Page 66 of Salt Magic, Skin Magic
His clothes were gone.
Thornby bit his lip, hugging the pelt to his chest. As a seal, he’d not felt the cold; as a man, the sea wind was icy on his bare, wet skin. He’d been gone a couple of hours, to judge from the sun. But John was patient; he knew how to wait.
A nasty thought struck him. When he’d put the skin on, had he left this world and gone to the other? John had said time worked differently there. Thornby couldn’t remember experiencing night-time as a seal, but perhaps that made no difference. What if he’d been gone for days? What if John thought he’d gone into the sea forever? But he wouldn’t think that. Would he? He must know that Thornby would come back. But a cold trickle of doubt began to seep in. Why should John wait for an inconsiderate saphead who’d swum away without so much as a thank you?
He looked along the shore, but it was impossible to see far past the rocky outcrops. The light was going. Perhaps John had simply gone to find somewhere to spend the night away from the cold sea breeze? Thornby took a few steps across the rocky shelf. Walking felt like trying to dance without music; a little forced, a little pointless.
He should climb the slope and look.
But something kept stopping him. With the sea at his back, just a few paces away, he was safe. He could be gone in an instant. The moment he left the shore, he was a naked man with a sealskin in his hands. And the skin could be taken from him.
That thought was so alarming, he found himself backing away from the land. He crouched on the edge of the rock, watching, listening. The skin was much larger than when he’d gone in. Now it was the skin of an adult seal, and parts of it kept slipping from his hands. In the dying light it glowed like beaten copper.
He remembered the panic he’d felt at Raskelf. Riding across the moors, desperate to get to the coast. He’d half tried to wait for John, but it had been impossible—and, if he was honest, deep down he’d been afraid. Afraid that John would take the skin. The idea had seemed a little ridiculous even then, but in his panic to get to the sea he’d half-believed it. Now it seemed a madness had come over him. Or perhaps magic.
To John, it must have seemed a terrible betrayal. He’d spent days puzzling over how to free him, risked his own life experimenting with magic, and then fought for him, all to have Thornby ride away with barely a look. No wonder John wasn’t waiting. He must be furious.
But, might John come back? Just to tell Thornby what a thoughtless, thankless little prick he was? If there was a slim chance that John would come back, then Thornby would wait. Hadn’t he waited for months at Raskelf? Hadn’t he learned patience?
It would be warmer to wait as a seal. He stood, thinking to put on the skin. He glanced down as he did so, and noticed for the first time that the cuts on his chest had vanished. So, for that matter, had the painful bruises, wrenched muscles and bloodied knuckles from the fight.
And so had the scars on his foot! He bent to touch it—the two smallest toes were separate again, as they’d not been since he was nine years old. The skin was as white and smooth as his other foot. He’d always hated those scars, and hated them more when John had explained what had caused them. Not that John had minded. He’d held that ugly scarred thing in his hands; he’d kissed it. No one had done that before. No one else had ever been permitted.
A pang of loss pierced him, sharp as broken glass. He had had something marvellous and he had dived into the sea and swum away as if it were nothing.
A final ray of sunshine broke out, low over the sea. And he noticed something—a handful of orange sand caught in a crevice. He crept forward. It was such a beautiful colour, one almost expected it to feel warm. But it was cold. And it didn’t belong. And he remembered the last time he’d seen it; in a pile in the blue saloon, with John nestling that glass eye into it, and saying defensively, “It works with everyone else.”
John didn’t leave his materials behind. Unless he had to. Or was forced to. Something bad had happened to John, Thornby was suddenly certain. And ‘something bad’, around here, meant Father.
As if thinking about him had made him real, Father was there. Coming frombehind, between Thornby and the sea. Thornby flung himself to one side, instinctively ducking and rolling. His shoulder struck rock, but he still had the skin in his arms and that was all that mattered. Father came after him, face twisted with fury. He managed to get a booted foot onto a trailing edge of the skin, and ground down. Thornby screamed. It was as if his hand was being crushed between Father’s boot and the rock.
Thornby jerked at the skin with his good hand, trying to dislodge Father’s foot, but with every tug, pain flared in his other hand. Now they each gripped a portion—Thornby naked, on his back on the rock, Lord Dalton on his feet, as if playing a tug of war that Thornby had lost but would not concede. The sealskin glowed golden-brown between them, taut where they pulled it. And a hideous tension ran through Thornby. He felt he would rip in two. But he didn’t let go.
He glanced seaward. The edge of the rock was only a yard away. He must get to it; get to the sea. It was his only hope.
He pushed with feet and legs, half sliding, still clinging to the sealskin. Rocks gouged great welts in his back, and the side of his face stung as if sandpapered. But slowly, inch by inch, he gained ground. He turned his head again, and there was the sea, white foam surging only a hands-breadth below. Just a few more inches and he could tumble them both down into the maelstrom. He gave an extra hard tug and kicked Father’s shin.
His bare foot had little effect, and kicking had made him lose purchase. He was dragged a few inches landward. The skin began to slip from his fingers. A shout came from down the shore. John? A surge of hope lent him strength.
But the figures hurrying into view wore the livery of Raskelf: Prout and Abbott were coming to help their master. Thornby shook his head and tugged with all his might, crying out with fury. He had seconds. Because the moment they arrived it was over. They would take the skin. Take him back to Raskelf—
It could not be. It couldnot. To have been in the sea. And now—
Tears of rage and despair trickled down his cheeks, mingled with his blood, and fell, to be lost in the surging vastness of the ocean.
And Father froze, staring out to sea, then let go of the skin as if it were no more than an old rag. Thornby, still pulling with all his might, fell back, winding himself, head snapping over the edge. Half dazed, he had just enough wit to hug the skin closer and turn onto his knees. He was about to fling himself into the sea, when he, too, stopped as if turned to stone. He knelt on the rocky edge, the skin in his arms.
About ten yards out, a woman was swimming in the icy water. Her bare white shoulders and wet hair were peachy-red in the setting sun. Her face was in shadow, but unearthly beauty shone out of it. Her eyes were large and luminous, grey as the sea.
Father stood with his hands at his sides, mouth open. Prout and Abbott stood next to him, battered and bandaged. Prout looked as if he might cry. Abbott was shaking his head in slow, uncomprehending disbelief. Father’s expression was more difficult to read. Shock was giving way to reverence, but desire was there too, and greed. Something in his eyes said,Mine.
The woman swam closer. Thornby could see long strings of pearls woven into her hair and adorning her slender neck. Her breasts were white as sea foam against the black depths, and her arms stretched wide, as though she danced in the water. Beside her floated a dark, amorphous shape, which she clung to with one hand. It was a sealskin. She was like him. Like his mother must have been. He was dimly aware of more heads clearing the water further out—seals or people, he wasn’t sure—but it was almost impossible to look away from the woman, she was so beautiful. She smiled at Father, who moaned in the back of his throat.
She came closer, reached for the edge of the rock and held on, rising and falling with the swell. The foam that had tumbled there was gone, as though she’d tamed the very waves for her convenience. Her sealskin floated behind her, up and down with the gentle rise and fall of the sea. She looked at Father out of the corners of her eyes and smiled again, coy, inviting. Her hair swirled around her in the sea like a pearl-embroidered wedding veil.
Father fell to his knees. He held a hand out to her. “Please.” His voice was a croak. “My God, I’ve searched for you—so long.”
Her smile deepened. Then, for the first time, she looked at Thornby. A long, lazy look. Her dreamy smile did not falter, but she glanced over her shoulder as if to remind him that the sea was there—his for the taking.
