The first time he sees one, it seems like a shadow hovers in the tail of his eye. It shimmers in the liminal space between evening and sunset. But he’s heard the stories; has walked on the shore every morning,

looking,

searching,

gazing

to the horizon.

At night, when the sea is resting serene, he’ll sit quiet, at the most deserted spot, his eyes fixed on a shimmering skin of water. Often freckled seals bask by day on barnacled rocks, to which he can swim when the water is warm. But what he sees is no pinniped creature. He knows that much. He finds silken strands of hair captured in fishing nets; occasional iridescent scales gleaming like jewels where the sea leaves her mark at the tide line. Sea glass that swallows memories, he gathers and keeps close.

Grandmother told tales of Selkie folk – her eyes a gathering storm of North Sea green. Every salted line of her face had its own story. Racks of sunken twisted bladderwrack hung at her wooden lintelled doorway. In seagrass baskets, she gathered shells which harboured ocean sounds, placed at each open window of her wide-walled cottage. She left offerings of fish and bread and sometimes trinkets, at special places along the shore and as a child he’d walk with her, the sand warm and liquid, slithering between tiny toes.

But he’s never understood until now.

He left this place, drawn away by adventure; travelled the world. Walked on wild shores, where heat shimmered and cold froze his thoughts as well as his bones. But she’d followed him. Always glistening at the edge of thoughts and horizons. She whispered in waves, luring with glamors he couldn’t resist.

Tonight, he’ll walk down to the shore. He’ll leave his shoes and outer skin folded neatly on the sand. And he’ll walk into the water unafraid, knowing she’s waiting. And he’ll smile as he slips into her embrace. And he’ll be glad of it.

Tomorrow his body will be found onshore. It’ll drift in the shallows in a velvet musty haar, which keeps most people safe indoors. There’ll be an early dog walker, an old man of the sea, undeterred by the fret of fog; his ratty terrier barking at the treasure he’s found. But the skipper will know. He’ll see contentment tugging at the corners of a corpses’ smile. And he’ll understand it was the Selkie.

Suzy Aspley