudge protection to anyone in need. I also left a shutter and window ajar so that Herman could come and go as he wished. I had made the mistake ofshutting him in once and found an ample expression of his displeasure waiting for me right inside the door when I returned.
    But in the village, instead of reassurance for my paranoia, I found the uneasy populace gathered in the street around a visitor I learned was from Keil. A quick look assured me that this elderly and heavily bewhiskered man of the cloth was not my uninvited guest.
    “Who is this? What has happened?” I asked softly of Mistress MacLaren, one of the few women in town and a gossip. She and her husband ran the general store and post office where the more-or-less weekly ferry made deliveries of goods and mail. She was what the locals call a carlin of ugly mein , just what children imagined when they thought of a wicked witch. I tried to wear my bitterness at life’s disappointments lightly and not inflict my unhappiness on the world, but not so Mistress MacLaren, and her perpetual anger had warped her expression into something unpleasant.
    “ ’Tis Reverend MacNeil,” she whispered back excitedly. I could smell whisky on her breath. This was not uncommon. “The De’il was seen abroad last night and Callum was sent tae fetch him o’er. He’ll hae some idea of what tae dae aboot this.”
    “The Devil?” I repeated, the reassurance in which I had wrapped myself falling away like silk in a violent wind, not because I was