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One morning, we walked to my mother’s friend Mureal’s steading with three large jugs of mead, dried cloves and spices, two loaves of crusty sourdough, and a heavy package of smoked salmon.

We brought our aprons, prepared to spend the day helping cut and preserve meat and vegetables.

Mureal’s husband and her son, Sigurd, were away at the market with our father, so it would be just the women and the young children.

Our spirits were high as we walked the dirt road to their steading through the morning fog.

“This is a lot of mead,” Noirin giggled as she swung a jug in her fingers.

“We can’t show up empty-handed,” Mother said. “Besides, we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?” Noirin asked.

“Mabon, of course!” Mother answered. “Or at least the coming of it, and another successful harvest.”

“But I saw how disappointed Halja looked when you said Sigurd wouldn’t be there,” Noirin chirped.

I felt my face flush hot. “I did not!”

“You did! I saw!” Noirin said.

“No! I don’t even care! Doesn’t matter to me if he’s there or not.” I shoved Noirin’s shoulder, and she laughed.

“Easy, Halja,” Mother chuckled. “It’s alright.

Sigurd is growing up to be a handsome young man.

And love is to be celebrated. Amongst the darkness of this world, it is one of the only bright lights worth celebrating.

” I looked at her, shocked to hear her say such sentimental things, but she was looking down, a flicker of sadness––or perhaps nostalgia––in her eyes.

It was gone a moment later when she looked up and smiled at me.

“Besides, we can all see how he feels about you.”

“Mother! Stop!” But I was smiling at the ground, trying desperately to hide the joy that radiated through me.

∞∞∞

We spent the day at Mureal’s steading, helping in their winter preparations.

On several occasions, I passed the kitchen to hear Mureal and my mother laughing –– a rare thing for my mother it seemed.

I glanced in to see Mureal’s mother, Móraí, stirring the contents of a large cauldron over the fire and chuckling at the conversation of the women working in the kitchen.

I was drawn to the room, wishing to be one of those women who got the jokes, who laughed easily and worked skillfully.

Yet there was work to be done outdoors, so Noirin and I headed outside.

Winter would be here soon, and the chicken coop needed more insulation in the walls.

Irial, one of Mureal’s younger children, brought us scrap wool, the dirty, rough ends that tear out of locks when the wool is picked in preparation to be spun.

These bits were always saved for other uses; nothing went to waste.

Noirin and I made quick work of the chicken coop repairs, packing wool in between the double-layered walls and replacing any of the structure’s loose or broken poles with small lengths of wood.

Smaller log sizes for constructing homes and barns were common in Seonaid.

Saplings and young trees were more flexible than large logs or split boards, and maintained this flexibility when joined properly with small wooden pins.

This helped structures withstand the extreme winds from the coastal storms, as smaller logs could flex both along their lengths and between each pole, rather than breaking apart under the gusts.

By the time we packed away the tools, the light was fading and our stomachs were rumbling.

∞∞∞

“Móraí, tell us a story?” little Irial asked.

Darkness had fallen and we had all found places around the hearth.

The fire glowed and popped. Empty bowls of stew were scattered about the room with the last crumbs of sourdough, the only remnants of a comforting, warm meal.

We were slower to clean up without the men around. No need to rush the last of the chores.

Móraí continued her knitting. She did not look up or speak, but my mother leaned back into her cushioned chair and drew her feet up, looking expectantly at the older woman.

“Aye, a story then,” said Móraí. “But then off to bed! It’s late and I am old.”

The littlest children giggled. Mureal came in from the kitchen and quietly placed a mug of warm spiced mead in my hands with a wink, then settled into her seat.

My mother glanced over at me but made no indication that she cared.

It wasn’t my first mead––far from it––but it felt strange to drink in front of my mother after she and my father had so heavily discouraged it in my younger years.

I sipped from the mug, delighted to enjoy the same treat as the adult women. I supposed I was an adult now. Warmth spread from my center and radiated through me as I drank. I wiggled my toes near the fire.

“There was once a very lonely prince,” Móraí began.

“He was a prince by title, but not by power.

His older brother had inherited all the wealth and rule of the kingdom, and had given him a steading by the sea to stay out of his business.

The young prince ran his steading quite successfully, and year after year he had abundant crops.

“But his prized products were his beautiful fleeces.

He had the finest sheep in the kingdom, and for years his black rams and white ewes had made the softest, most silvery lamb fleeces imaginable.

He sold his fleeces at the market but still had so many of them, and every day he wished he had a beautiful wife to spin him yarn and weave him lovely things from that precious wool.

“But nobody wanted to live on his distant steading. The girls from town all wanted to be closer to the castle, lest they miss out on any balls or parties. And it was dangerous to be so far from others. The winter nights were long, dark, and full of shadowfiends.

“So, the prince grew more and more lonely with each passing day. He would walk along the shore so the sea spray and rain would hide his tears, and he would pray for a wife to come spin his beautiful wool and keep his bed warm.”

Noirin giggled and I felt myself blush slightly, my thoughts flashing to Sigurd.

Móraí continued, “One evening, the prince was walking along the rocky shore when he saw three women. They were dancing and laughing, naked in the sunset. He hid behind some rocks and watched as they danced joyfully in the sea spray. The setting sun lit them all in gold, and the prince was enchanted. He stole closer to them, and that was when he saw three neat bundles of fur sitting on the rocky shore.”

“Their sealskins!” Irial interrupted.

“Yes, child. Their sealskins. The prince then realized that these women were not just women, oh no, they were something special.

These women were selkies. He crept close to them, and snatched one of the sealskins up and hid it away.

But the women saw him, and two of them slipped into their sealskins and transformed into seals! They dove into the sea and were gone.

“But one woman, a beautiful woman, with long black hair and large, dark eyes, was left searching desperately for her sealskin. The prince approached her.

“‘Where is my sealskin?’ she asked.

“‘I have it. It is safe with me,’ the prince answered.

“‘Please, give it to me so I may go home with my sisters,’ the beautiful woman begged.

“But the prince refused, unable to tear his eyes away from her beauty.

“‘Stay with me,’ he said. ‘Stay with me and be my wife. You will be happy here. I have a nice home, and I will keep you safe from the shadows.’

“But the woman shook her head. ‘No, I cannot be your wife.’

“‘Please,’ the prince begged. ‘I am so lonely, and you are so beautiful. Stay with me and be my wife for ten years, and then I will give you your sealskin and let you go.’

“The selkie woman saw that she had no choice, and thus said, ‘I will go with you and be your wife for ten years, and then I will return home.’

“So she went with him to his steading. For years she was his wife, and they ran their home together.

They had a child, a strong and healthy lad, and the woman taught her son of the sea.

She told him the names of the otters, the whales, and the seals, and sang him their songs.

She told him about the kelpies and the naiads too.

“But as time went on, her voice grew dull. Her skin dried and her hair turned brittle. She began to lose her sight, for she had been too long from her home.”

I looked to where my mother sat with her legs drawn in close, her hands wrapped around her warm mug. If she was thinking of her own sealskin cloak, she did not show it. I wondered if this story was more than a story for her, but perhaps a memory.

“On the tenth summer since she had gone with the prince, she asked him for her sealskin back. But the prince grew angry and told her she could not have it.

“‘You would leave us! You would abandon your son and your faithful husband,’ he yelled. ‘A bad wife and mother you would be!’

“‘I do not know if I would leave!’ she argued. ‘But I do know it is my choice to make. I know I must have it.’

“He stormed away, refusing her request. She asked him again and again as the seasons turned until, finally, he gave in.

With tears in his eyes, he brought out the sealskin from where he had hidden it and gave it to his wife.

She embraced him, and then she ran to the sea, pulled it on, and disappeared into the waves.

“But her son saw this and he chased her, crying, begging her to stay.

So she came back to the surface and slipped off her sealskin.

He saw that her eyes were clear, bright, and sparkling, her hair was silky and her skin glowed.

She laughed and scooped her son from the shore, becoming a seal once more and diving with him beneath the waves.

She gave him her breath as they dove, and he met the other seals, his aunts and his grandmother and his grandfather.

He danced with them and listened to their songs.