Terrified now that she was so far out to sea that she couldn't see the sh.o.r.e, Gretchen clutched tighter, resolving her dead man's hold around the seal's neck. This done, she then concentrated on breathing, which was fairly difficult under the circ.u.mstances.

She cursed herself. She was in a world of trouble now, and no mistake. There was a word for her creature-companion and she knew it well: selkie. It was a word she had learned from her great grandmother when she went around to her house as a very young girl. Her great grandmother had just a couple battered children's books kept in a box with some uninteresting wooden toys. When those stopped amusing, and Gretchen got restless, then Great Grandmother would talk to her. Sometimes it was just about what was going on with the people in the village, but on occasion she would tell one of her stories, one of the old and ancient tales of the area.

Gretchen always had trepidations about the stories and would never ask for one. That was because the stories absolutely terrified her. There wasn't one of them that ended well for the little girls (and it was always little girls; Gretchen felt, even at five years old, that the way her great grandmother poked her in the ribs whenever she said "little girl" was needlessly heavy-handed). And, just like the situation Gretchen was in now, the heroines were always such victims of circ.u.mstance or innocent desire that there didn't seem, at any point in the story, a way for them out of the sticky messes they had become mired in. Inevitably, that lead to their death, which her great grandmother would draw out beyond all taste or decorum, even for a five-year-old.

And so while she hadn't spent much more than a dozen afternoons by herself with her grandmother, and had only actually heard a small number of her great grandmother's tales, every word of them were etched on her young mind. They were much more memorable than those of the battered children's books with their toothless pastel colours and safe endings, or indeed any of the books she owned and read repet.i.tively. But she could remember every phrase of her great grandmother's stories-"The Orphan Girl and the Goblins," "The Seamstress and the Tricksie Brownies," "The Changeling and Its Sister," "Bluebeard's Young Bride," and, of course, "The Selkie Mother."

Yet even with those vivid warnings to deter her, here she found herself being pulled out to sea on the back of a changeling man. She could almost hear her great grandmother say, "I told you so."

The sky continued to darken, but she could see something on the horizon. It was a grey lump that grew quickly into a black, rocky jag of a windswept island, probably not large enough to provide food or shelter for even one small sheep.

Which is not to say that it was empty. There were shapes moving along the top of it; she could see human silhouettes dancing on the island's crest. As they drew nearer, Gretchen saw that there were also seals watching them, banging their flippers and tails in time to the beat of the music that now drifted out to them. It was a selkie ceilidh.

They circled the island, slowly coming in where the rocks dipped lower into the sea. As she glided by, she saw that they were all naked, just as the man, Ron Gla.s.s, had been on the beach. They danced with a rhythmic, primal swing and sang in a chorus to the accompaniment of pipes.

They came to a shallow inlet and her selkie sc.r.a.ped along the sand. He gave a wriggle and a flap, and then she was holding on to the man, the bit of seal skin flapping between them.

They scampered up onto the slippery rocks, the man rather gallantly helping Gretchen up. For the briefest of moments Gretchen was impressed by this, before she remembered that he had abducted her.

"There is just one fire on the island," he explained to her as he led her up the rocks by the hand, "but you may not be allowed very near it on your first night. You may keep my skin tonight," he said, reaching the top and flinging it over her shoulders. "I should not let you have it, but it will keep you warm on a cold night."

She followed him up the rock and pulled the seal skin around her very cold and very wet body. It was soft, thick, and warm but no drier than her or anything else on the desolate and windy rock. But it was another layer between her and the elements, and it kept the wind off of her, and she was grateful for it.

She hunched her bulky, awkward frame even further inside the skin as she came nearer to the dancing selkies. They were beautiful-the most beautiful people Gretchen had ever seen. All were tall and lithe and perfectly formed. A large fire pit burned in the centre, and the flames and embers lit their skin with a warm red and yellow glow, making them luminescent and otherworldly. The girls were willowy and soft-skinned with wide hips and long, dexterous hands and feet that they twisted inward and out in time to the rhythm; their long hair, alternately straight and curly, swinging. The men were built similarly to Ron, but some were fair, some were dark, and one or two were red, all with fine, firm, and occasionally sharp, Celtic features. They were uniformly smooth and unadorned by any hair except that which grew on their heads.

They all wove around one another, frenetically spinning and twisting. They did not ever knock into another or trip one another up, but when someone crossed their path, they would reach out and grab that person, sometimes quite intimately, and swing them around and then let them go, and both would continue their whirling jig. Their dance mimicked the path and motion of the sparks that the fire threw up into the night sky.

No one took much of a notice of Gretchen. They were too busy dancing and singing their song.

Up and Dance, for light is dawning, Night will turn to day; Dance because the world is turning, And we cannot stay.

Hear the sounds of stars revolving, Sweeping night away- Sing a song of dark resounding, For we cannot stay.

See, the sky at last is lightening, The sea will soon be grey; Weep my friends, for dawn is breaking, And we cannot stay.

The burning orb of fire is rising, laugh, and music play; The cover for our fun is fading, And we cannot stay.

Why this cruelty, Brightness shining, Why this price we pay?

Why should unclothed flesh need shaming?

Why, I cannot say.

Curse the sun and keep on dancing, Grab my hand and say, "Dance the night, and dance in darkness, Come, I cannot stay.

"Life is short and pleasure fleeting, Grab what sin you may.

Morning brings our deeds' discovering, Thus we cannot stay."

Someday perhaps, we'll need not hiding, Light and law decay; The day the sun his house not biding Will be the day we stay.

Until that hour we must keep moving, Blow the pipes and play!

Dance with me and dance to morning, For we cannot stay.

Gretchen stood, watching, and somehow the orbit of the dancers grew, and the cold blackness of the night shrunk so that the orange dancers were the only created thing in the universe, and she was standing on the outside edge. They spun before her, those who pa.s.sed closest would hold their arms out to her when they saw her. A few of them even grabbed her briefly, but she never let herself be drawn in. Even so, she found herself jostling awkwardly in the path of the dancers, drawn into their orbit. There seemed to be more of them now. Perhaps more of the seals had slipped their skins off and joined in. She felt doubly out of place now-even more unattractive and clumsy in the context of such beauty and grace of movement.

There was a strange elation to being here, with them and among them, and it was with a warm flush of embarra.s.sed excitement when she realised it was because they all seemed to want her here. It was such a profoundly unfamiliar feeling, and it felt so achingly good . . .

Was she under a spell? She knew she should feel more anxiety than she did. She knew she should try to escape, but only in a vague and abstract way that brought no compelling emotion or immediacy.

Ron was suddenly at her side. "Drink this," he said, and placed a sh.e.l.l containing a clear liquid in her hands. She took a sip and felt her mouth burning.

"What is it?"

"We found a few casks of whiskey bobbing in the ocean and brought them here."

Gretchen didn't need her great grandmother to tell her of the stories of seals playfully leading sailors and fishermen astray and causing general havoc. Those were told by almost everyone. "Found?"

"Aye, found. The ship had landed upon rocks somehow. Drink up. Slainte."

Gretchen tipped her sh.e.l.l up and drank. The contents did help to warm her, but she didn't think that she should have any more. However, another sh.e.l.l was placed in her hands almost immediately.

"Go ahead, drink it. Slainte." He tipped his back again.

Gretchen didn't drink hers, but tipped her sh.e.l.l and let it pour out while his head was tipped back. "It's good," she said.

"Isn't it? Let's dance."

"No, thank you."

"It'll warm you up better than the drink."

"I'm too tired. Let me rest. Maybe later. When are you going to take me back?"

"Back where?"

"To where you found me."

"You don't want to go back there."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because I live there."

"You live on the beach? Why not stay here with us?"

"I'm a human. I don't belong here."

"I'm not taking you back."

"I'll swim."

He shrugged. "It's your choice."

At that moment a redheaded female came and pulled him playfully by the arm. He allowed himself to be tugged away, flashing Gretchen a devilish smile as he went.

She left the circle of dancers and warmth and crouched down against a rock that sheltered her against the cutting sea wind. The selkies continued dancing and singing, but the mood had changed-it was now quieter and more languorous. They were moving less complexly, and they were touching each other more. They were touching each other a lot, in fact.

"You're not one of them, are you?" asked a voice beside her.

Gretchen turned and looked into the face of a girl about her age, but unclothed, like the rest of them.

"What did you say?" Gretchen asked.

"You're not a selkie, are you? I can tell. They can go all night like this. I get tired after a while. They don't seem to."

"So you're not a selkie either?"

"No. I'm Lucy. They brought me here . . . Gosh, I don't know how long ago now. I fell out of a boat. Feels like just a couple nights ago, but I think it was longer. It's fun, isn't it? Nothing to worry about . . . long nights of fun and excitement . . ."

Lucy was shorter than Gretchen and her eyes were big and brown, almost too big for her face, it seemed. She had matted, sandy-yellow hair and an eager manner. "Where did you get the skin from?" she asked.

"I was lent it."

"You're lucky. I wish I had one; then I could go swimming in the sea with them. They said they'd make me one. I've never seen any of them make anything, though. All they do is swim and dance. And sleep, in the daytime. I guess there's no rush, though. I like dancing and sleeping too. Can I borrow your skin?"

"Are you cold?"

"No. I just want to go swimming."

"What do you mean?"

"If I put it on, I would turn into one of them and I could go swimming with them. You think this dance is amazing, you should see what they do in the water!"

"Would it work for you?"

"Of course. I've seen them use one another's. They don't usually, they like to keep their own skins-I would if I were one of them, which I'd like to be. If you don't want to be one of them, then they ignore you and stop feeding you and you die. I've seen that happen too."

"You've seen other real people here?" Lucy was staring at the dancers again.

Lucy looked at Gretchen as if seeing her for the first time again. "Oh yes, lots. They're always bringing people back here. They like the company. There's always at least one new person at a dance, sometimes several. I've seen a lot of them arrive. How many, I wonder . . ."

Her brow furrowed in concern, trying to work it out, and her eyes wandered and she looked at the dancers, and a smile gradually came back to her face.

"Lucy?" Gretchen asked.

Lucy turned fresh eyes on her once more and looked her up and down. "If the newcomers put up too much of a fuss, then they kill them. It's not nice. They eat them, pick the bones clean, and throw them into the ocean." She paused, shivering and gazing longingly at Gretchen's skin. "Was that a no, then? About the skin?"

"Sorry," Gretchen said. "It's just that I'm really cold, and kind of wet . . ."

"I understand. Let me know if you change your mind. I really want a skin of my own. And think about staying. If you don't, I might eat you. Ha ha! It was nice talking to you." Lucy pushed her way into the dancing circle again, soon lost in the shuffle, leaving Gretchen alone with her thoughts.

It was quite dark now, and some of the selkies had wandered off, alone or in pairs. Ron Gla.s.s didn't come back for her, but she did catch sight of him as he waved to her from across the fire pit. He was very quickly led away again, this time by a short woman with long, kinky hair.

Gretchen shrugged the skin higher up on her shoulders. She knew now what she had to do, but it was going to take patience and courage to carry it out. She just needed to stay awake and pick her moment perfectly.

The singing had died off, gradually, becoming lost in the arrhythmic shush-ing of the water around the island. The selkies left by twos, threes, or fours into the night. The embers in the pit had ceased to spark and now only burned with a low, deep red, which would shortly be mirrored in the sky's southeastern sunrise. There was just a single dancer left now: Lucy, who swayed in a vague, dreamy fashion in short steps around the fire pit. She held out arms that Gretchen suddenly noticed were very thin; her whole body was emaciated, in fact. It looked like she was starving.

Then even Lucy became tired and wandered off to find somewhere to spend the night. Gretchen waited for what she judged to be ten or fifteen minutes. She gathered her resolve and rose quietly. Moving around the rock, she picked up all of the seal skins that she could find lying on the rocks and among the forms of the selkies sleeping in their naked, human forms. Apparently they didn't feel the cold or hardness of the rock.

The skins were littered here and there, like discarded clothes in an untidy teenager's bedroom. Each one weighed an absolute tonne, though, and she could only carry two or three at a time. It was quite difficult to sneak around the small island with its uneven and wet surfaces, and she had to move quickly as well as quietly.

She brought the skins back to the centre of the island and lobbed them in a heap, close to the fire pit's edge. After about forty-five minutes, she'd found all that she could and heaped them into a gigantic pile next to the fire. They looked like an enormous pile of fur coats.

Now came the moment of truth. Taking a breath, she lifted a foot and kicked at the pile until it gradually tilted forward, toward the fire pit, and then, by ones and threes, they fell into the hot embers below. There were so many, and they were so heavy, that for long, terrible minutes she thought she had smothered the heat by putting them all in at once, but then she spied a thin curl of smoke, illuminated by the sliver of a new moon. More of them started to smoulder and blacken, throwing off a stinky, oily smoke, and then a few tiny flames appeared.

It was coming along nicely. Pretty soon all of them would be burning merrily.

All of them, except for the one she had been given.

She hurried back to the shallow bay area where they had arrived. The tide had risen while she had been here but was ebbing now. She stood on a slippery outcropping of rock that hung above the modulating sea and wrapped the skin fully around herself, first making sure her feet were covered, and then tossing the flap that hung down her back up and over her head.

Her heart chilled.

It wasn't working.

The suit completely covered her, but it didn't join together where she pressed it. She kept it around her and wriggled about in it, but nothing happened-she just got tired holding up the heavy skin.

With a gasp, she threw back the hood. Realising that she'd based her escape plan solely on the information of a young and possibly very deluded young girl, Gretchen was about to sit down and await her fate at the judgement of the beasts. Her consolation was at least they'd all be marooned on this lifeless rock until they could make new skins for themselves-and she might be able to see how it was done. It was small consolation, however. She'd likely have been long-eaten before new skins were created.

It was hot and uncomfortable in the skin, so she tried to push it off of her. That was more difficult than she expected. It seemed to be sticking to her hands and face. She brought one hand up to her forehead to see what the problem was and found that she had raised a fin. Then it struck her-the selkies had all been naked-it would only work on her exposed skin.

Gretchen pulled her hand out of the skin and with a wet sucking sound it emerged. She laid it aside. Then she timidly started to peel off her school jumper. She felt ridiculous as she folded it and put it in a neat pile near her feet.

She had almost unb.u.t.toned her shirt when she heard the first scream of anguish from the selkies who had discovered their burning skins.

Now she couldn't claw her clothes off fast enough. They would kill her as soon as they found her, and it was a race against her stripping down completely and any one of them discovering her in the small cove with the only remaining selkie skin.

There were more screams now, rising in angry chorus. Everything became heightened, and her hands moved like blurs. Her skirt was off, and she rolled her stockings down with it. She pulled her panties down and quickly started fumbling with the bra clasps behind her back. She cursed it over and over.

And then that was it, she was naked-exposed.

There was a shout from behind her, piercing shrilly through the wall of wailing.

"There! There she is! She's kept one for herself!"