Free Celtic Shores by Delaney Rhodes

asked Mavis in disbelief at what she just said.
    “Aye, we are sometimes called selkies,” responded Incha, nodding. “Are ye hungry, lass?”
    Mavis nodded but didn’t make a sound. She knew the tales of the selkies, or the seal women, she had heard them all her life. Never once did she ever imagine the stories to be true. “Silly folklore,” her brother Cynbel said. “Just a legend…” But here she was, in a cottage shared by four seal women — and they had saved her life most probably.
    That was the only explanation. That had to be it. The only reason she survived her plunge into the sea. They were with her all along, the whole way. They watched out for her and prodded her on when she grew tired. They guided her to shore and brought her to their home on the Island of Women.
    The island of women! Are they all selkies?
    “Mavis, won’t ye come sit down a bit and eat?” asked Britta. “Ye must be hungry and exhausted. Tell us what happened. Why were you in the sea without a boat on such a day as this? Ye ken it is Samhain, don’t ye?”
    “Samhain!” shouted Mavis. “The wedding, Braeden, Patrick! I must get back to the castle. Now!” she screamed.
    “Hold on,” said Naeyd. “Ye won’t be getting anywhere tonight. The ferry is docked and the soldier’s won’t allow passage until morn.”
    “Until well after midnight,” interjected Britta.
    “But I must!” replied Mavis. “A boy’s life depends on it,” she cried.
    “Well, then,” added Incha. “I should call for Gemma. She’ll know what to do.”

NINE
     
    MacCahan Castle — Northern Ireland
    Parkin MacCahan, younger brother to Patrick and middle son of Breacan MacCahan, hovered over the lifeless body of Isadore McDougal and wept. Wild tears that left him hollow and spent, poured down his sun-kissed cheeks in crashing waves of passion. In all his twenty-three summers, his father never once witnessed such a display of passion from his impertinent middle son.
    “Mayhap he is truly saddened?” whispered Airard into Breacan’s ear, disbelievingly.
    “I doubt that very seriously,” retorted Breacan and walked towards the door to the chamber. “Parkin, meet me in me chambers before the noon meal. There is much to discuss.”
    Parkin looked up from his position at Isadore’s bedside and nodded his acknowledgment, wiping away tears with the back of his hand and turning even more theatrical, evidently for his father’s sake.
    “I wonder when that boy will ever grow up,” snorted Breacan angrily.
    “What do you mean, me Lord?” asked Airard. “He appears to be mightily affected by Isadore’s demise. Does that no’ show promise?”
    “Dinna let him fool ye, old mon,” snorted Breacan. “He is just worried now that he has a motherless babe to deal with. Isadore had no family and someone must care for Winnie since her mam has passed.”
    “Aye—Winnie. I hadn’t thought of that. When Isadore came down with the fever, I didn’t think what would become of the toddler should she no’ make it through,” replied Airard. “’Tis a most unfortunate situation, most unfortunate indeed. Where is Winnie now?” he asked.
    “She’s with her elder brathair, Macklin. They are waiting in me chambers. How can I tell a boy of only fourteen summers that his mam has passed and he and his young seesta have no one to care for them?”
    Airard shook his head and continued forward down the path from the sick-house to the castle, walking beside his oldest friend and Laird of the MacCahan clan.
    The smell of roast venison met them from behind the kitchens, and a school of laundry ladies passed them to the right, bustling about with buckets of splashing water and baskets of soiled linens. It was midday at the keep and everyone was going about their business.
    Life was almost back to normal; considering that the floods subsided a few weeks before and the ground was nearly completely dry since the storms let up. Nearly eight new cottages were erected