The Sealbone Knife

By Daniel J. Bishop

The full moon hung upon the horizon, and the sea knew it. The sun rode low and dim, the brightest stars pinpricked the sky, and the waves tossed the coracle with the steady rhythm of a new mother rocking her child. Within the wood-and-skin boat, father and son worked to haul their nets from the cold water. The man worked with the calm, economical motions of a seasoned fisherman. The boy was full of sudden stops and starts--it was his birthday, and he wanted to hurry shoreward where he expected something was being made ready.

The coracle was nearly empty. The man finished hauling, and added his paltry catch to the small pile of fish at their feet.

"Sit back, my lad, and rock not the frame," he said at last, when both nets were empty. "Hold ye still. Mark ye the first full moon of spring, just coming o'er the horizon? The sea'll not give of her bounty today."

"There are seals, Papa," the boy said. He pointed towards a cluster of dark heads, bobbing amid the waves. There were many who lived along Fabraich Harbor who kept harpoons in their coracles. "Ian says they drive the fish away."

"Aye, lad, as his Dad taught him to say," Father replied. "And the Old Douglas up north-away will tell ye his brother was drowned when but half thy years, and wore the sealskin thereafter. There are seals enough in these waters, I dare say--but thee and thine are not sealing-men. No taste of seal, meat nor hide, has passed our lips for five generations gone. Thou hast kept the forbidding in this?"

"Iseabail says there is no harm in it."

"Hast thou kept the forbidding?"

"Aye, Papa, I have, though I don't know the why of it."

Father leaned forward. "Iseabail is a bonny lass, my lad, but if ever ye leap the broom together, she must keep the forbidding, too. The whole of the world is like enough to the sea, my lad--rocks that jut up miles away may be connected deep beneath the surface. Where there may be no harm for one, great harm may lie await for another. I have not told thee before why we harm no seals, for thou wert not of an age for it, till now, with thy birthday moon rising. There be a tale in it, a tale old in my Grand-dad's day. If thou will abide, and rock not the frame, I will tell it to thee."

"I will, Papa."

"Aye, then. This be a tale of long ago, but also a tale of thy family. If thou listens well, perhaps ye shall find it also a tale of thee." Father fished his long-stemmed pipe from his tobacco pouch. He filled it methodically, and struck a spark. When the sweet smoke began to curl, he took a deep breath, and from that breath began to speak.

This be a tale of long ago, (Father began) before the Isles of Hak sank into the deep. The Great Ice, of which thou hast heard but never seen, was closer then as well--there wert walruses as south as Malmont, it be told. Mountains of the sea wert bound in the Great Ice, so that the sea herself rode lower, and Fogwell was no island itself in those days. All the Scattered Teeth were one land, whose valleys sleep beneath the sea now, keeping company with the dead priests of Hak.

Seals made rookeries on the rock shoals beneath Fogwell's towering cliffs, and one night in that long ago, when the stars were as bright and thick as the seals themselves, a Seal Man came to the hut where my Grand-dad's Great Da lived alone. It is not a sealing-man I am meaning now, mind thee, but a Seal Man for sure, one that wore the seal's skin beneath the waves. Now, ye should know that Branmuid--for by the name of Branmuid thy far-off kinsman was known--he was as mighty a sealing-man as ever held a harpoon. He sold sealskins and seal meat over a wide stretch of the isles. Where he sailed men knew his name, for his reputation flew ever ahead of him with the gossip of the gulls.

Then as now, in the spring seals came ashore to raise their pups. Of an early summer day a man could walk with club or knife and make a handful of silver from their young pelts. Now Branmuid, he had been hunting young seals that morning, but his hunt had gone foul, and his mood now wert fouler still. A huge bull seal had come upon him of a sudden, to drive him from the rookery. The big seals, they'll protect their own. And though Branmuid was unharmed, save in his pride, he had lost a cherished knife in the great seal's shoulder. That knife's blade was sharp and fine, having been handed to Branmuid by his Dad, and his Grand-dad before that. The hilt wert carved of sealbone, with cunning runes and signs to protect a sailing man from the changing sea.

Deep into his third cup the dogs began to bark, and on the fourth they began to howl. I have seen strong men start as babes when the dogs begin to howl unlooked-for. Aye, fear of the Good Neighbors unmans us all. But Branmuid wert a stern man and a proud man, and he was the very Jason when the drink was in him. He grabbed the dogs by their napes and threw them out into the night.

The fire was low in the hearth when the Seal Man came, dressed in the false seeming of a merchant, for he had taken a man's form upon the land. Dogs be the friends of men, for they know the Good Folk by their smell, and the false from the true. But the dogs were gone when the Seal Man came a-pounding on Branmuid's door, and Branmuid, though sore from his loss, bid him enter.

The Seal Man's eyes should have told Branmuid a tale, for they were a seal's liquid brown, which speaks forever of sadness, though they be framed by the gayest of faces. Yet these were living eyes, and Branmuid knew dead eyes the best.

By and by, through cups of golden mead and honeyed speech, the hours passed between them and the dark time came when the world trembles between one day and the next. Branmuid's head was tired from more drink and less sleep, and his soul filled by the Seal Man's talk of Branmuid's own great fame in seal-hunting. Word by word and drop by drop, the merchant brought Branmuid out of his own dark thoughts. He then made Branmuid this offer: a sack of gold for three hundred of the finest seal pelts, wanted to make cloaks for the rich folk of Thale. None but the Isles-famed Branmuid could harvest the seals needed within the time allotted--or so the merchant claimed, and gold was no more common then than now. What could Branmuid do but agree?

"I'd not have gone," the boy said. "No? And thou so eager for the hunt but a short while back? Mind, lad, also, that it be not always so simple to tell neighbor from Good Neighbor. Those People have their own ways. A man might join in their singing and think nothing amiss, until the sunlight falls upon him and the clouds in his mind fall away. Even then, he may recall it as a dream dimly remembered, or a longing in his heart that naught may ease."

Father looked away, toward the rising moon. The boy wondered what lost dreams clouded his father's heart. His father suddenly became strange to him, and the boy wanted to be young enough to creep into his father's arms again, as he had done when he was eight.

"Is it all true though, Papa? Iseabail says the Good Folk are moonlight and men's fancies, and nothing more. Are there Seal People for true?"

Father gestured out toward the darkening water. "Ask them." Floating in the waves, the seals had come close, forming a loose ring around the coracle. There they floated, watching and listening. The boy startled, rising in the boat so that it rocked violently. "Sit, lad!" Father said. "Sit!" He watched his son, still standing, until the fear on his face turned to wonder. There had been those, in generations passed, who had eaten the forbidden flesh, or had been unable to master their fear. The sea had kept those. Though it pained him, Father had known his duty if the lad had failed this test. There was always a price with magic. In this case, it was a blood price. "They'll bring no harm to thee," he said softly. "My tale ends well, and ye shall see why we keep the forbidding."

The boy lowered himself back into the frame, and the coracle stabilized.

"Few are shown the paths that run behind the world. If ever the chance comes to thee, lad, follow that path wherever it may lead thee. It will change thee, my son, but ye'll live despite what changes may come. Regret is worse--it is the Devil itself."

"A man should be bold, but not over-bold," the boy said, quoting the Old Douglas.

"Aye, lad, that he should be."

"And the seals, Papa? What of them?"

"They know already, lad. They know already."

It was still dark when the Seal Man asked Branmuid to show him the rookery where he would conduct his hunt. They made their way in the darkness to the Fogwell cliffs. It wert a path Branmuid knew well enough to walk by moonlight without fear. But atop the cliff the Seal Man said the seals were too far down to see in the dark. 'Twas false, for the Seal People can see like a cat in the night, but Branmuid was not knowing this. They came down the cliffs and neared the rookery, but again the false merchant was not satisfied. And so the Seal Man led Branmuid, by and by, nearer to the salty waves, till at last he grabbed Branmuid from behind, and pulled him into the sea.

Great was Branmuid's fear and surprise. He was pulled down into the wet dark, and cold water filled his lungs. He thrashed and fought, but found that he could breath beneath the salty foam as no true seal can. The Seal Man held Branmuid tighter as he fought, and together their skins shifted until they wore the likeness of gray seals. Branmuid's fear grew then, for at last he knew he was caught by the Seal Folk.

Now it was Branmuid who held fast to the Seal Man as the traveled under the sea. Branmuid did not know how to swim in the seal body. He thought of those who hunt seals with sharp harpoons of bone and wood, and how easily they could take him as he floundered trying to swim.

Beneath the wrack were fairy caves of airy crystal. The walls shown with a faint gold-green hue, like sunlight dappled in the orchard. They came to a dry place, and once again Branmuid found himself in human form. The Seal Man stood beside him, clothed in dry cloth for all their travels in the water.

"Fear not," the Seal Man said, "for, if thou aid us, thou shalt come to no harm." He aided Branmuid to rise, then led him into the caves. Though Branmuid wert afraid to his mortal soul, he rose and followed through long passages and halls. Like as not they cross under all Fogwell Island, and the Seal People dance at night beneath our beds as we sleep. But there was no dancing there that day. A thousand thousand of the Seal Folk dwelt therein, some in the shape of seals, others in human likeness, and still others half one way and half the other. They are a handsome folk, yet that day a great sadness was upon them. Everywhere liquid eyes of sorrow watched Branmuid. The caverns wert silent, for the Seal People held their breath at his passing.

So great was the mantle of sadness upon that people, that at last Branmuid forbore silence and asked the occasion of their woe.

"'Tis my father, a great Lord and King of all these folk," the Seal Man replied. "He today was wounded in battle while holding Court on the rock shoals above."

Branmuid trembled. He remembered the great bull seal what had charged him that morning upon the beach, and guessed seal and King to be one. Indeed, they came upon a chamber decked like a great palace of our world, filled with the treasures of a hundred foundered ships and cunning fairy carvings in driftwood and whalebone. Here the Seal King lay wounded upon a golden couch. Branmuid knew the knife held fast in the King's shoulder to be his own, for he had often held that knife's sealbone hilt, and had often wetted the blade with fresh seal's blood.

The High Lords and Ladies of the Seal Folk, who stood gathered around their fallen Lord, ceased their weeping at Branmuid's arrival. They turned and watched him with expectant eyes.

And in that moment, Branmuid--who had been mighty and proud, fierce and hard as a priest of Hak--felt their sorrow stir his heart. Or their sorrow and his fear, more like. He fell upon is knees and begged of them forgiveness. "Please," he said. "Though I have hunted thee, I have never heeded tales of thy Folk, that thou could take human form and likeness, or have thoughts and emotions as men. Those were tales I thought fitting for old wives and young children. Never would I have harmed thee had I known, and a thousand times I cry thee pardon!"

Then the Seal Man, who was a great prince among that people, placed one hand upon Branmuid's shoulder. "We eat fish, and do not consider it unjust," said he. "Hunting and eating, death and rebirth, be as much of the sea as of the land." The Prince then bid Branmuid rise. "That knife which wert thine is warded with ancient signs, and runes of great magic. It can only be withdrawn by he who placed it in flesh, and that wound can only by healed by thine own goodwill." The Seal People would forgive Branmuid his transgressions if he would venture to heal their stricken King.

"Gladly would I do so," Branmuid said. He moved to the golden couch and pulled the knife from the great Lord's shoulder. Then, as told by the Prince, he asked forgiveness of the King and kissed the gaping wound, which closed beneath his lips so that the King's breathing steadies and his skin grew hale.

As word spread of the cure, so did the sounds of joy in the fairy caverns. Huge kegs of wine were rolled into the chamber, and there was a general cheer. Branmuid drank nothing and ate less. He had often been told that eating fairy food or drinking fairy wine enthralled one to their power, and with at least a portion of the old tales proved, he would take no chances. The King rose and said to him: "Thou hast done a good turn this day, Branmuid son of Ceneward. The blood of the past be washed clean. But how can We release thee, when thou would return to thy craft, to the great detriment of Our people?"

Branmuid saw then that the Seal King meant to keep him a prisoner beneath the sea, to live alone as the only mortal man in the fairy caves. He cast about with a desperate eye. Seeing the many fair women of the Seal Folk--and there wert many who would make even thy bonny Iseabail pale by comparison--he floundered in his resolve. It was only remembrances of the fiends and kin he would need leave behind that steeled him in his resolve.

"Oh great King," he cried. "What honor for Thee is there in so keeping me here? Rather let me return to my own world, and never again will I harm one of Thy people. They shall be as brothers unto me, and Thou shalt have my blood oath upon it."

No sooner said that done. Branmuid pricked his arm with the sealbone knife, so that his blood flowed upon the ground. Now, this also Branmuid knew from the tales of old wives and young mothers: mortal blood is especially powerful, and sought after by all the Good Neighbors. Just as fairy blood can bring the gift of Sight to mortal man, so mortal blood may bring strange gifts to those Folk.

The Seal King looked upon Branmuid with pleasure. "In this then," he said, "We shall be as one." He opened a wound in his own arm and clasped Branmuid close, that their blood might mingle. "When thou art again above the waves, see that ye purchase a fishing vessel, and should thou never bring harm to Our Folk again, ever shall We drive the fish into thy nets."

So the forbidding began, and so it has been kept from then till now. Branmuid gave up hunting seals. Because he had kept his word, the Seal People kept theirs as well. He came to be known as the greatest fisherman in the Isles. Of his catch, he always gave a third to the poor. A third he kept. The remainder he shared with the peoples of the Land and the Sea, so that he became a friend to a great many living creatures.

That day, Branmuid also gave the sealbone knife to the King, for he said he would need it no longer. The King, who now owned the magical knife by which they mingled their blood, asked of Branmuid his pardon, and took Branmuid's wounded arm to his lips so that it might be healed--but also so that he could further partake of Branmuid's potent blood.

The Seal Prince led him out of the caves and back to the sea, where he again took a seal's form before returning to his own shore. Though Branmuid's fear was less, and he clutched less closely, he was not to know the joy of long frolicking in seal form beneath the green sea. Truth be told, Branmuid was a poor swimmer even in the shape he was born to.

They dropped the seal's shape again upon the rocky shore near the seal rookery. Branmuid looked out over the ocean, and thought of all that had happened beneath the sea. "It be an odd tale I have wandered into," he said, "and one that will be little believed, should I tell it."

"Thou hast done wondrous well at sitting still."

Father leaned to one side, and emptied his pipe into the sea. The water was calm enough now, and the seals were gone. They had slipped away while Father spoke, and the boy did not see them go.

"Some tales are best told to kin alone," Father said softly. "Who else would believe so fantastic a story? Remember, my lad, that you be of the family of Branmuid, and that thou hast seen the seals listening within this very harbor, for it is their story, too. Yet I can see that thou find this tale a difficult dainty to swallow. For this reason we have kept silent these many generations, telling our children this tale only when they judged them old enough to understand, and to keep the silence themselves."

The boy thought about his Aunt Alison, who Ian said had a gift of fairy speech. He had seen her talking to the seals upon the beach, and knew she believed they talked back, though Iseabail scoffed. He considered, then nodded. He could see that his father was serious, and that his tale might be true.

"What happened to Branmuid?" he asked.

"In time, a Seal Woman bride took Branmuid to husband. Their second son was your Great, Great Grandda's father. But they belong to other tales. We will harm no seals, for the Seal People be our kin. Come, my lad, the hour of our return has come." He pointed toward the beach, where scattered fires lit portions of the sand. Black shapes cavorted in sea and on shore alike. "See you there, where the seals be coming ashore? Thou hast cousins and uncles and godparents who have watched thee often, though thou knew it not."

Father reached across the coracle, and clasped his son's shoulders. "I am proud of thee, lad, and the man thou art growing into." It was not the fierce hug that the boy had wanted, but it was close enough. Father's fingers tightened, then withdrew. Together they lay shoulder to the oars, hastening landward, where dancing and merriment and feasting awaited.