Page 64 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
Seal people; selkies. John had heard of them from the same Irish washerwoman who’d told him stories of Fionn MacCoull when he was a child. Selkies were from the same world as the hedgehog creature, but of the sea, not the land, though they could travel between both. One could trap them in their human form by taking their sealskins. A few images from a story came to him; a lonely fisherman, a stolen sealskin, and a weeping woman. But had the story ended happily or in tragedy? He couldn’t remember. It was too long ago; more than twenty years since he’d listened to fairy tales.
And yet, here he was, living in one.
He held the cold clothes. He could feel the tracker stone, a little fizz of magic near the centre of the bundle. It was useless now. Soren had cast it aside without a thought.
Everything ached, as though Soren had unravelled John’s heart and lungs and entrails, and dived into the sea with them, leaving him empty on the shore. He should take action, but he felt like a piece of limp seaweed cast up on the grassy slope. He couldn’t leave. If Soren came back, he must be here. Waiting.
Eventually, he got to his feet. He folded the dry clothes in a neat pile and found a place to sit on a raised outcrop on the rocky shelf. He spread the wet breeches out to dry, weighing them down with rocks.
He got out the sand, the glass-eye and the spancel and set up the charm. Something seemed to complain as he set the magic through it—the spancel kept blowing in the sea-wind—probably that was the problem. What about the horses? If Soren came back, they might want them. Later. He sat cross-legged inside the spancel, Soren’s clothes beside him.
After a while—it could have been minutes or it could have been hours—he heard a low thunder that wasn’t the sea. Horses. He could hear shouts. The sun was nearly down and it was getting cold. He stood with difficulty, because he was so stiff, and turned his back on the sea.
It wasn’t just Dalton and his men. They’d brought a portly, self-important looking fellow who was probably the local magistrate, half a dozen nervous-looking soldiers with muskets, and a rag-tag of villagers.
They could see him. Surely, they could. They were riding straight for him. They were stopping. He knelt to check his charm. It had been blown about, but the spancel was closed. The sand was set right. The eye—he turned it over to see a shatter-mark like a spider-web marring its blue stare. It had tried to tell him. If he’d paid more attention when he’d set the charm, if only he’d listened—
The magistrate brought his horse forward, peering down the hill. “John Blake, I am arresting you for the murder of Soren Dezombrey, Lord Thornby. You can come quietly, or my men can bring you in chains.”
Murder? That, he had not expected. Though he should have.
“I’m innocent,” he said.
“Then where is Lord Thornby?”
“He—” Instead of mooning around over Soren’s clothes he should have been thinking, planning. But instead he’d managed to lead them straight to the spot where Soren had gone into the water. “He’s escaped. And I charge Lord Thornby’s father, Lord Dalton, with the kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment of Lord Thornby. I have helped right that wrong. I am Lord Thornby’s friend.”
“A friend who steals his clothes?” said the magistrate. “A friend who lets him go naked? Produce Lord Thornby now, if you have him. Or the charge stands.”
“He’s gone.”
“Where? Into the sea? Then he’s drowned?”
If they wanted another fight, he could give them one, though he had no heart for it. Dalton’s men were bruised and bandaged already. One of Warren’s eyes was swollen closed, and Prout looked as though he’d gone several rounds with the Tipton Slasher. John had very few materials left, but there were plenty of rocks, and he had his fists. He might even win. But at what cost? The soldiers and the villagers were innocent men. If he started slinging charmed rocks at them, it was hardly fair. He was no criminal; why resist?
To stay here? He glanced at the sea stretching to the horizon. If Soren had only said something, or given him some sign, John would have fought tooth and nail to stay. But Soren had simply escaped into the sea as quickly as he could. Soren had gone. And he wasn’t coming back. Not ever.
He should go with the magistrate, let them put him wherever they liked for tonight. He would get Catterall on the case. Paxton would speak for him. And if things looked bad he’d manage somehow. Perhaps he could escape. If Soren wasn’t coming back, there wouldn’t be much point staying in England anyway. He remembered Lady Amelia saying “Anyone who stays in England must be mad.” Maybe she was right. There was a whole world out there. Maybe he would go where the seals go. Maybe, one day, he would recognise one.
The soldiers were scrambling down the slope towards him. One picked up Soren’s clothes. Another picked up the spancel, puzzlement on his face. A third took up the cracked eye and kicked the little pile of sand. It was Sahara sand; bright orange, the best, from near Siwa. John could hear it lamenting as it dispersed under the soldier’s boot—it didn’t like the cold and the wet. It wanted magic or the warmth of his pocket. If he could, he’d come back and collect it, grain by grain.
He went with them up the slope to where Lord Dalton sat on his second-best horse. Dalton beckoned him forward, and motioned the soldiers back.
“You’ve cost me seventy thousand pounds, you bloody fool,” Dalton said. “Inchmorn Skerry. That’s what you’ve cost me.”
“Is that all he was to you? Money for a few rocks? You’re the fool. I know what’s on you. I would’ve helped.”
“Youwouldn’t.” Dalton lowered his voice. “If I’d let you help and we’d got one—you’d have wanted her for yourself. Wouldn’t you?”
And at last, John understood. All this time. All these years, all the money spent and useless coastal lands bought. All the lives ruined and lives interrupted. All because Dalton wanted another woman from the sea. Another seal-wife to replace the one he’d lost.
He couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “You damned fool. You bloody fool. I don’t want a woman.” And then he wasn’t laughing, but crying. He gritted his teeth to stop himself. Dalton’s mouth was curling with revulsion.
“It’s that way, is it? Yes, I wondered if it was. Then it’s on your back now too.” Dalton reached down from his horse, grabbed John’s upper arm and hissed in his ear. “What did he say? Did you believe him? They say whatever will get them their way. You’ll never get another. And once they’re gone—” A look of unbearable pain crossed his face. “Anyone else will be ashes in your mouth.”
Dalton’s gaze drifted away from John and out to sea, but his hand was still locked around John’s arm.
“Do you know where I met her? It was a coast like this, wild and lonely. And she came out of the sea to me. Naked, with pearls in her hair. And solovely. You never saw her equal. Can you imagine? And she loved me. The moment she saw me. And I her. My God, we were happy. We fooled the whole ton, her and I.Danish. Pah! We laughed at the lot of them.”
