Hancid's Search

Among the silkies on Sule Skerrie beach there had never been such love as Hancid knew for long-limbed Giersi. On winter's nights, in the quiet cave the folk would gather round to hear again and again the story of their youth together, how he had watched over her as she grew from a chubby little girl-child, rolling and laughing in the shallows, to the tall, grey-eyed woman of the folk. At the Equinox that called Hancid on his first journeying, that first venture that would make him a man among the folk, change him from useless boy to tall hero, Hancid seemed to hang back, and waited a while to watch his lovely Giersi. But she, unhappy and harsh, had made him go. How the folk gasped and shook their heads when the story told of Giersi's venturing: no girl of the folk had dared the long waves alone before. But Giersi had to swim, she wanted nothing mmore than to go to live among the seals. She believed them to be kin of the sea folk, of silkies. When she had gone, Hancid's love for her would not let a day pass without her at the centre of his thoughts. He needed to know that all was well with her, to see her grave face smile, to hear her sing, to feel she was now at peace in her chosen world. But time passed and she remained elusive, hidden among her seals. Year after year Hancid searched, swimming to meet the eternal ice, probing far into land-gripped fjords. Forward and back across the clear northern waters he ventured and his song of loneliness was known to all the creatures. He sang nightly to the puzzled seals who humped irritably away over their rocks, slipping down with a scant splash to the bottom sand, and the peace of their sleeping hollows. He called also to the slanting gulls and petrels as they soared in the air, an arm's length above the dipping waves, and they screamed abusively back. Hancid's love was not understood by the creatures, any more than by his own folk; and as the years lengthened he wandered alone more and more. Winter after winter passed and the folk had no news of him, although his thoughts often turned to them. One summer he lay on placid seas, gazing up into the midnight daylight above him. The skies, clear and blue, shed rays as the clouds shed rain; the air about him rang with the clarity of the light, as if the sun had struck the round blue bowl of the sky and all Creation sang with it. Hancid's mind was dazzled yet disturbed at seeing the sun hang there so hesitantly, swinging above the horizon at a time when, by his own day's rhythm, he should have been sleeping. But in this calm summer solicitude, where air and sea combined to soothe his storm-wrung senses, he lay awake, lapped about by listless tides which gave him no direction, and he was glad to rest in the northern, light-filled peace. The storm which was now passed, had offered a real fear: death had fingered him, rubbed him between finger and thumb; but finding him, it seemed, too small, had flung him back. Hancid now rocked on the sighing breast of ocean and reckoned his relief. Gale-driven seas had caught him too close to shore and he had been scraped too roughly on the weed-bare rocks, his strength ebbing as he struggled free. Barely breathing, in foam-torn wave-tops he had battled to force his way through the towering breakers and reach his down-deep haven under the thundering seas. But wave on wave had battered him back, and the avenging land had reached out for him. Rolled over nether rocks beneath the seas he had lost all sense of uppermost, and swam sternly more than once into the sand when he had searched for air and life. Now, wave-washed, he bathed in light and lost the dread of it all. He knew wonder of a world won from fear. Life was more real after the draining of all terror and he felt firm in his knowledge that he was of the folk. It was his pride to wander the water-ways and set himself directly toward the face of his fate. Men of the sea folk measure their lives upon waves of destruction. A hero knows the value of being when he looks daily into the eye of his ending. Bathed in the blue of the midsummer night, Hancid now recognised every muscle and limb, knew where the nails lay on fingers or toes, realised in his breathing the rhythm of his heartbeat and knew each of these signs as clues to his existence. All this pattern was filling and pulsing to prove his, his, his only, life span. Softly he joyed in it, stretched on the placid sea. Lapped in the storm-drained stillness he recognised, far away, a sound rarely heard near their summer feeding grounds: the long wailing song of a bachelor whale searching for company. The mournful, haunting cry wrenched at Hancid's heart and he turned to swim to the wide bays where he knew the great ones would congregate. Giersi! Giersi! Her name tore at his thoughts, ripping away his peace so that without knowing it he groaned aloud in the water. Searching for control Hancid turned, and taking up the note began to sing his own music of loneliness. Fathoms below, the whale, made curious by the sad song at the surface, rose up from the depths and rested alongside Hancid, his head so close that the silkie could see the barnacles which rested in the folds of flesh at his throat. The warm wet breath of the whale splattered the water all about him, as sweet and clean as salt spring rain. Hancid raised himself against a wave to greet the newcomer, but as he did so the shy giant curved and sank away out of his sight. Gazing down through the clear water Hancid saw him once more, patrolling ten feet down, his long lean back speckled with dappled light from the bright sun-sparked surface. This was the humpback Megapteron, the winged whale, eight times the silkie's length, his great fins crimpled and wrinkled by the parasitic barnacles who gathered there in chill waters. Hancid ducked down again to be close to the warm sides, to feel the stroke of warm flesh once more. Nervous, the whale drew away, circled, closed, and drew away again. Hancid, needing air too soon, rose to the surface and lay there, looking down the blue lines of light to see the submarine sides of the whale glide gracefully by. Again he began to dive, but a flap of the man-wide flukes sent such a rush of water up at him that he bobbed helpless, his head in the air. He tried twice more before the great one gave him leave to move close, then a crusted flipper scoured his shoulders and, turning, a benign eye gazed curiously at him. The whale would know him. Leaning later against the big-winged beast, Hancid cleaned his flanks, picking away the flaccid parasites, taking sea lice from the fleshy grooves around his mouth and eye. Contented, his giant companion rested at the surface, blowing gently, sleeping a little, washed by the passing waves. Hancid had never known such sure ease before. With the strengthening light of day they grew hungry, and Hancid began to look about him. The waters, normally thronged with tiny life, seemed barren, and he was a long way from harbouring rocks. It is customary for silkies to go without food when venturing, but a whale cannot do so. The great ones feed in desperate quantity through the summer, laying down a store for the starving time, the breeding time, in southern waters. In the open seas where Hancid and Megapteron lay, there could be no trawling for plenty, so, like a landsman, the whale laid his traps. While Hancid watched him intently the whale dived down into the dark. Soon a screen of tiny airbubbles began to rise up to the surface. The cylinder of bubbles enclosed krill and tiny fish, trapping them as the whale, mouth agape, rose up the funnel he had made. At the surface he pressed the water from his catch with his tongue, swallowed and turned again. Hancid reached tentatively into the mesh of bubbles and breakfasted with the whale. But the food so cunningly trapped could not be called a meal and Megapteron turned away, such a sense of loss for Hancid! His loneliness was doubled after the peaceful contact he had known with the whale. He pressed through the waves, determined to stay with his companion. All day he kept up the pace, swimming in the whale's wake. From time to time the big-winged creature paused at depth and, stirring the waters with his great flippers, called in song trying to locate others of his kind. Then the solemn pilgrimage began again. Days remained unmarked as the two quartered the northern fjords. Man, the enemy, had scoured the gentle whales out of those waters so now only a lonely few remained. But finally, in a quiet, shallow bay surrounded by low green hills a small family of about a dozen humpbacks responded to the searching cry. Abandoned to desire and delight, Megapteron flung himself into the air, curving sideways to fall back to the surface between walls of spray. Other whales among the group breached in the same way, identifying themselves before the newcomer. Without fear the massive creatures gathered to glide and swim, close and companionable. They all knew the empty seas well enough, and rejoiced that another whale had come to swell their numbers, to build up their strength and identity once more. They ignored Hancid; the silkie was smaller than the smallest of their young, and neither the males or females noticed him. He swam close with their leave, and rested often by their peaceful flanks. He fed, as they did, from the open water and only occasionally searched low cliffs of the land for shelter. When the winds came he would leave the water, since he knew his strength was not sufficient to hold him off the importunate rocks, but in the stormy waters the whales leapt and swam with glee, pitting their giant strength against the storm and enjoying the challenge of waves large enough to turn even their massive sides. When midsummer calm softened the waters, bachelors sought out females to impress with swimming displays, hanging head down, wide tails thrashing up the surface into a creamy foam. When paired, the couples swam lazily side by side, every wave a caress. The great ones love to be stroked, to be gentled, and they often allowed Hancid to groom them in the folded flesh below their jaws where the parasites lodged. Placidly content, the females fed hugely and nursed their young. Infant whales hung close to their mothers' sides or, if she was attracted away to swim among the males, an auntie or nan would mind the child, stroking him and even holding him close with her long, fore-arm flippers. The naughty youngsters caused Hancid to frown as they played restlessly about a quiet mother, sliding over her tail, butting against her blowhole. Yet the patient female suffered it, content, when all was done, merely to hold the boisterous child on her breast at the surface, until he slept. The reluctant sun was staying longer and longer below the horizon and Hancid decided to turn south. An unease among his companions told him that the whales too were readying for the journey, and he planned to swim with them a while more if he could. Unformed thoughts were driving the quiet family, and after false starts, one dawn they moved finally out of the wide bay together. Some were gone quickly, though it was early for their rush south, others hesitated and returned to the haven, but a number remained loosely constrained to travel in contact, calling when out of sight, sometimes breaching to identify their position. Pairs brushed one another as they swam, babies hung close to their mother's sides; together they moved south to find the warmer seas. They swam gracefully for all their bulk, wide flukes swaying upward and down, long slim bodies undulatiing easily through the water. The did not use their power for speed; not until danger threatened. Then it was the whales who were first aware, their hearing so much more acute than Hancid's. Even as he wondered why they were disturbed, he too felt rather than heard that relentless, rushing sound in the water: a hunting orca pack was moving in unison and at speed. As the sound magnified, it became certain that they were tracking the whales. And they never missed. It was the worst possible moment: out in the open sea there were no hiding places. At this season no floating mountains of ice offered sanctuary. With young ones to protect, no use to submerge, they could neither dive the dark depths nor remain long below the surface. The whales silently drew close in their trouble. They blew softly under water in order to spend as little time as possible at the surface and moved with slow deliberation, giving no clues to their position. Yet it was clear that the orcas were getting closer: with relentless intent they rose and fell, curving across the surface together. The clicks of their spying echo-systems peppered the water around the whales: the family was identified, catalogued, condemned. Frantic in distress, Hancid entreated the circling whales. It was time to make an escape, the killers spelt death and could be a danger for him too. Yet he remained with his ponderous companions as they swirled gently about, making no move to save themselves. At last, nerves at screaming pitch, Hancid swam into the circle, and sensed as he did so a tremor, a stiffening of mind and muscle all around him. So, a decision had been reached, and marshalling their young the family turned away. Strong tail thrusts sent Hancid headlong, and though he struggled to rejoin them, in a moment they were gone. With sudden power they had streamed through the waters and were lost to sight. All but one. Megapteron lay unhappily below the surface. His kind eye was turned down and back as if he sought a last glimpse of his loved ones, his great wings drooped uselessly. Then, lifting his head to the surface, he blew, a hollow, dejected sound, and began to swim. He swam heavily into the path of the killer pack. Alarmed, Hancid slid into his position at the whale's bow wave, and turned his face to signal his distress to his gentle friend. Megapteron's eye darkened and drooped down. Do not ask, he seemed to say, this is ordained. With slow strokes the great one drew away towards his fate. Daily in the seas violent death lashes the waters, but it is rare that the victim goes willingly. The big whale's sacrifice was beyond Hancid's understanding, and he followed humbly. If they all swim to escape then only the weakest will be caught. But Megapteron had chosen his own end: this was his love for his own kind. The killers hurtled through the water, tall dorsal fins clear above the surface now. Without hesitation each member of the pack swung into his place. In the open water they circled their prey as he waited at the surface. Some cut off a possible escape into the depths by taking station below him and with a foaming frenzy the attack began. The shining dapper bodies of the predators seemed to butt at the slender sides of Megapteron, then as they drew away, strips of white blubber were revealed, staring pink as blood seeped through. One of the rear guard attacked his tail, fastening on it with vicious interlocking teeth. As they chewed and tore, the gentle beast lost his strength, lost his grace, yet purposefully he continued to draw the pack away from his escaping kindred. The attack went on and Hancid, sickened, tried to turn away. As he did so the hooded, melancholy eye sought his and he knew he must wait for the end. Abruptly as the massacre began it was over. The pack slowed, the flurry in the water subsided, and they turned away. Having eaten their fill they would leave quiet, faithful Megapteron to his lonely death. His flesh was torn in many places by the rough, ripping action of the orcas. Their teeth had torn away his body's covering and life's blood ran from him out of many wounds. His tail, his flippers, his stubby back fin were all mutilated, useless. He wallowed in the water, forty tons of heaving injured flesh. He knew defeat for himself, but his justification was the safety of his kind. In the night, rain fell, icy tears on the tilting sea. Megapteron could hold himself afloat no longer, it was time for him to go. With a quiet sigh, courteous and sad, he relinquished the world he knew and slipped away from Hancid's touch. The waves closed over him, and the kind sea washed away every trace of his ugly end. Hancid, following the custom of his folk, had remained silent at the whale's side, offering only the comfort of his presence, for there are no words that can lighten that parting. Throughout the long watch the silkie had silently held station close to his friend. Now in the empty sea he sang the farewell song, then turned away southward. The sky was overcast, suiting his mood. He had no need of stars: his longing and love for his own folk would bring him home. The search was ended. Giersi, he felt sure, was being hidden from him by the intervening seas. It may be that he would never find her. But among the whales he had learned something which had led him beyond his love. He knew now that he could not swim alone - he too was a part of his people, and without him they were lessened. So Hancid returned at last, to play his part in the survival of the folk.

A Creation Myth

In the beginning the whole world was water, liquid yet still. Below the silent water lay solid rock, earth’s centre, and above the smooth surface of the water lay the air, unmoving. Above the surface of the resting air lay the motionless stars. The whole world waited, lifeless.
Then from his home in the bottomless deeps the lordly whale rose up; Balengorion rose up from his birthplace in the deep and his black back split the shimmering surface, and he blew.
So for the first time the air began to move, drifted here and there by that first breath of life. Then Balengorion curved down again to the dark depths, but as he curved away his tail rose up high above the silent surface and with one stroke of his mighty flukes a wave became. So for the first time the water began to move, driven back and forth by that first stroke of life.
Beneath the rocking waters and the whispering air the whale lay, and the dark of the deeps was no more than the dark of the air above, for there was no light in the world. Then the whale began to sing. Balengorion’s song is a mystery for he sang no words, but as he sang, in answer to his song, so for the first time the Star began to rise, called up into the sky by that first song of life.
In the wonder of that light the seas began to spawn. Swarming life filled the waters, swelled by the power of the new Day Star. First the tiniest specks of living things appeared, then the krill to feed the whale. And the whale still sang and the Day Star shone and the sea creatures grew, and the sea was the womb of all the world.
Out of that womb swam a second star. It was the moon who tore herself free from the solid depths below the waters to swing in the night sky searching for the light. Night after night she curves across the sky in the track of the Day Star. But she has no will to stand beside that light. Her shores are all dead things and in her yearning she calls the earth to join her search. By day and night the land she left tilts at her bidding and in the caves she deserted lie the captive seas.
Out of this catastrophe was all land born, when the seas fled back to fill the empty chasm where once the moon had lain. Since that time we of the sea are ever subjugated to the imperious land.
Yet the Day Star’s light continued to bless sea and land alike, and on the land creatures began to crawl. And the whale still sang and the Day Star shone.
On the dry land began Man to appear, solid and earth born, longing for a sea season; Man the Avenger, aggressive and angry. In the ranks of Man grew Parsid, Protector. At the hand of Man he saw the world perishing; he saw pain and persecution.
Parsid walked on the shore in deep thought; his was the time of decision, of midsummer venturing and the time to know himself. In his mind troubles lay thick as smelt in the sea.
Parsid waited, surrendered to the Day Light. He waited for a silence to show him the way. Then from the deeps he heard the song of Balengorion. The song of the whale was calling him, catching at him, never to return:
‘Come to the deeps, Sire of the Sea Folk, come to the open wave, to the moon tide and the star time. Come with your daughters to the cool wide sea where peace and possession is waiting for you.’
Parsid heard the song and gladly deserted the world of men. Happily he left the earth whose stones had become too hard for him. Parsid, Sire of the Sea Folk, led his family into the waves. So he gave us our freedom: to be the people of the sea.

**********

The Merman of Orford

Is it possible that the Great Silkie of Sule Skerrie is not merely a legend? Is it silkies that the following historic documents are describing?

The earliest sighting of a silkie, at Orford in Suffolk, England, was reported by the chronicler Ralph of Coggeshall in his Chronicum Anglicanum of 1207. He tells how fishermen caught a wild man in their nets off the coast of Suffolk, and showed him to their lord, Sir Bartholomew de Glanville, Constable of the castle of Orford during the reign of Henry II:
‘He was naked and was like a man in all his members. He was covered in hair and had a long shaggy beard. The knight kept him in custody many days and nights, lest he should return to the sea. He eagerly ate whatever was brought to him, whether raw or cooked, but the raw he pressed between his hands until all the juice was expelled. Whether he would not or could not, he did not talk, although oft times hung up by his feet and harshly tortured. Brought into the church, he showed no signs of reverence or belief…. He sought his bed at sunset and always remained there until sunrise.
‘It happened that once they brought him to the harbour and suffered him to go into the sea, strongly guarding him with three lines of nets; but he dived under the nets out into the deep sea, and came up again and again as if in derision of the spectators on the shore. After thus playing about for a long while, he came back of his own free will. But later on, being negligently guarded, he secretly fled back to the sea and was never afterward seen.’

**********

Foraging

‘All waters of the sea together flow
But I, alone, am here with none beside
To watch with me the ebbing of the tide
Nor hear the seabird’s mournful cry ….’

‘A song for Seiglid!’ cried Idranil, as he leapt from the water. ‘Come, you misery. Wake up and join us, we must eat.’ He shook his dripping body, causing the flying drops to spatter Seiglid where he lay on the rock. ‘My nan has a bowl full to the brim and she’ll be distressed if we don’t eat it all. Come on, move, you stone, you solid lump!’
His well-aimed toe shifted Seiglid, who jumped up to find with relief that he could laugh and roar with the best. They ran awkwardly down the rock, wide feet sliding, arms held out for balance.
Feeding is a random thing among the folk but usually follows the tide’s ebb, when the beach has been gleaned and the bowls are full; full of limpets and winkles, of tiny crabs and edible weed. First the little ones are fed, their elders popping the choicest morsels into their groping mouths. Then the oldest grandsires hold out their cupped hands to be filled. The women of the folk eat as best they can, always on the move, with a special care for young mothers with their babies still at their breasts. The sires, the fathers of the sea folk, rarely join this communal feast. They find their food alone, out in the wild waters, although sometimes one would step forward proudly to take the good things offered by his womenfolk. The youngsters, the unproven useless boys, had to take their chances. When there was plenty it was lavished upon them with yearning love for their vulnerable youth, but if there was little to spare they were beaten off and forced to forage for themselves, so they could learn to survive when the testing time of venture came.
Led by Idranil they edged around the group, grinning, a cupped hand held out in hope, and sure enough the bowls were laden and they could have their fill. The afternoon sun warmed the sheltered beach and the folk rested and talked. Young maidens spread out their hair with combs of white bone, little maids at their sides waited to be groomed too. Babies were rocked in old nans’ arms or were crooned over by loving sisters as they lay sleeping in warm nests in the sand. The lazy youths stretched their limbs and their eyes slid often to their heroes.
As the shadows lengthened the tide emptied out of the cove once more and the women wandered away to search the glistening rocks again. Idranil, with Gladrid, lay in the water’s ripple and sway, playing with the little ones who rolled and dived into the curling waves at their feet. One old nan lay on the swell, a baby in her arms, pinching his nose shut whenever the waves broke over them both, laughing at his sneezing splutter, echoing with him the broken wave sounds.
‘Tsh-tsh then, tsh-tshsh, my little one.’ And she sang one of the many lullabies of the folk, her voice warm with love. Babies on the beach were held and surrounded constantly with love; comfy arms cuddled them, gentle fingers stroked them, there were no harsh words: the sea would be their master soon enough.
After a second mealtime, in the long level light of evening, the folk began to settle to sleep. Scratching and yawning, shuffling out familiar sleeping troughs in the soft sand, they muttered the warnings, the old safeguards to keep death, the longest shadow, away.
‘Morning bright to my sight come in flight, end this night.’ Idranil rattled the words away as he always did, shifting and stretching in the comfort of the cave, tumbled among his companions. Ever since they had left their mothers’ sides they had slept like this, limbs tangled together, drawing warmth. Young men of the same year of borning, they waited, some sleepless, for their days of venture.

Vilidorn - who fought the giant squid

Once in a warm sea time there lived a man of the folk, mighty and strong. Vilidorn was his name. His pebble-hard muscles stood out on giant limbs and his proud head stood high on his sturdy neck. Across his massive shoulders, matted with curling hair, his strength moved in rippling show, and knotted ropes of mighty sinew were his arms. Straddled firmly on his powerful legs, feet rooted in the bedded sand, this man was a rock of fortitude and stubborn will.
A hard man was Vilidorn, and proud. He laughed at the trembling efforts of the folk to topple him, and could hold three adversaries at a time to submission beneath the waters. In wrestling and grappling no one was his master. It was said his strength outmatched the very waves.
On days of storm, when mountainous breakers roared, it was his habit to defy the sea: standing motionless in one chosen spot he would shout his challenge, his full beard shaking off the spray, his red mouth laughing. Though the waves burst above his head he would not surrender, only with the dying of the storm would he step aside, kicking the last wavelets beneath his heel. Deriding their weakness he left at last and went to venture on the ocean path, calling his challenge across the deeps.
‘I am Vilidorn, strongest of the sea folk! None can hold me against my will!’
Fish rushed away beneath him. Sea birds cried, raucous, above his head.
‘Be afraid!’ they seemed to say. ‘Beware, for one may come from the darkest cavern of the deep, whose strength you cannot guess!’
Vilidorn sensed the awesome fall beneath him, and he tried in ever farther dives to sound the creatures of the deep with his challenge.
‘I am Vilidorn and you cannot hold me! I do not fear your year-long dark.’
So then the serpent rose to the daylight, its shiny length thrashing the surface, searching for Vilidorn.
The looping body pulsed over Vilidorn’s flesh, huge suckers clung to his skin, and now he felt it draw him down. Around him its many folds throbbed and flailed as Vilidorn braced his legs and arms to force aside the pressing coils. Around his ribs one squeezing circle lay, another turned and knotted about his legs. With panic strength he ripped the slapping tail from his neck and felt the tearing of his own flesh in those thousand sucking mouths. The water clouded before him and through the murk he saw the serpent’s glowing eyes and grasping beak.
With that strength which was once his pride now dying to hollows in his arms and legs yet Vilidorn struggled on to halt his enemy. Blood from his many wounds swirled in the sea about him, like shadowy serpents trailing out his death. And yet he fiercely placed his foot against that hard shell beak, stamped back his heel into a yellowed eye. It was his final thrust and blackness pressed upon him as he felt his last air crushed out of his folded lungs.
And in that moment the grappling coils were torn away and he was freed.
Up! Up to the air again! Helpless as the weakest of the folk, Vilidorn lay on the wave tops savouring life and heard the sea birds cry, joyous, above him and watched the dash of silvered fish below.
‘Be grateful,’ they seemed to say. ‘Thank the friend who came from the deeps to your salvation.’
Then, marked across his huge brow by white craters of torn flesh from the struggle he had won, the massive head of Serbadon, the toothed whale, rose from the waters, and his quiet eye sought out Vilidorn.
‘Know yourself now, Vilidorn of the Sea Folk, and put away your pride.’
‘My life is yours, lord, and in your generosity my only pride,’ replied the weary man. ‘How can I serve you in all the days you have given me?’
‘When your strength returns you may serve me, and you may help my unhappy people: return to your beaches and watch there for my brothers. Alone and melancholy they swim onto the land to end their lives. If you can, with your strength, take them back to the deeps to die in dignity; stay by their side until the last, and try, Vilidorn, to be sure that none of my people shall ever again drift unfriended into that final abyss.’
‘Trust me in this,’ swore Vilidorn.
At that solemn pledge Serbadon sighed heavily and rolled down to the lonely deeps once more.
Then Vilidorn came again to the beach of his borning, silent and understanding, to begin his lifetime duty. So it is to this time still true that no whale will die alone if Sea Folk can be by; for this we owe that great mind in the deeps who once saved proud Vilidorn.

Can silkies help the seals?

Common seal populations around the Orkney and Shetland Islands are shrinking and the cause is not as yet understood. Could it be the result of overcrowded breeding grounds such as two silkies saw many years ago?

The island when at last they reached it lay like a fat woman at low water, hip and shoulders rising roundly from the waves, the waist a low valley between the two. The exhaustion of journey’s end almost overwhelmed Giersi, but Hancid swam on, circling to the eastern beach. Here, as they approached, the damp breeze reached them across the island and the smell of the seals was pressed into nose and mouth, eyes and face.
‘Fagh! Oh Hancid, what is it? Why does it smell so bad?’
‘You’ll see,’ he replied grimly. ‘Come.’
Only stark necessity had forced him to bring her to this place, he hated what he was doing but knew that she had to learn to leave her beloved seals. She must no longer live with them in the gheos but return and live more like a woman of the folk.
They stepped awkwardly up the beach, finding their way between the cows who lay there with their pups. Frequently they were met by an angry hiss as the seals reared up at their approach.
‘Be careful not to go too close,’ murmured Giersi, ‘They like a whole body space clear around them.’
‘Then they haven’t enough room here,’ snapped Hancid stumbling wretchedly as his awkward feet slipped in un-nameable slime and he stubbed himself painfully against stones.
Suddenly a huge bull rose up in front of them, blocking their way. The white hair of his head showed him to be a senior, used to long years of dominating the cows and younger bulls of his beach. With a snarl he loped towards them, bouncing and crashing down the beach.
‘No, no. Be careful!’ screamed Giersi, and lunged towards the rocks at the side of the beach. Hancid stumbled and fled toward the sea where the master bull halted, searching for him with bleary, coated eyes. The beach was now a scene of panic with many cows humping toward the water or striking out with agitated flippers at the press of neighbours too close to their young. Two little pups, white coated, lay crushed in their own blood, where the rush of adults had trampled them.
Looking numbly out to sea, Giersi made out Hancid working his way round to the rocks where she crouched, sobbing at the horror of what she had seen. But he was not finished yet. Cautiously he led her up into the grassland behind the beach. Here, though less crowded, the scene was the same. Cows reared up aggressively as they approached, even snarling and snapping at them. On their guard now for the big bulls the silkies were able to avoid surprising them as they slept and they kept to the higher ground, away from the muddy stream where younger bulls wallowed and eyed the cows. On all sides Hancid pointed to abandoned pups; some were long dead and black flies hung in a visible stench above them. Others, abandoned at birth, lay like helpless infants in soiled and wrinkled bags of fur, too weak to lift their heads, their eyes dulled by dirt and disease. Too many small bodies lay crushed and broken under the awesome weight of adults.
Giersi could walk no further but fell to her knees in the mud and slime of the beaten grass.
‘Why have you brought me here? What do you want to prove?’ she cried. ‘This is not their true life; they are forced to live like this. There is something evil here, Hancid. No creature chooses to be degraded into this. The island is too full. Can they not move to other, cleaner beaches? Hancid, what does this mean?’
‘There are no other beaches, Giersi. Have you never wondered why the folk live as they do, on one sparse rock, when there are oceans all round the world where they might go? There are no more beaches for the people of the sea, the landsmen want them all. And so your precious seals live here for only a short part of the year, angry, aggressive and vicious. Soon they will leave it all and go out into the waters unloving and alone until it all is forced upon them again next year. Stay with the folk, Giersi. They will never abandon you like this poor creature.’ With his foot Hancid stirred the mute body of a day-old pup huddled against a tuft of rank grass for shelter.
The pup’s fur lay in empty rolls along its narrow body, the soft white hair rumpled and damp. At the nudge of Hancid’s foot however it rolled on its side and brushed an agitated flipper at him.
‘This one has some courage left to fight against his fate,’ Giersi smiled through her ready tears. ‘Hancid, let us interfere. He has the right to life, or death with dignity. Let us take him to the gheos and give him a new chance.’
‘He will die, Giersi, he needs to be fed. Without his mother’s milk he will die in a few days. Leave the seals, Giersi, come back to the folk.’
‘You are so sure you are right. Can’t you see that I am right in this? Help me Hancid, we must bring him away, that is the only way that I can forgive you for having brought me to this evil place. Only by saving just one can I bear to think of all the rest. Without this one alive I think I must come here to kill them all, to save them from this disgusting lie, which is never life.’
Alarmed at her violence Hancid began to help her away, afraid at last of what he had begun. Slipping in the disgusting mud they staggered on, then Giersi looked back.
On the slope behind them the little pup, weeping piteously, was slithering along to follow them.
‘Borhaab!’ he cried. ‘Borhaab.’
And she knew that she would take him away. Borhaab would be his name.

**********

Balidur - who was rescued by a bird, a gannet

In the early times, when the seas were warm and the folk lived thick as smelt in the sea, their limbs silver and bronze, then there lived a boy of the folk, Balidur , who was an urchin, full of a fine mischief.
This boy Balidur was sturdy and straight-limbed and his face was open and his eyes full of light. He was a boy, honest and fair in deed, who never knew worry or care, but as a little one grew, close and comforted, strong at his mother’s side. Gentle he was and tender, guiding the steps of little ones but never heeding the words of the old: for within him lived an imp who wanted to laugh at all that he should have held good.
The old ones spoke to Balidur, his nan and the grandsires, saying, ‘Never hurt the birds, our friends. Never give them reason to fear us.’ But at this Balidur laughed:
‘Why would they fear us?’ he asked. ‘The birds can lie on the wind when we are tied to the waves. Let them rather learn to listen to us, who sing daily with more meaning than any bird, who cries his single song on the wind and then it is heard no more.’
So he laughed and would not see what the grandsires wanted to tell him, that we are all equal under the same light. And the nans told him ‘Love all creatures, Balidur, for we are all spawn of the Day Star.’ But he would not heed them, and saw in all the seas only matter for laughter and fun.
On the beach of his borning he came one day upon a large white bird. Afraid and forgotten was that bird, and white in every feather as a flake of snow. But Balidur, full of evil and fun, wanted to spoil the bird and took in his hands black lumps of clay. While the bird looked sadly on him Balidur held firm its feet, and while it could not fly spread black earth upon its wings thinking to make it heavy as he was, to make it cling to land and never more venture over the water. But the bird, staring sadly on him all the while, folded its mud-heavy feathers to flight and lifted away from Balidur, and the beach and from the folk entirely. No one saw it more for the bird knew shame with its mud-dark wings; and fear also, for no longer could he hide when on the snowy wastes of the north.
But Balidur cared nothing for the bird he had harmed in his youth. With his straight limbs and his charm he went on to hurt others, members of the folk, even the maids of his own borning, until none would be his close companion.
‘Leave us!’ said the grandsires. ‘Go now on your venture for here you hurt everyone you touch, and our hearts are made dark by you, just as you darkened the bird in the time of your childhood.’
Then Balidur went venturing, and far he swam and wide, proud in his head and too strong in his heart for any maid of the folk to hold him. So swimming he went due north, to try his pride on the ice.
Cold is the sea of the north waters, cold and hard. Ice fingers hold that sea and stretch out, unforgiving, to capture any who linger after Equinox. Yet Balidur lingered. He had seen no bear, the laughing lights had eluded him as they do so many who venture north in pride. Seals slipped away as he approached, And no birds sang.
At last the narrow grip of winter stretched across the snow, and wind from the Ultimate North scoured its surface. White drops were everywhere: up, down, before and behind, wherever he turned Balidur saw no surface any more, no snow, no sky, no sea. All, all was white.
That whiteness of the Ultimate North is all light. It is every light you ever saw, and it pierces the eyes as a beach grit would, ending all senses. In a cold white blindness Balidur circled, knowing no sense of homeward, lost and alone.
Then came the Bannern, friend of the folk. Flying ahead of him Balidur saw the dark mud wing that he himself had made. But our bird, in spite of all, held no hurt for him. Steady he flew, turning and returning until Balidur set after him. Then steady and slow he led the white-blind boy out of the snow, back to the sea, and gave him again to the waves, his home.
‘Go with the water,’ he whispered to the youth. And Balidur came home. Great the joy at that late return. Full the thanksgiving of mother and sister, thanks to the Bannern, whom none will ever harm again. Remember the Bannern, friend of the folk.

**********