Selkies' Skins: Installment 8 (Chapter 8: Here and Gone, part 1)

[rainstardragon]

"Selkies' Skins" will be a tale told serially, as I have the time to work on it. For now, updates may be spotty, but donations can help speed it up a little. I hope to at least manage an installment a month. I expect it to mostly center around Kirsten (Kirsty) and Etain Makay, two part selkies living in the modern era. The world is influenced by the Harry Potter novels in part, but also by Celtic mythology of Selkies. The main stories told will be Etain's work as a waterwitch, her work as a bridge between the Selkies of her area and Wizarding society, and Kirsty's own quest toward gaining her own seal skin.

Once the full story is down, an ebook version is planned. This story is unassociated with my Dragon Shaman series available in my Lulu outlet and on Amazon, or any of my unpublished manuscripts.

If you don't wish to use the Selkies' Skin tag to find the entries, check the ToC on the Sticky Note.

Selkies' Skins:
Chapter Eight
Here and Gone
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Kirsty watched as Mani swallowed down the potion, hovering quietly nearby, and was gratified to see the healing process speeded on its way. Quietly she washed the old bandages and hung them to dry by the fire, disguising her sigh of relief. For her part, the Selkie tried not to make a face of disgust at the taste from the potion, choking it down with little relish.

Connor met her eyes and nodded, a silent acknowledgment of respect, for having finally gained the wild Selkie woman's trust enough. After a short period of observation, Kirsty released her charge to bed, and Mani drifted out of the kitchen and up the stairs to the bedrooms, guarded and guided by Connor. Retreating from his corner in the living room, Olan followed, carrying the now fast asleep Banu to the room at the end of the upper story that they shared. In short order, Kirsty herself followed, bound for her own room.

Ten o'clock came, heralded by the soft chiming of a clock on the mantle, the click of the doorknob opening, and the quiet swing of the front door. Finnol slipped quietly into the house.

“Late you are, my boy.” Marsali spoke softly from her place on the mantle. Pulling herself onto her rock in her portrait, she arranged her tail carefully before continuing. “What happened at the office, then?”

“More shoals of ghost fish to investigate, moving shoals of rock, and a possible report of a captured Selkie to look into. I don't know if I'll be able to see off Kirsty at this rate. School's so close. Some of these I can put off, but I don't know about those shoals reaching for the shipping lanes...” Finnol yawned widely, sat down on the couch, kicked his feet up, summoned a mug of tea from the kitchen with a swish of aspen and Kelpie hair, then looked at the painting.

“It's an active time of year. If it's this bad now, think of what Samhain will be like.” Marsali played with her hair thoughtfully, eyeing her descendant.

“Mmm.” Finnol nodded. “Always busy when the veil's thin.”

He drank his tea down, before taking it to the kitchen and setting it to wash and stow itself, then ventured past the door to his study, up the darkened stairs, and turned into the upper hall. Quietly, he opened the one that was his daughter's, peeping in to see the usual mass of dark hair spilling in waves over her pillow. The water imp lay beside her as well, his head propped on the pillow beside hers, despite the pillow being too large for his diminutive body. On her desk, a final potion was left to brew, though he was unsure as to whether it was one of her experiments, or for use in the pantry. Quietly, he shut the door, then opened the one directly across.

Soft snoring greeted him from the portrait on the wall, and looking, an elderly woman in garb that suited a retired pirate leaned against a wall in her frame. He changed to his night clothes as quietly and quickly as he could, not wishing to wake Kara at this hour. Just as quietly, he slipped into bed.

At three in the morning, a klaxon sounded through the house. One of the elders from the family portraits, Stephen Makay, the former captain of the Tempest Queen, ran from picture to picture, calling “All hands on deck,” and waving his walking stick or poking other paintings awake as occasion dictated.

Feet hit floors with resounding thumps, somewhat confused in the room of the full-blooded Selkies, and much more certain in Kirsty and Finnol's rooms. Kirsty managed to beat her father down the stairs to the study, her blue night robe open over her white nightgown, and skidded to a stop before the wall map. Red witchfire blinked balefully at a point in the Atlantic. Below the dot, a label wrote itself.

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