together in Glen Coe. “I was reading about Skye last night, and while this was the MacLeod castle, there were a lot of MacDonalds about. Just think, Laura, hundreds of years ago some of your ancestors may have sat on these very rocks looking at those seals’ ancestors.” She opened a sketchbook she’d bought that morning, and brought out a pencil. She looked real pretty that afternoon with the wind ruffling loose tendrils of hair around her face, her cheeks pink as her parka, and her gold eyes dancing at the seals’ antics.
Laura gave a lazy chuckle. “Seals may have been my ancestors. The Scots believe in Selkies—seals who can take off their skins and become human. There’s at least one folk-tale about a seal who married a fisherman and had seven children. Who’s to say her husband and children weren’t MacDonalds?”
“Tell us the story,” I suggested. I knew she’d heard the story from her daddy. Skye MacDonald had loved Scottish fairy tales.
She stretched out her long legs. “Well, once upon a time a fisherman came upon a crowd of Selkies sunning without their pelts. Never had he seen anything so beautiful. Their skin was soft and pale, their eyes bright. And on a nearby rock lay a pile of soft seal pelts. The fisherman thought, ‘If I could have just one of those, I’d be warm forever. If I could get several, I could sell them and buy enough food for the winter.’ So he crept toward the pile of pelts. The Selkies saw him, though, and got there first. He could only grab one before they seized the rest and plunged back into the sea. As he was going back to his house, he heard someone weeping behind him. He turned and saw a beautiful naked woman following him with tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please, give me my pelt,’ she begged. Instead, he took her home and married her. They had seven children, and he was very happy.’ ”
“I’ll bet he was,” I said sourly, “but I’ll also bet the poor Selkie was sad.”
“She was,” Laura agreed. “Although she loved her children, she yearned to return to the sea. One day, when they were alone in the house, the youngest child asked her mother, ‘Why do you weep so, Mother?’ She replied, ‘I am wishing I had a nice sealskin to make you a new winter coat.’ The little girl said, ‘I know where Daddy is hiding one. Up in the rafters of the room where we sleep. Sometimes he creeps up there when he thinks we are sleeping, pulls it down and strokes it. Then he thrusts it back up above the rafter.’ ”
“Poor man,” Dorothy said softly. “He must have loved her very much.”
“He also held her prisoner,” I pointed out, shading my face from the sun.
“There is that,” Laura agreed again, “but he probably knew what would happen, too, if she ever found it. When the Selkie retrieved her pelt, she kissed her child goodbye and ran toward the sea. The last sight the child had of her was as she turned on the shore, waved, and plunged beneath the waves. On lovely days, though, when the children went down to the beach, they would see a large seal riding the waves not too far out. It would lift a flipper while its eyes streamed tears—for seals cry salt tears, just as humans do, and she truly did miss her children.” Her voice sounded a little choked up and her face was turned away. I suspected she was missing her daddy a whole lot right then.
“Well told!” I applauded. “And you’re real normal for somebody with both intermarriage and seals in her ancestry.”
Laura took a mock bow and barked like a seal.
“If you’re going to tour the castle, it’s time to begin,” Joyce called down to us.
Laura got up and brushed the seat of her pants. “You all coming? They’ve got another lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair, and a great dungeon.”
“I’ve been here before and one castle a day is enough,” I told her. “I’ll stay here.”
“And I’d like to draw a bit longer.” Dorothy’s pencil moved
Laura gave a lazy chuckle. “Seals may have been my ancestors. The Scots believe in Selkies—seals who can take off their skins and become human. There’s at least one folk-tale about a seal who married a fisherman and had seven children. Who’s to say her husband and children weren’t MacDonalds?”
“Tell us the story,” I suggested. I knew she’d heard the story from her daddy. Skye MacDonald had loved Scottish fairy tales.
She stretched out her long legs. “Well, once upon a time a fisherman came upon a crowd of Selkies sunning without their pelts. Never had he seen anything so beautiful. Their skin was soft and pale, their eyes bright. And on a nearby rock lay a pile of soft seal pelts. The fisherman thought, ‘If I could have just one of those, I’d be warm forever. If I could get several, I could sell them and buy enough food for the winter.’ So he crept toward the pile of pelts. The Selkies saw him, though, and got there first. He could only grab one before they seized the rest and plunged back into the sea. As he was going back to his house, he heard someone weeping behind him. He turned and saw a beautiful naked woman following him with tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Oh, please, give me my pelt,’ she begged. Instead, he took her home and married her. They had seven children, and he was very happy.’ ”
“I’ll bet he was,” I said sourly, “but I’ll also bet the poor Selkie was sad.”
“She was,” Laura agreed. “Although she loved her children, she yearned to return to the sea. One day, when they were alone in the house, the youngest child asked her mother, ‘Why do you weep so, Mother?’ She replied, ‘I am wishing I had a nice sealskin to make you a new winter coat.’ The little girl said, ‘I know where Daddy is hiding one. Up in the rafters of the room where we sleep. Sometimes he creeps up there when he thinks we are sleeping, pulls it down and strokes it. Then he thrusts it back up above the rafter.’ ”
“Poor man,” Dorothy said softly. “He must have loved her very much.”
“He also held her prisoner,” I pointed out, shading my face from the sun.
“There is that,” Laura agreed again, “but he probably knew what would happen, too, if she ever found it. When the Selkie retrieved her pelt, she kissed her child goodbye and ran toward the sea. The last sight the child had of her was as she turned on the shore, waved, and plunged beneath the waves. On lovely days, though, when the children went down to the beach, they would see a large seal riding the waves not too far out. It would lift a flipper while its eyes streamed tears—for seals cry salt tears, just as humans do, and she truly did miss her children.” Her voice sounded a little choked up and her face was turned away. I suspected she was missing her daddy a whole lot right then.
“Well told!” I applauded. “And you’re real normal for somebody with both intermarriage and seals in her ancestry.”
Laura took a mock bow and barked like a seal.
“If you’re going to tour the castle, it’s time to begin,” Joyce called down to us.
Laura got up and brushed the seat of her pants. “You all coming? They’ve got another lock of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s hair, and a great dungeon.”
“I’ve been here before and one castle a day is enough,” I told her. “I’ll stay here.”
“And I’d like to draw a bit longer.” Dorothy’s pencil moved
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