he mythological origin of the selkie folk is not clear - some said that they were fallen angels who were condemned to become seals while others said that they were once human beings who, for some grave misdemeanour were doomed to assume the form of a seal and live out the rest of their days in the sea.

"When angels fell, some fell on the land, some on the sea. The former are the faeries and the latter were often said to be the seals."
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Seals (or selkies, to use the Orcadian word) are a very common sight in Orkney. Heads bobbing above the waves watching inquisitively with uncannily human eyes, it is not hard to see how the legends surrounding the selkie-folk sprang into life.

The islands have numerous stories relating to the selkie-folk. Unlike the Fin-Folk, the selkie-folk were not malicious creatures but rather gentle shape shifters with the ability to transform from seals into beautiful, lithe humans. There was no agreement as to how often the selkie's could perform the transformation - in some tales it is once a year, usually on Midsummer's Eve (referred to as Johnsmas Eve), whereas in others it was "every ninth night" or "every seventh stream". However often they transformed, folklore tells us that once in human form the selkie-folk would dance merrily on the moonlit seashore or bask on sun drenched island rocks.

It was common belief that when the selkie-folk assumed human form, they shed their seal skins. Then, if for any reason they lost their skins, they were unable to change back and were trapped in human form. Needless to say, the when in human form the selkie-folk guarded their skins carefully - if they were disturbed during one of their midnight dances, they would quickly snatch up their skins and rush back to the safety of the sea.

The male members among the selkie folk were thought to have had many encounters with human females, married and unmarried. A selkie man in human form was a handsome creature with almost magical seductive powers over mortal women. These selkie-men had no qualms in shedding their skins, hiding them carefully, and heading inland, sought illicit intercourse with an "unsatisfied woman".

Should any mortal woman wish to make contact with a selkie-man, it was common belief that the woman need simply shed seven tears into the sea at high tide.

If the selkie-men were attractive in the eyes of earth-born women, the selkie females were no less alluring to the eyes of the island men. A common theme in the selkie folklore are the tales of young Orcadian men who either trick or steal a selkie-girl's seal skin thereby preventing her from returning to the sea. These cunning individuals would then force the beautiful maiden to marry them, very often eventually siring children. The tales usually end sadly however, with the selkie woman's children returning her skin to her so that she may return to her home in the sea. Very often in these tales she would take her children with her. The story of the Goodman of Wastness is typical of one such tale.

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The island of Suleskerry lies due west of the Orkney mainland, about 37 miles away from Marwick Head in Birsay. The island is very small - about half a mile long and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide.There was formerly an important seal fishery on Suleskerry, shared by Orkney and Scottish Mainland county of Sutherland. Suleskerry is uninhabited.

The Ballad of the Great Selkie of Sule Skerry (or Grey Selkie of Sule Skerry as it is also known) was first noted down in 1938 by one Dr Otto Andersson, who had heard it sung by Mr. John Sinclair on the island of Flotta. Some of the verses of the ballad are still remembered within the islands but the tune was very nearly lost. As with all folk ballads there are various versions. Tree variations are shown here:
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Silkie
(as sung by Joan Baez)

Child #113
"The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry" is one of
numerous tales of the Silkies, or seafolk,
known to the inhabitants of the Orkney Islands
and the Hebrides. These enchanted creatures
dwell in the depth of the sea, occasionally
doffing their seal skins to pass on land as
mortal men. Legend has it that they then
accept human partners, and some families
on the islands actually trace their ancestry to
such marriages. In more complete versions
of the ballad, the Silkie's forecast of the
death of himself and his son eventually
come to pass. The tune is by Dr. James Waters
of Columbia University. From "British Ballads
and Folk Songs from the Joan Baez Songbook."

I heard a mother lull her bairn,
and aye she rocked, and aye she sang.
She took so hard upon the verse
that the heart within her body rang.

"O, cradle row, and cradle go,
and aye sleep well, my bairn within;
I ken not who thy father is,
nor yet the land that he dwells in."

And up then spake a grey selchie
as aye he woke her from her sleep,
"I'll tell where thy bairn's father is:
he's sittin' close by thy bed feet.

"I am a man upon the land;
I am a selchie on the sea,
and when I'm far frae ev'ry strand,
my dwelling is in Sule Skerry.

"And foster well my wee young son,
aye for a twal'month and a day,
and when that twal'month's fairly done,
I'll come and pay the nourice fee."

And when that weary twal'month gaed,
he's come tae pay the nourice fee;
he had ae coffer fu' o' gowd,
and anither fu' o'the white money.

"Upon the skerry is thy son;
upon the skerry lieth he.
Sin thou would see thine ain young son,
now is the time tae speak wi' he."

"But how shall I my young son know
when thou ha' ta'en him far frae me?"
"The one who wears the chain o' gowd,
`mang a' the selchies shall be he.

"And thou will get a hunter good,
and a richt fine hunter I'm sure he'll be;
and the first ae shot that e'er he shoots
will kill baith my young son and me."

In Norway land there lived a maid,
'Hush bee loo lillie' this maid began;
'I know not where my baby's father is,
Whether by land or sea he does travel in.'

It happened on a certain day
When this fair lady fell fast asleep,
That in cam' a good greay selchie
And set him down at her bed feet,

Sayin' 'Awak, awak, my pretty maid,
For oh, how sound as thou dost sleep!
An' I'll tell thee where thy baby's father is-
He's sittin' close at thy bed feet!'

'I pray, come tell to me thy name,
Oh, tell me where does thy dwelling be?'
'My name it is good Hein Mailer
An' I earn my livin' oot o' the sea.

I am a man upo' the land,
I am a selchie in the sea,
And when I'm far frae every strand
My dwellin' is in Sule Skerrie.'

'Alas, alas, this woeful fate!-
This weary fate that's been laid for me,
That a man should come from the Wast o' Hoy
To the Norway lands to have a bairn wi' me!'

'My dear, I'll wed thee with a ring,
With a ring, my dear, I'll wed with thee.'
'Thoo may go wed thee weddens wi' whom thoo wilt,
For I'm sure thoo'll never wed none wi' me!'

'Thoo wilt nurse my little wee son
For seven long years upo' thy knee,
An' at the end o' seven long years
I'll come back and pay the norish fee.'

Now he had ta'en a purse of guld
And he has put it upon her knee,
Saying 'Gi'e to me my little young son,
And take thee up thy nourrice fee.'

She says 'My dear, I'll wed thee wi' a ring,
Wi' a ring, my dear, I'll wed wi' thee!'
Thoo may go wed these [thee's] weddens wi' whom thoo wilt,
For I'm sure thoo'll never wed none wi' me!

But I'll put a gold chain around his neck
An' a gey good gold chain it'll be,
That if ever he comes to the Norway lands
Thoo may have a gey good guess on he,

An' thoo will get a gunner good,
An' a gey good gunner it will be,
An' he'll gae oot on a May mornin'
An' shoot the son an' the grey selchie.'

Oh, she has got a gunner good,
An' a gey good gunner it was he,
An' he went out on a May mornin'
An' he shot the son and the grey selchie.

(When the gunner returned from his expedition he showed the Norway woman the gold chain he had found round the neck of a young seal, and a final verse expresses her grief):

Alas, alas this woeful fate
This weary fate that's been laid for me.'
And once or twice she sobbed and sighed,
An' her tender heart did brak' in three.
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The tale of the Goodman of Wastness is one version of a story, the format of which is common throughout the islands. In these tales we learn how the wily human man, usually through some form of trickery or cunning, obtains the skin of a selkie-wife who is held captive until she can retrieve the lost seal-skin. She is usually assisted in this (unwittingly) by her children, who in some versions return to the sea with their mother. Anyway, enjoy the story.

The Goodman of Wastness was a well-to-do young fellow. Handsome and strong, well-liked and with a profitable farm, it was not at all surprising that many of the unmarried local girls set their sights on him. However, despite their ample attentions, the Goodman was quite simply not interested in marriage.

Their advances spurned, the local girls soon began to treat the Goodman with contempt, describing him as "an old young man" and "old before his time". As far as they were concerned he was committing the unpardonable sin of celibacy. The Goodman however paid these malicious creatures little heed and as is more often the case the gossips soon turned their attentions elsewhere.

When questioned by his friends as to the reason he would not take a wife, the Goodman would smile and simply explain: "Weemin are like minny ither things in this weary wurld, only sent fur a trial tae man an' I hae trials enough withoot bein' tried be a wife. If yin owld fool Adam hiddno been bewitched be his wife, he might still be in the Gerdeen o' Eden tae this day.." (Women are like many other things in this weary world, only sent as a trial to men and I have enough trials without being tried by a wife. If that old fool Adam had not been bewitched by his wife, he might still be in the Garden of Eden to this day)

One old woman who heard this oft-repeated speech, remarked; "Tak thou heed thee sell, thou'll mibbe be yursel' bewitched some day." (Heed well what you say, you will maybe be bewitched yourself one day)

"Aye," said the Goodman, laughing. "That'll be when thou waaks dry-shod fae the Alters o' Seenie tae the Boar o' Papa" (That will be when you walk from the Alters o' Seenie to the Boar o' Papa [placenames] without wetting your feet)

So it came to pass that one fine day, the Goodman was down on the ebb when he saw, a short distance away, a number of selkie-folk lying on a flat rock. Some were lying sunning themselves while others jumped and played in the clear Orkney waters. All were naked with skins as white as snow, their seal-skins strewn carelessly on the sand and rocks around them.

The Gooman crept closer to their basking rock and when he neared the place the selkie-folk played, leapt to his feet and ran towards them. The alarmed selkie-folk snatched up their seal skins and ran to the safety of the sea. However, as quick as they were, the Goodman was quicker for he managed to seize a skin belong to one beautiful seal-maiden who in the hasty rush to safety had forgotten to retrieve her skin.

By this time the selkie-folk had swum out a little distance and now gazed mournfully at the Goodman. He stared back and realised that all, save one, had resumed the shape of seals. Grinning, he put the captured skin under his arm and whistling a merry tune set out for home. No sooner had he left the ebb than he heard the most sorrowful wailing and weeping coming from behind him. He turned and saw a fair woman following him. She was a most pitiful sight. sobbing and howling in grief with her arms held out in a plea to have her skin returned. Huge tears ran from her large dark eyes and down her fair cheeks. Falling to her knees, she cried: "O bonnie man! If thur's inny mercy in thee human breest, gae me back me ain selkie skin! I cinno live in the sea withoot it. I cinno bide amung me ain folk withoot me selkie-skin." (Oh handsome man, if there is any mercy in your human breast give me back my seal-skin. I can not live in the sea without it. I cannot live among my own people without my seal-skin)

The Goodman was not a soft-hearted man but nevertheless he could not help but pity the poor creature. Pity, however, was not the only emotion he felt for with the pity came the softer and sweeter passion of love. The icy heart that had yet to love a mortal woman had been melted by this seal-maiden's resplendent beauty.

Eventually the Goodman managed to wring from the Selkie-wife a reluctant consent to remain with him as his wife. She had little choice in the matter for as we have heard, she could not return to the sea without her skin. So the sea-maiden went with the Goodman and stayed with him for many days, turning out to be a thrifty, frugal and kindly wife. Although she was a creature of the sea, the Goodman had a happy life with her.

The selkie-wife bore the Goodman seven children - four boys and three girls and it was said that there were no children as beautiful as them in all the isles. And all the while the sea-wife seemed content and merry.

But all was not as it seemed - there was a weight in the selkie-wife's heart and many a time she was seen to gaze longingly out to the sea. The sea that was her true home.

So to all the islanders and to the Goodman himself all seemed well with the Goodman and his family - but as is always the same in these tales. The bliss was not to last.

One fine day, the Goodman and his three sons were out in their boat fishing. With the menfolk out of the house, the selkie-wife sent three of the girls to the ebb to gather limpets and whelks. The youngest girl had to remain at home as some days earlier, she had hurt her foot climbing on the sharp rocks by the shore. As usual, as soon as the house emptied, the selkie-wife set to looking for her long-lost seal-skin. She searched high and she searched low. She searched "but" and she searched "ben". She searched out and she search in but to no avail. She could not find the skin.

As the time passed, the sun swung to the west and the shadows grew, the peedie lass seated in a straw-backed chair with her sore feet on the creepie watched her mother carry out the frantic hunt. "Mam, whit are thoo luckin' fur?" she asked (Mam, what are you looking for?).

"O' bairn, dinna tell bit I'm luckin' fur a bonnie skin tae mak a rivlin that wid sort thee sore fit" replied the selkie-wife. (Oh child, don't tell but I'm looking for a pretty skin to make a shoe/sandal that would cure your sore feet)

"Bit Mam, " said the bairn. "I ken fine whar hid is. Wan day when ye war oot and me Fither thowt I wis sleepin' i' the bed, he teen a bonnie skin doon, gloured at hid for cheust a peedie meenit, then foldit hid an' laid hid up under dae aisins abeun da bed" (But Mam, I know well where it is. One day when you were out and my Father thought I was asleep in bed, he took a pretty skin down, glowered at it for a short time, then folded it and put it away in the aisins over the hill)

When the selkie-wife heard this she clapped for joy and rushed to the place where her long-concealed skin lay. "Fare thee well, peedie buddo" she said to her child and ran out of the house. Rushing to the shore she threw on her skin and with a wild cry of joy, plunged into the sea. A male selkie was waiting for her there and greeted her with great delight.(Peedie Buddo - little friend. A term of endearment)

All the while, the Goodman was rowing home and happened to see these two selkies from his little boat. His wife uncovered her beautiful face and cried out to him. "Fare thee well. Goodman o' Wastness. Farewell tae thee. I liked thee well enough fur thoo war geud tae me bit I love better me man o' the sea." (Fare you well Goodman of Wastness. Farewell to thee. I liked you well enough because you were good to me but I love my husband from the sea better.)

And that was the last the Goodman ever saw of his sea-wife. Often though, in the twilight of his years, he could be seen wandering on the empty sea-shore, hoping once again to meet his lost love, but never again did he look upon her fair face.

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Children said to the result of a union between mortal and selkie were at one time relatively common and until fairly recently some Orcadian families still claimed descent from the selkie folk.

One allegedly true story, documented by the Orcadian folklorist, Walter Traill Dennison, centres around one north isles family whose children were all born with webbed feet and fingers. The mid-wife present at the birth clipped these webs desperately with shears;

"and many a clipping Ursilla clipped, to keep the fins from growing again; and the fins, not being able to grow in their natural way, grew into a horny crust on the palms of the hands and soles of the feet. And this horny substance can be seen in many of Ursilla's descendants to this day".

Dennison apparently witnessed this because in his notes regarding the subject he states categorically:

"whatever may be thought of this tale, its last sentence is quite true."

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It is many years now since Willie Westness of Over-the-Watter on the island of Sanday was digging lugworms for bait in the little sandy bay on the east side of Elsness. By the time his pail was full, the tide had not yet turned. The trink was still safe to cross, and he decided to look for driftwood farther along the shore. Then it was that he heard the cry from the rocks - a moan like that of a woman in pain swelling into a loud, strange sound and dying into a sort of sob.

It seemed to come from the geo, a little inlet hidden behind the rocks and covered at high tide. Out in the deep water a big seal had raised its head and was listening and watching intently. Willie moved quietly towards the geo. Coming around the rocks that had hidden it, he saw, lying on the shelving stone, another big seal. Beside her was a newborn pup. As the mother began to move, he ran down over the rocks. The seal flopped into the water, but the pup lay helpless at his feet. It squirmed as he picked it up, and then pressed against him and nuzzled at his hand.

I'll take it home for the bairn, thought Willie, and keep it in the small loch at Over-the-Watter. At the edge of the rocks the mother seal splashed and sobbed in distress. When he glanced up, she was pulling herself clumsily back out of the water to lie moaning at the edge, her round eyes full of tears. The pup too gazed at him with soft blurred brown eyes, and nosed at his sleeve. Its little sleek round head was like a child's . . .

"Ach, selkie, take thee bairn and be gone wi' ye!" said Willie Westness aloud. He put the pup down close to the water's edge and watched the seal come to it. Then he collected his pail of lugworrns and trudged back over the trink where the tide was just beginning to run.

Nine years afterwards, Willie Westness had a family of four.

One fine day the three youngest went wading for cockles at the little sandy bay. They knew well enough that they should not cross the trink, where the water swept in so fast and deep on the high tide. But they had heard their father say that the cockles were better there than in the large bay itself, and after a little argument among them- selves, they crossed over.

"We won't stay long," said Johnny, the eldest.

"We'll hurry back," agreed his sister, Jeanie.

The cockles were plentiful, and they went on gathering. When the pail was nearly full, they turned towards home. The tide was flowing fast. The trink had widened. "Hurry!" said Johnny. But for all that he and Jeanie pulled and scolded, little Tam's fat legs could not be hurried over the rocks. Every minute the water deepened. When it was about their ankles, the two younger began to cry, clinging together and pressing back into a corner of the rocks. Johnny stood further out, watching the waves rising and shouting with all his might. But no one appeared across the trink to help them, and the water rose steadily.

Then they heard a soft voice singing almost beside them. Two people had come up behind them - two grey-cloaked women that they did not know.

"Come away, bairns," said the elder. She had a plump, friendly face and round brown eyes. "Come away. It will soon be too late." She took little Tam and Jeanie by the hands and led them straight into the water that was now up to their knees where they stood. Up to their middles it rose, and before they had crossed the trink, up to their necks. But held in her firm, warm grasp they kept their footing and found themselves in safety on the far side. Looking back, they saw their brother coming hand-in-hand with the smaller, slimmer woman. Her other hand held the bucket of cockles, balancing it on her head.

"All's well," said the older woman cheerfully, and the younger smiled shyly and looked at them kindly from her brown eyes. "Now take thee father a word from me," said the elder. "Remember now, say to thee father, Willie Westness, to mind a day when he digged lugworm at the geo, nine summers gone. And say to him that one spared to the sea is three spared to the land."

And she bade them repeat the message till it was right: "One spared to the sea is three spared to the land."

"Now run away home, bairns," she said. "And dunno pass the trink again - I came for once only. Run away home!" And she gave them a little push. Obediently they ran. And when they looked back from the foreshore, the tide was pouring through the trink and the water was high over the rocks. No grey-cloaked women were in sight, and two seals were swimming towards the point of Elsness.

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A long time ago, Magnus Muir was gathering limpets on the shore, on the west side of Hacksness in Sanday, when he was puzzled to hear from some place among the rocks a very curious sound. Sometimes it was like a person groaning with pain; and then it would become a loud sound like the roaring of a dying cow. And then again the sound would die away to a low and most pitiful moan, as if it were a person completely exhausted after a bout of child-bearing pain. The sound was so extremely pitiful that it made Magnus uneasy.

Magnus could see nothing for a little while, except a large seal quite near the rocks, thrusting its head above the surface of the water, and looking with both eyes into an inlet a short distance away. And Magnus noticed that the seal was not afraid; it never dived, and never ceased to gaze at the inlet. Magnus crossed over a large rock which lay between him and the place; and there, in a corner of the inlet, he saw a mother seal lying in the throes of her calving pains. It was this seal that made all the bitter moaning and loud bellowing; and the father seal lay in the sea watching his mate in her trouble. Magnus stood and watched her too, and he said it was pitiful to see what the poor dumb animal suffered. And he stood there, a little way off, until she calved two fine seal calves, which were no sooner on the rocks than they took hold of her teats. Magnus thought to himself that the skins of the calves would make him a splendid waistcoat; and he ran to where all three were lying. The poor mother seal rolled over the edge of the rock into the sea; but the two young seals did not have the wit to get away. So Magnus seized them both. And then it was wonderful to see the behaviour of the mother seal. She was so anxious about her young. She rolled round and round in the sea, and beat herself with her paws, like a thing demented. And then she would dimb with her forepaws on the rock, and gaze into Magnus' face, with a look so exceedingly pitiful, that to see her would have melted a heart of stone. The father seal was acting in the same way, except that he would not come so dose to Magnus.

Magnus turned to go away with the two young seals in his arms - they were sucking his jacket as if they were at their mother's breast - when he heard the seal mother give a groan so dismal and hollow, and so like a human being, that it went straight to his heart, and quite overcame him. He looked around, and saw the mother seal lying on her side with her head on the rock, and he saw - as certainly as he ever saw anything on earth - tears brimming from both her eyes. To see nature working so powerfully in the poor dumb creature was more than he could stand. So he bent down and placed both the young seals on the rock.

The mother took them in her paws and clasped them to her bosom, just as if she had been a human mother with a child. And she looked right nto Magnus' face; oh, what a glad look she gave him! It did Magnus good to see her. For that day the seal did everything but speak.

Magnus was then a young man; and some time afterward he married.

And a long time after he was married, when his children had all grown up, he went to stay on the west side of Edey. One fine evening, Magnus went to fish for coal-fish off an outlying rock. It was an isolated rock that was covered at high tide; you could only walk to it dry-shod at low water. The fish wouldn't take for a time; but when the flood tide began, the fishing became so good that Magnus stood and pulled in the fish until he had quite filled his creel.

With the fish taking so well, he forgot in his eagerness for them the path he had to take. And when he was ready to go home, he was horrified to discover that the channel between him and the land was covered by the sea, and the water was so deep that it would have gone over his head. Magnus shouted again and again, but he was far away from any house, and no one heard his cries. The water kept rising, it came above his knees, then over his hips, then up to his armpits; and many a sore sigh he gave, as the water came ever higher and higher to his chin. He shouted until he was hoarse, and could shout no more. And then he gave up all hope of life, and saw nothing before him but dismal death. But just as the sea was coming round his neck, and coming now and then in little ripples into his mouth; just as he found the sea beginning to lift him from the rock- something seized him by the collar of his jacket, and swung him off his feet.

He had no idea what it was, or where he was, until he found his feet on the bottom, where he could wade in safety to the shore. And when the creature that had hold of him let him go, he waded to the dry land. He looked towards the place from whence he had come, and saw a large seal swimming to the rock, where she dived, took up his creel of fish, and swam with it to the land. He waded out and took the creel full of fish out of her mouth; and he said with all his heart, 'God bless the seal that does not forget'. And she looked at him as if she would have said, could she have spoken, 'One good turn deserves another.'

She was the same seal that he had seen calving on Hacksness 40 years before. He said he would have known her motherly look among a thousand. But she had grown very large and old. So that was the seal that did not forget.

I wish everyone would remember what is good, as well as that seal.

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