The Trouble With Being A Selkie

 Or in my case, an otter, is that every darn day I have to pass myself off as human.

There is the walking upright.  So tiring.  I have a spine like a Slinky.

I have to speak in their convoluted language.  Whatever.  Whistles and chuckles were always good enough when I lived in the salt water.  Like I should.  You know?

Of course it's a load of otter spraint to call meself a selkie, but you get the shapeshifty idea.

Does everybody know what a selkie is?

The Selkie-folk

http://www.orkneyjar.com/folklore/selkiefolk/

"Selkie is simply the Orcadian dialect word for "seal".

So, selkies are a very common sight across Orkney. Heads bobbing above the waves, they are often seen by the shore, watching inquisitively with uncannily human eyes.

To the onshore observer it is not hard to see how the legends surrounding the selkie-folk — the seal people — sprang into life.

Orkney has many tales concerning this shape-shifting race.

Unlike the Finfolk, who retained their malicious tendencies throughout the years, the selkie-folk have come to be regarded as gentle creatures, with the ability to transform from seals into beautiful, lithe humans. This, however, is a far cry from the original folklore — a topic dealt with further here.

In the surviving folklore, there is no agreement as to how often the selkie-folk were able to carry out the transformation. Some tales say it was once a year, usually Midsummer's Eve, while others state it could be “every ninth night” or “every seventh stream”.

Regardless of how often they were able to transform, the folklore tells us that once in human form, the selkie-folk would dance on lonely stretches of moonlit shore, or bask in the sun on outlying skerries."

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It seems like there ought to be a separate name for we otters.  Though, in fact, I have never met another otter in the fur.

I just like to dwell on some of my happiest hours.  I would swim, day or night, rain or storm, in the bay, sometimes with the big raindrops falling all around me and the water fowl bobbing nearby.  The mysterious finny folk beneath my toes, always present.  Also, I had to be aware of the tribal nets, subtle traps stretched across and through the water.

The water was cold.  Around 42 degrees.  No matter.  One gets used to it.

My signal to return to the littoral was the calling of my human children.  Time to return to the skin of mankind, to be a mother on dry land.

But the wild salt water and the low grey sky stay with me always.

It's pretty much all the same up north here!

There is also plenty of time for our Wednesday game!

As You Wish!