The Trick of the Tale
by M. W. Harris
Genre: Fantasy/Sci-Fi
Swearwords: None.
Description: The day old Brad disappeared, did he drown or was he reclaimed by the seal woman?
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It was the special time, after the day’s work was done. The floor was strewn with clean rushes, the animals in their byre and the meal finished. The firelight climbed the walls and made fell shapes against the beams and whitewash. It was the time for stories and we children listened. Old Brad came to the fire. He stirred it with a stick, and then began his tale.
As he spoke we could see demons and kelpies, fairies and princes, all gathered around in the gloom, waiting in the shadows made by the fire. He spoke of days long past and the stories span magic in the long winter evening. There was just the hiss of the fire, the click of the spindle as the women made their thread, and the deep singsong of Brad’s voice. Eventually, growing sleepy, we would roll into our blankets and coorie into each other and doze, with the story keeping time with our breathing until the dreams took us up into the old king’s castle with the faerie princes themselves.
Brad had many stories, he had seen many places, been a fighting man and lived in a real castle with the King, and heard his bards and storytellers. He said that his fighting days were done, and had come looking for a berth, a space to call his own at a lesser hearth. We had been glad of him. He was strong and seemed to know all the ways of the farm, but the best thing was his stories.
He told the old tales, from before the Stewart became king. He told of Wallace, and of how he was betrayed and murdered by the English, and of Bruce and how he saw the spider and tried again. He told tales of fierce Vikings, gentle Columba and of the grey man who walks the high passes in far off Cairn Gorm.
The tale we loved the best was the tale of the farmer who married a seal woman by stealing her skin. As Brad told the story his eyes would gleam in the firelight and grow distant, as if he, himself, could see the fair seal maiden and her beautiful long auburn hair. He said that her hair was past her waist and shone like the sunset on the sea. Her eyes were the green of the deep ocean and her skin the cream of the breakers on the shore.
The farmer had watched the seal people bathing and had seen them slip out of their furry skins and swim in the loch. As they began to climb back into the skins the farmer stole one, and waited for the maiden to look for it. He spoke with her and persuaded her to come back and marry him.
The couple were happy. They had three sons and two daughters. One day the woman was in the house alone, and asked her youngest daughter if she had ever seen her father hide a seal skin in the house. The girl, in all innocence, said that she had seen such a skin in the rafters, and her mother immediately ran to get it. She kissed her child goodbye and joyfully rejoined her kin in the loch. They never saw her again
When Brad finished the story it was late, and the fire had burned low. We stirred and snuggled into our own mothers, secure by the fireside, and slept content in a tale well told.
It was autumn. During the next week we worked the foreshore, collecting seaweed for the fields and shellfish for the pot. Brad led the patient horse, as cart after cart was taken around the whole township. Every night as we sat by the fire the men told tales and the women span.
It was a fine spell, that October. The mornings were smoky and misty. The seal people were around too, calling to us, and to each other. They would haul out onto the shore, but soon slid away if we seemed to be getting too close.
I don’t know where the rumour came from, but after a while we children shouted after Brad, ‘Here’s your woman,’ or ‘Brad the seal man’ every time he came to the shore and the seals were there. He would laugh, and shake his head, but we noticed that he never went near to the water, and began a call of ‘Don’t get your feet wet.’ Still he laughed, instead of hunting us, as any other adult would.
And then came the day that the mist fell heavy. You couldn’t see more than a few yards, and voices echoed from the cliffs as we worked. The cart came down to the beach and we put the first loads onto it. There was space for more, but we needed further afield as the beach was nearly bare by now. The cart couldn’t follow on the rocky foreshore, and was soon lost in the mist.
You know what I’m going to say. We came back to the cart and Brad was missing. Everyone came down and scoured the shoreline, keeping within sight of each other. No matter how we searched, he wasn’t there. All that we could hear was the seals calling and whistling, answering our every shout. In the end I think we were all afraid, and it was a quiet and sorry crowd that surrounded the fire that night.
We searched on and off all week. There was no sign, and in the end a kind of story emerged. It made us feel happier than the thought that he had just fallen into the sea and drowned. And then the winter closed in. Gales lashed the shore and we all huddled by the fire. We missed Brad and his stories but gradually he became part of the stories himself, the man who was reclaimed by the seal woman.
It was a hard winter, and then March came with snow and more gales. It was Easter before there was a let in the weather and then it was everyone to plough and plant. After such a hard winter there was little food, and it was down to the foreshore for cockles and dulse. We children were working our way along when we came upon him. He was there, sleeping, our Brad, curled up on a rock, just looking the same as ever.
We couldn’t believe it at first, and hid. However, curiosity got the better of us, we crept closer and closer, and he woke. As he uncurled we saw a movement from his arms, and there was a babe, wrapped in a seal skin. We badgered him with questions. Where had he been? Who was the babe? Why had he returned?
He turned and looked at us, and a lone tear fell. His mouth moved, but he had no voice. He never spoke again, and the tale of where he had been, and where the child came from we never knew. We raised the Babe, a girl we called Marena. She was as normal and merry as any child, but would never set foot below the line of the high spring tide.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The day old Brad disappeared, did he drown or was he reclaimed by the seal woman?
_____________________________________________________________________
It was the special time, after the day’s work was done. The floor was strewn with clean rushes, the animals in their byre and the meal finished. The firelight climbed the walls and made fell shapes against the beams and whitewash. It was the time for stories and we children listened. Old Brad came to the fire. He stirred it with a stick, and then began his tale.
As he spoke we could see demons and kelpies, fairies and princes, all gathered around in the gloom, waiting in the shadows made by the fire. He spoke of days long past and the stories span magic in the long winter evening. There was just the hiss of the fire, the click of the spindle as the women made their thread, and the deep singsong of Brad’s voice. Eventually, growing sleepy, we would roll into our blankets and coorie into each other and doze, with the story keeping time with our breathing until the dreams took us up into the old king’s castle with the faerie princes themselves.
Brad had many stories, he had seen many places, been a fighting man and lived in a real castle with the King, and heard his bards and storytellers. He said that his fighting days were done, and had come looking for a berth, a space to call his own at a lesser hearth. We had been glad of him. He was strong and seemed to know all the ways of the farm, but the best thing was his stories.
He told the old tales, from before the Stewart became king. He told of Wallace, and of how he was betrayed and murdered by the English, and of Bruce and how he saw the spider and tried again. He told tales of fierce Vikings, gentle Columba and of the grey man who walks the high passes in far off Cairn Gorm.
The tale we loved the best was the tale of the farmer who married a seal woman by stealing her skin. As Brad told the story his eyes would gleam in the firelight and grow distant, as if he, himself, could see the fair seal maiden and her beautiful long auburn hair. He said that her hair was past her waist and shone like the sunset on the sea. Her eyes were the green of the deep ocean and her skin the cream of the breakers on the shore.
The farmer had watched the seal people bathing and had seen them slip out of their furry skins and swim in the loch. As they began to climb back into the skins the farmer stole one, and waited for the maiden to look for it. He spoke with her and persuaded her to come back and marry him.
The couple were happy. They had three sons and two daughters. One day the woman was in the house alone, and asked her youngest daughter if she had ever seen her father hide a seal skin in the house. The girl, in all innocence, said that she had seen such a skin in the rafters, and her mother immediately ran to get it. She kissed her child goodbye and joyfully rejoined her kin in the loch. They never saw her again
When Brad finished the story it was late, and the fire had burned low. We stirred and snuggled into our own mothers, secure by the fireside, and slept content in a tale well told.
It was autumn. During the next week we worked the foreshore, collecting seaweed for the fields and shellfish for the pot. Brad led the patient horse, as cart after cart was taken around the whole township. Every night as we sat by the fire the men told tales and the women span.
It was a fine spell, that October. The mornings were smoky and misty. The seal people were around too, calling to us, and to each other. They would haul out onto the shore, but soon slid away if we seemed to be getting too close.
I don’t know where the rumour came from, but after a while we children shouted after Brad, ‘Here’s your woman,’ or ‘Brad the seal man’ every time he came to the shore and the seals were there. He would laugh, and shake his head, but we noticed that he never went near to the water, and began a call of ‘Don’t get your feet wet.’ Still he laughed, instead of hunting us, as any other adult would.
And then came the day that the mist fell heavy. You couldn’t see more than a few yards, and voices echoed from the cliffs as we worked. The cart came down to the beach and we put the first loads onto it. There was space for more, but we needed further afield as the beach was nearly bare by now. The cart couldn’t follow on the rocky foreshore, and was soon lost in the mist.
You know what I’m going to say. We came back to the cart and Brad was missing. Everyone came down and scoured the shoreline, keeping within sight of each other. No matter how we searched, he wasn’t there. All that we could hear was the seals calling and whistling, answering our every shout. In the end I think we were all afraid, and it was a quiet and sorry crowd that surrounded the fire that night.
We searched on and off all week. There was no sign, and in the end a kind of story emerged. It made us feel happier than the thought that he had just fallen into the sea and drowned. And then the winter closed in. Gales lashed the shore and we all huddled by the fire. We missed Brad and his stories but gradually he became part of the stories himself, the man who was reclaimed by the seal woman.
It was a hard winter, and then March came with snow and more gales. It was Easter before there was a let in the weather and then it was everyone to plough and plant. After such a hard winter there was little food, and it was down to the foreshore for cockles and dulse. We children were working our way along when we came upon him. He was there, sleeping, our Brad, curled up on a rock, just looking the same as ever.
We couldn’t believe it at first, and hid. However, curiosity got the better of us, we crept closer and closer, and he woke. As he uncurled we saw a movement from his arms, and there was a babe, wrapped in a seal skin. We badgered him with questions. Where had he been? Who was the babe? Why had he returned?
He turned and looked at us, and a lone tear fell. His mouth moved, but he had no voice. He never spoke again, and the tale of where he had been, and where the child came from we never knew. We raised the Babe, a girl we called Marena. She was as normal and merry as any child, but would never set foot below the line of the high spring tide.
About the Author
M. W. Harris says she's old enough to know better. Born of mixed Scottish and English parentage in Essex, she's been a resident of Scotland for the last 25 years, currently living on the Firth of Clyde with her long-suffering husband, a teenage daughter and three cats.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.
She has won a number of prizes at the Scottish Association of Writers over the years. She attends the Greenock Writers' Club, without whose constant encouragement she believes she would not be writing now.