Page 65 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
He stared past John, plainly seeing nothing but the past, the words flowing out of him like water out of a fishing net.
“But then, she wanted to go back to sea. To take the boy—to show him—”
Dalton’s voice trailed away. His face relaxed into sadness—a lost, tender look. For a moment, John could see the handsome young man, in love with his beautiful wife to the point of madness.
“A man needs his wife at his side, doesn’t he? She swore she’d come back, but how could I take the chance? They shoot them, you know, in Scotland. For the pelts. It would have been wrong to let her go.” He looked at John, almost pleading. “Don’t you see Ihadto keep her?”
John said, “You’ve a new wife—young and kind. She’d make you happy if you let her. You must give that old pelt back to the sea. Forget Soren. He’s gone anyway. Do you think he’ll come back? For me? Of course he won’t come back.”
Dalton looked at John for a long moment and John caught a flicker of something, maybe hope, maybe regret.
But then Dalton’s expression hardened into revulsion. “You bloody sodomite. You’re doomed.” He let go of John’s arm and kicked him viciously in the chest, sending him staggering back into the arms of the soldiers. Dalton raised his voice. “Right. I thank you for your assistance, Mr Howarth.” He nodded to the magistrate, then looked back at John. “Actually, you’re lucky. You’ll hang.”
“Give the pelt...back...to the sea,” John gasped, still struggling to catch his breath from the kick. Then one of the soldiers pushed him, and they started the long walk along the cliffs to the prison cell.
Chapter Fourteen
As a seal, Thornbydidn’t think in the same way as a man. The past was a dream compared with the rush and boil of the sea, the black and purple depths, the light angling down golden when the sun came out. He was lost in the now of the swaying kelp, the flash and flicker of fish, and the shadows of the larger things that moved, half-seen, in the deep.
He’d been trapped—that much he knew—trapped for a lifetime. And now the sea was everywhere; limitless, ever-changing, eternal. He went like an arrow, sinuous, twirling, revelling in it, and the sea embraced him.
But after a while, through the joy came a dim sense that something was wrong. Or, if not exactly wrong, then—missing. Something was lacking.
John.
He stopped his headlong flight. The human part of his mind seemed to come to the fore. How long had he been swimming? It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. He’d caught fish and swallowed them whole, and nothing had ever tasted so good. He’d played in the waves and never thought of what he’d left behind, until now.
John. On the shore. How could Thornby have swum off without a word and left him? After everything.
How could he have forgotten him?
He turned in the sea, a perfect, graceful roll, and began swimming back. He knew the way; it was easy. After a while he began to play in the swell again. John would be all right. Thornby had never met anyone as capable as John. By now John had probably seen to the horses, made a fire, cleaned the salt and blood from their clothes, and asked the local stones to build themselves into a shelter in which to spend the night.
When Thornby got back to the beach, it was nearly dark. He removed his skin as easily as he’d put it on. It was as natural as breathing.
No one was waiting.
