On Lonely Shores

Graham sat alone in his armchair staring at the unlit television. It was an old CRT television set; he felt he hadn't needed anything else in the long years he had lived here. He was surrounded by curios of a house well lived-in: framed photos, books with bent spines, and clashing wallpaper and decor. It used to be only him and his parents that lived there. Now that Graham was beginning to show some gray himself, it was only him, his son Cameron, and his younger daughter Moira. His wife, Mairi, had long since been gone, from his youngest's last birthday as far as he could recall. Photos of their memories together littered the walls between and betwixt the others, only highlighting her absence all the more.

And so the television remained unlit, unlike the fireplace behind it. Indeed, as the more studious observer might have noticed, Graham was staring past the television to a vacant spot on the fireplace mantle. It was hers, knew well, and he did his best to keep it clean in her absence. Nevertheless, much to his chagrin, his life as a single father and fisherman allowed a thin film of dust to accumulate over it. Her space was left horrifically untouched, empty.

He sighed as he cast his gaze downward towards a book left laying akimbo on the coffee table. He picked it up and studied it.

"Hmm, Separation Anxiety and Me," he said to himself, reading it aloud, "Useful Coping Mechanisms."

Graham chuckled to himself and shook his head as he noticed how far down his bookmark was embedded inside it. He tossed it back down on the table with a dejected huff.

"Bollocks."

As the word rang in the air, he was dragged out of his stupor long enough to notice something unusual and altogether disturbing: the house was deathly quiet. A shiver rose up his spine, a fearful instinct earned from years parenting two exceedingly mischievous preteens.

"Cam? Moira?" He called.

There was no response.

"Bloody hell," he grunted as he pushed himself up from his armchair.

"Cam! Moira!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, a hint of panic in his voice.

There was again no answer.

Graham then made his rounds about the house, checking the kitchen, pantry, and bathroom. Each was empty. He then knocked on the door of his children's rooms, calling their names. There was no reply. The house was empty.

A sudden realization hit him: they were their mother's children.

"Not again," he sighed.

With no time to wait, he gathered his jacket and cap and stormed out the front door. He then ran down the steps and out behind his house. There, he set along the path that led down past the dunes and onto the island's beach. As sure as the tide, he found them where he expected them: behind the house and out past the dunes and playing in the cold surf.

"Cam! Moira!" Graham yelled, his voice adopting a forced sternness.

The children halted in their tracks, the water washing up past their knees. Their dark hair and eyes contrasted sharply with the blue all around them. They stared at their father as they knew they were caught in the act. The cries of the gulls cut the silence like a knife.

Graham jogged down the dunes and onto the beach. "How many times have I told you not to come down here alone?"

Cam struggled to meet his father's eyes. "We're sorry, Dad."

Moira met her father's eyes with childlike naiveté. "We just thought we'd come down to hear the singing."

Cam sharply elbowed his sister.

"Ow! Sorry," she whispered.

Graham's eyes widened, a not-so-distant memory having been dredged up from his past. "What singing?"

Cam held his breath as he continued to look away.

"Moira-" Graham continued, his voice vibrating with a calm fatherly urgency.

"I'm not supposed to say anything," answered Moira innocently.

"Sis!" Cam shouted.

"What?" she answered shyly.

Just as Graham was going to reprove of his children's bickering, a soft melody tickled his senses from just above the roaring of the ocean. For him, the smell of salt became stronger on his nostrils; the memory at the back of his mind grew larger and harder to ignore. His heart began to rage in his chest as his feet urged him closer to the water's edge. He knew that melody better than he knew any other.

"Can it be?" Graham gasped.

Time seemed to slow as he watched a head of long dark hair emerged from the water. Behind it was a woman completely undressed except for a seal skin coat wrapped tightly around her torso.

"Mairi," Graham said, just loud enough to hear.

The woman walked effortlessly through the surf until the waves crested just above her knees. It was then that some of Graham's senses returned to him and he found himself running for her, sending large splashes of water flying in every direction. She caught him in a willing embrace, the surf hiding the fact that she was crying rather happy tears. Graham was more overt in his weeping. The two shared a long, blissful kiss in each other's arms.

"I missed you, my dear," Mairi finally whispered in his ear.

"I missed you more, my love," Graham answered as he caressed her cheek.

Only now were they aware that Cam and Moira were clinging to them both. They couldn't help but smile. Graham then took a moment to look deep into the dark depths of his wife's eyes.

"We didn't want to spoil your surprise, Dad," Cam interjected.

Without looking down, Graham chuckled. "You didn't spoil a thing."

A smile crept across Mairi's face as she met her husband's gaze. "My family says hello, by the way."

"Give them my best," said Graham.

The smile stretched across her face with wry glee. "Give it to them yourself."

Graham looked up to see the dark heads of nearly a dozen seals bobbing in the waves beyond. Every single one of their beady eyes were trained on him. He nodded politely to them before they each disappeared beneath the waves, one by one.

He then looked back to his wife. "Your coat's place above the mantle is all set for you, Mairi."

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Author's Note

'The Seal Bride' is a common motif in cultures ranging from Iceland to the British Isles to Scandinavia. Moreover, comparisons are often drawn between it and the 'Swan Bride' motif from Eastern Europe. These tales are almost always tragic in origin. They involve a shapeshifter, most often a woman, who possesses the ability to change her skin via a coat or some other garment that is stolen and hidden by a lustful man. The tale ends up with them marrying the man, forced to bear children, and then fleeing the moment they find their skin.

Here, I wondered what would happen if the man was raised to show people respect and fell in love with the selkie organically. What if she reciprocated? What if he had healthy resources and coping methods to bridge the gaps when she inevitably had to return to the ocean for long periods of time? What if the tale was not about greed and taming the untamable but of real love and mutual respect? That is what I explored here: a love between two distant lonely shores that lasts through their time apart.