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From The Sea by © moon_grace Chapter 1 The wind poured his mighty echoes of thunder like great torrents of sound flooding down through the mountain crags. Torrential clouds swept great commotion across the sky on this blackest of cold nights and Noel McArdle was dead. Screamed she did loud and long and the wind whistled piercing across the heather to echo her wails with abandon. And somewhere, on that edge twilight where the shores of mists surround the moon and blend with the rolling tides- he lifted his head from the sea. Lifted his head and listened as she shrieked curses toward the sky at the banshee's wake. The banshee's wail had come riding across the sky and stolen her father who now shifted into the unknown regions of the dead. Wailing she was herself when she cast her eyes back toward the cottage where now her sister flung open the doors and windows- all to make a path to set their father's spirit free. Free to go his journey to the other world. She was unaware of the other in that region who felt not the cold as he slid through icy seas, driven onward by the curses that severed that restless night. Soft brown eyes searched in the darkness as he swam toward shore. Curious.  Recognized the shrill of human suffering and anger, he did as he glided up and down the surf, leaving no wake as he slipped through, over, and under tides. He caught a glimpse. There! On Shore! She stood upon the craggy rocks above flinging still her curses in the moonlight that glowed and dimmed by virtue of rushing clouds that sailed along on the high winds. Pleasing she was to look at and though many human he'd seen and captured, he was ill prepared. Like a strong and mighty net, her beauty captured him in that split second before the clouds obscured the moon's glow plunging them all once more into darkness. Ensnared him and caused a shiver even in his present form. Scarce could he breathe. He drew closer. He was unaware of the sister who had finished opening the doors and windows and now made her way up the craggy path. She did not own words to ease her sibling's soul or her own. Emptiness drove her onward alone till finally she stopped and pulled her cloak more secure. Not desiring to see the opened doors and windows of the cottage or her wailing sister, she cast her eyes upon the sea. She caught glimpse of a pair of reflections in the black water. The clouds drifted unveiling the face of the moon that now cast more brilliant light. In this mid-day glow of Luna, she made out his shape. Only a seal swam along the shore back and forth below. Only a seal swam below in front of where her sister stood grieving upon the highest crags. Mesmerized, she watched then gasped as he came to shore and removed his skin to reveal the shape of a man. Terror clutched her heart and she froze, not daring movement or breath. Yes, she realized. A selkie. She knew of the beings who shifted from seal to human to seal and back- all at will. From childhood, she chanced upon stories whispered in the backs of rooms about men always from other villages or men who were friends of friends who had captured selkie wives and imprisoned them in human form by hiding their sealskins. Mortal men who bed selkie wives who bore children with webbed fingers and toes. Webs that grew back again and again no matter how many times they were clipped. No selkie could return from human to seal without its fur skin. But this was no woman; this one was a man. Where they came from, no one knew. Some said angels fell from heaven and those who landed on earth took the fairy form and those who landed in water became seals. She watched as he gathered the sealskin and lithely made his way across the shore to an oak tree that time had forgotten but wind had not. The wind's rage prevailed across the gnarled oaken branches twisting and cracking off bits here and there until Death had eaten out its wooden insides leaving behind a skeleton of the tree that now cast a monster's shadow on clear nights. Her eyes remained on selkie and tree and she wondered if maybe man was not the only victim to the banshee spirit with long black hair and ghostly wail of the Dead. Even if she had wanted to look away, she could not will herself to do so and her eyes continued transfixed. He placed the skin deep in the hollow there, stepped around its mighty trunk, and disappeared into the darkness. Her sister's own unearthly wailing now became the barely audible sobs of the conquered and with grim resolve, she turned her back to the sea to help her sister walk back to the cottage. No word did she speak of that now concealed in the bowels of the tree or what had disappeared beyond it. Chapter 2 ~To the law and to the testimony: if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them.~ Isaiah 8:20 The Bishop was not a kindly man. He languished in this forsaken and forgotten hole of filthy streets and paupers. It didn’t help that his own deeds had created this miserable state of ffairs. He’d gambled for power, killed for power and lost. Here, he had been sent to live out his remaining term of service. Punishment. The bile welled up bitter in his throat to choke him. Here he would rot and die- both would come in time and it mattered not if the former came before or after the latter. This was rabble he now had charge over and rabble he was expected to glean a living from.  “Not fit for sacraments” he thought, “Sheep. Imbeciles. Their fear makes weak knees and they fall flat on their filthy faces.” He was the law. Not only the law but the power that exercised it. Cruel arrogance reigned victorious over his compassion for Compassion's sake. He was a task master with the unique ability to degrade and destroy. Standing, looking out the window, he reached to slap and claw his arm. Something had bit him.  “Damn this place!“ he muttered. He heard the friar enter his chambers behind him. “You sent for me, my Lord?”  He turned slowly to survey this friar who stood before him. He was young. Young. He hated him in that instant. This “young” friar no doubt believed the masses could be compelled to go to their knees by mere acts of humility.  “Yes, I sent for you” he gruffly replied. “Noel McCardle has died. Send for his daughter to make arrangements for the burial. The toll for death road hasn’t been paid.”  The burial gravesite was at the end of town. Only one road led to it and that road ended in it. No other way in or out. All were obliged to pay the Church its due to bury at the end of corpse road. “I can do that, my Lord, but he was not of the Faith. Doubtless, they'll care for it the old way.” The friar was nervous, waiting to see what would happen next. “Damn it all! Go send for the daughter and bring her to me!” the Bishop snapped. “Very well, your Grace.” The friar turned and made his departure. He picked his way through the garbage of the street onward to the monastery.  He needed provisions for his walk. It would be most of a day's journey to Noel’s home. He didn't look forward to telling the daughters of the price and the Bishop’s plan to bury Noel at the end of Death Road.  He noted the Bishop said, “Daughter.” One. He wondered if it was by omission of purpose or unknown. He’d let it be, for now. His Grace was not a man to upset. He'd seen that earlier in the week. The town had obligingly been gathered and the friar had been among them. It was a public punishment and even friars were not exempt from viewing an object of the Bishop's malice. The day before, a cart had traveled through town a bit too fast splashing mud on His Grace as he walked the streets on his way to Church. He was livid. He yelled inquiring to a man on the other side of the road. He demanded to know who dared drive so carelessly through the town. The man across the road let his eyes drop to the ground. He did not answer. All knew the vicious reputation of the Bishop. He kept his eyes on the ground and muttered, “To be sure, I dinna see who the driver was, Your Grace.”  “Liar!” The Bishop had flown into a blackened rage screaming at the man. He damned his victim's soul for all time for lying to a Representative of the Holy Church. But neither damning of souls nor screaming was enough. The Bishop had tried to cajole and threaten his way to a name. Someone would pay for this injustice. Someone did the next day. The townsmen stood silently as the man was brought out. His back was shoved against a pole and his arms tied round behind him. His head was fastened tight with a strap. A few muffled gasps and tightened fists as a hooded man reached into a fire pit and pulled out a rod that was expertly plunged into the man’s right eye. Silent fists had clenched, but sought no mark. Eyes turned away instead. The Bishop stood smiling. Yes, the friar knew who he dealt with. He began to hasten his step. to be continued...