Chapter Five

Riona the Brave

Grandmam’s granite-gray pelt blended in with the rocks, so her three white spots floated ahead of me like little moons. She found a place to her liking and lay down long, the surf lapping her tail.

“I’ve brought back some wonderful new stories,” she said. “Do you want to hear how Cormac outwitted the whale?”

I stretched out beside her. “Tell me Riona the Brave.”

“But you’ve heard that a hundred times!”

“It’s my favorite.” I shifted so my head rested on her side. “And it’s why we go on the long journey, right? Because of Riona?”

“It is indeed,” she said, giving in.

She closed her eyes to summon the story. I could feel it gathering in the air. A gull poking around in the seaweed must have felt it, too, because it raised its head to stare, then strutted over. “Story?” it asked, plunking down beside me.

Seabirds and selkies don’t speak each other’s languages—there are so many, since each kind of seabird has its own—but we can communicate in a very simple pidgin called birdtalk.

“In selkie talk,” I chirped, but the gull stayed anyway.

When Grandmam next spoke, it was in her deep, rich, story voice.

“Long ago, on the old shores, there lived a selkie pup named Riona. Her clan had always hauled out on the Skellig Islands, a long swim from the mainland. The waters teemed with fish, and the skies were aflutter with orange-beaked puffins and gray guillemots. Best of all, there were no humans anywhere near.

“Then one day a coracle crested the horizon. It landed on Big Skellig and men in brown robes clambered out. They trudged to the top of the peak and built round stone huts. They kept to themselves, singing strange songs of worship to their god, and they posed no danger.

“But other men, greedy men, came in their wake. Their boats dragged huge tangles of rope called nets. Those gaping maws gulp down everything in their path. Turtle, dolphin, seal—edible or no, nets don’t care. Death itself is woven into every strand. Riona’s mam warned her time and time again, ‘Don’t you ever, ever go near a net! They’ll swerve around, and snatch you up, and bind you till you drown.’

“Now, one evening Riona was chasing a dolphin and lost track of time. When she finally swam back, her mam cried out, ‘You thoughtless pup! I was so worried, the chief himself went out looking for you. Won’t he give you a piece of his mind when he returns!’

“Riona curled up small on the rocks, dreading her scolding. But the Moon rose, and the Moon set, and still the chief hadn’t returned. A different kind of dread now filled Riona’s heart. The clan gathered on shore, staring silently into the darkness. When dawn broke, cold and bitter, they swam out in all directions, searching.

“Riona swam to Big Skellig and along the coast. She rounded the point.

“There swam a great, black boat, a laden net sagging from its side. Two men grunted as they struggled to heave it up. Oh, it was a terrible sight—fish thrashing, gills gaping. But most terrible of all was the still, gray weight hanging at its center. The body of the chief, unmoving in death.

“The humans jerked the net higher, and one of them crowed, ‘I’ll have me a fine sealskin coat this winter!’

“The words stabbed Riona like a shark’s teeth. The chief would never have neared the net had he not been looking for her. A shift in the current, a sudden swerve—it caught him and held him under till he drowned.

“Riona sank beneath the waves. Her heart was a stone dragging her down to the depths of the sea. Past the last hint of sun she sank, past the last fish, into total darkness. She wanted to die.

“And then a silver light blinded her and a voice spoke. It was the Moon. ‘’Twas the humans’ net that killed your chief, not you,’ she said. ‘Will you let this evil bring your death, too? Or will you live to fight for your folk?’

“The blinding light shifted. Now Riona saw a band of selkies braving unknown seas in search of a new home. At their head swam a pup. Riona.

“I can’t, she thought.

“‘You must,’ said the Moon. ‘Your folk need you. Your journey awaits.’

“Then Riona was atop the waves again. Gathering all her courage, she swam back to her clan. She told them about the chief, and they mourned. Then she told them of her vision. Many doubted her. They clung to the past; they feared the unknown. They said she was only a pup. But a small group heard the Moon’s strength in her voice. ‘We will go if you lead,’ they said.

“Through the wild-storm winter they swam, riding strange currents, snatching moments of sleep in the waves. Finally they came to a cluster of islands scattered like bright stones in the sea, with many a cove and nary a boat. The waters were rich with salmon and herring, haddock and smelt. One island was as like to Big Skellig as could be, with a peak that pierced the clouds. They named it the Spire.

“That clan became many clans, spread up and down the coast of this new world. Now each year we undertake the long journey to remember Riona and the courage she found to swim off into the unknown, in search of a place where we can thrive. A place we can call home.”

Grandmam’s voice stilled, and she gazed across the waves. “Now the humans are here, too,” she said, slowly shaking her head. And she whispered the old rhyme:

        “Beware the ship, beware the net,

        Beware the black gun in his hand.

        He’ll take you for your oil, your pelt.

        He will, because he’s man.”