Secret Of The Selkie | Sleep Story With Music

In this bedtime story accompanied by ambient music, you are a lighthouse keeper on a remote island. You make a new friend on the island, whom you discover is, in fact, a shapeshifting selkie in search of her seal coat, which would allow her to return to the water. You endeavor to help your new friend.
Music
The Crystal Castle (Flouw)
The Sleep/Binaural Overlay/Romeo Alpha (Joseph Beg)
Bream Focus Beta Waves/Nordic Sunrise/Thymotic Moments (Bruce Brus)
Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Learn the mysteries of a shape-shifting Selkie in tonight's folklore-inspired bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you fall asleep.

Listen as attentively as you like,

And don't be afraid to let go of the story when you're ready to surrender to sleep.

In this bedtime story,

You inherit the post of a lighthouse keeper on a remote island.

As you sort through your predecessor's belongings,

Trying to make the place into home,

You discover a locked chest in the closet.

Meanwhile,

You notice a woman wandering the cliffs,

Gazing longingly at the sea.

You befriend her,

And after gaining her trust,

She tells you her secret,

That she is in fact a Selkie.

A mythical seal woman in search of her seal coat so she can return to the water.

You begin to suspect that the chest in the closet has something to do with all of this,

And you endeavor to help your new friend.

Before we begin the story,

Take some time to listen to the sounds of the ocean.

The rushing in and pulling out of the waves.

The constant ebb and flow.

The perpetual motion.

Breathe deeply and feel how your breath is like the waves of the ocean,

How the tide of your breath continues,

Unconsciously,

In and out.

Swelling,

Cresting,

And falling.

On your next deep breath in,

Smell the salt on the sea air.

Listen for the calls of gulls.

Feel beads of fog against your skin,

Opening your pores.

See the spray off the water.

The rush of the tide.

A rolling fog across the shore.

And limestone cliffs.

A lighthouse,

Rising up from the fog.

Breathe.

It will take some time,

You think,

For this place to feel like home.

There's no sense in rushing things.

You've got a lifetime ahead of you.

The misty morning light,

Stark white with a slice of sun melting through curtains of fog,

Shimmers through the window.

You haven't yet lit the lamps inside the lighthouse keeper's quarters.

You're not sure how.

Surely that's in the instructions left to you.

The most important light,

The warning light itself,

You've had some training on.

The rest,

The endeavor to make a life here,

Is all up to you.

But first you want to situate the precious few belongings you brought to the headland in your new residence that involves the considered removal of the mountains of material left behind by the previous lighthouse keeper.

Heaps and heaps of books and papers,

Ledgers,

Daily logs,

Photograph albums,

And other miscellaneous records.

They also left behind personal belongings of all sorts.

Clothing,

Furnishings,

Knickknacks,

And kitchenwares.

Some of it you'll probably decide to keep.

The existing furniture is usable and there are some delightfully strange decorations you wouldn't mind holding onto.

A small brass sculpture,

For example,

Of a two-tailed mermaid,

An elegant crown upon her head.

You can tell that framed photographs once hung on the walls in the modest quarters connected to the lighthouse.

The now mostly bare walls give up numerous squares of darkened wallpaper,

Unbleached by the intruding sunlight.

You wonder if the former keeper hung pictures of their family or a long-lost sweetheart across the sea.

Feeling an urge to get some fresh air,

Your mind swirling with thoughts of the previous keeper's life and romances,

You step outside into the cool morning.

The surroundings are conducive to such speculation.

The lighthouse sits atop the limestone cliffs of the cape,

Towering over the crashing waves of open sea,

Miles from the only town center on the island,

Itself remote in the region.

There's an isolation that's haunting and romantic.

The distance from everyday civilization and the closeness to nature,

The vastness of nature in cliffs and waves and shorebird migration,

Is at once solemn and sublime.

You think how small your silhouette must appear should an onlooker glimpse you standing on the cliffs,

Tiny and overwhelmed by the majesty of it all.

The age-old rock and the movements of natural forces that care not for human affairs.

You could get used to this,

You think,

Feeling how the wind tussles your hair and the salt spray air conditions your skin.

You close your eyes for a moment,

Just listening to the sound of the waves crashing below,

Distant and yet incredibly close,

Abstract and yet entirely tangible.

You have a sense of lightness floating.

You store the sensation in the back of your mind for moments of doubt you anticipate,

Cramped in the tight quarters of the lighthouse,

Trimming the wick or maintaining the clockwork.

Just come back out here,

You think.

Just step outside and feel the limitless expanse of the sea and sky.

It'll set you right.

With your head clear,

You return inside to continue the task of organizing the living space.

You keep a window slightly open.

Why endure a stuffy cabin when such invigorating air lies just outside?

You set about packing away the mountain of photo albums,

Though your wistful heart won't let you tuck them in a box without first peeking at them.

Inside,

You find yellowed images of the island and the townsfolk.

There's one picture of a husband and wife in front of a small white building,

Whom you recognize as younger versions of the couple who still operate the post office.

You met them when you arrived,

And they made you promise to pay them a visit from time to time,

Lest you become too cooped up on the cliffside.

The memory of their playful ribbing brings a smile to your face.

There are more photos of local business owners,

Some whom you recognize from your brief time in town,

And others who look familiar enough that they might still reside in the village,

Or their descendants might.

The albums are a fascinating documentary history of the island.

Your imagination strings together stories that connect the photographs through time.

This person must have married into this family,

And they opened such and such fish market.

But they left for the mainland when they came into family money and were never heard from again.

This young lady left the island with hopes of becoming a famous actress.

But after some time on the stages in London,

She returned and never spoke of the intervening years.

You enjoy making up such stories,

Though you imagine you'll learn the true histories of the island in time.

There's a face that pops up here and again in the photos.

At first,

You didn't pay it much notice because the person is usually swept to the side of the photographs,

Or stuck in the backgrounds.

Never the camera's focus.

She's a handsome woman with dark hair and features.

She wears,

Always,

A somewhat morose expression.

Perhaps that's not the right word.

There's just something forlorn about her.

Lost.

You wonder if she still lives on the island.

She'd be older now,

But you're curious about her story.

After a long morning of sorting and packing,

You finally move the box of photo albums to a closet in your bedroom.

You have to shift a few things around in the closet to make room,

Teetering some small boxes precariously upon an inner shelf.

As you're moving items in the dark,

You haven't yet figured out the lamps and there's hardly any natural light in the bedroom.

Your groping hands fall upon the unexpected texture of worked leather.

If you're not mistaken,

At the back of the closet there's a large and heavy chest.

It's surface leather bound.

You can feel grooves in the leather,

Indicating some sort of decoration or design.

It takes some exertion on your part,

But you manage to heave the chest from the depths of the cupboard and slide it into the living space where you can see better.

Indeed,

There are intricate designs pounded into the reddish brown leather.

Circles and spirals and discs that remind you,

Vaguely,

Of the Pictish symbol stones unearthed on some of the surrounding islands.

You wipe away a thick layer of dust from the surface to better observe the patterns.

You're overcome with curiosity.

What could be hiding within such an elegant piece of craft?

The former lighthouse keeper left many curiosities behind,

But this chest is surely of a high value.

You're surprised it wasn't pillaged by the townsfolk after the post was vacated.

No one must know about it,

You think.

But as you go to lift the lid,

You finally see the rusted lock.

Still you try,

Hopeful,

To open the chest,

But it's securely fastened.

You sigh.

There must be a key somewhere.

You were given a ring of keys when you arrived for the living quarters,

The lighthouse,

And various pieces of equipment.

You fetch the keys and try every single one in the lock on the chest.

None are the right fit.

Somewhat disappointed,

But all the more intrigued about the contents of the mysterious chest,

You slide it back into the closet and set your mind to the work at hand.

You'll find the key,

Surely.

It's a matter of time.

For now,

The best thing is for it to stay out of sight.

Your first days as the new lighthouse keeper on the island pass uneventfully.

You receive a handful of visits from the townsfolk,

Bringing homemade food and welcome gifts.

A mail carrier comes by most days.

He's the son of the couple who own the post office,

And he makes sure to remind you every time he comes that his mother and father expect a visit from you.

He brings you letters,

Mostly intended for the former lighthouse keeper,

But there's the occasional correspondence from your friends and family on the mainland.

It's good to hear from them.

You throw the letters for the old keeper into a pile,

Unsure of what to do with them,

Unsure of whether to read them or cast them out to sea.

Perhaps they'll come back for the letters one day.

You take to the job rather well.

You find you're a natural at keeping up the equipment and maintaining the lighthouse,

But there's a certain kind of loneliness that creeps in at the edges.

After a fortnight,

You decide it's time to take that visit into town.

You ride your bicycle to the center of the village,

Enjoying the downhill breeze on the headland.

The post office couple treats you to lunch and the wife introduces you to several important people.

The mayor,

An absent-minded old man with white whiskers and thick glasses.

The librarian,

A sweet,

Put-upon middle-aged woman with a gaggle of young children.

Many others.

It's a town of only a few hundred people,

And by the end of your outing you feel you've met at least half of them.

As you prepare to return to the lighthouse,

You steal a glance at a handsome residence.

There's a movement in the window,

A rustle of drapes,

As if someone was watching you from behind the curtain and hastily dropped it when your gaze fell their way.

The visit fills up your heart,

Replenishes your energy in a way.

You like solitude,

Otherwise why would you have accepted such a posting,

But it feels good to be welcomed into pleasant company.

You light a fire in your residence as darkness falls on the cliffside.

You sleep well.

The next morning,

As you're outside cleaning windows,

You notice a human presence ascending the hill toward the cliffs.

It's not the right time for the mail carrier to come by,

And you wouldn't expect a visit from the townsfolk so soon after your journey.

The figure draws closer.

She's a willowy woman with wild,

Long,

Dark hair.

Black as the ocean at night.

She's the woman from the photographs,

You're sure of it.

Older,

Certainly,

But not by as much as you'd expected.

Her features are unmistakable,

But she doesn't come toward you.

She doesn't introduce herself.

Instead,

She breezes past you and the lighthouse,

Hardly acknowledging your presence,

And glides toward the edge of the cliff.

For a moment,

Her head held high and eyes aloft,

You fear she may walk right off the edge,

And you almost run after her.

But she stops,

Before she reaches the end of the cliff,

And she stands.

And she stares.

You decide not to disturb her,

So you go about your tasks for the day.

Maintenance,

Cleaning,

Still organizing the living quarters,

Trimming the wick,

Cleaning the lens.

Every time you look outside,

She's there,

Hair and dress whipping in the wind,

Gazing out at the sea.

Then,

At dusk,

She turns and goes,

Back the way she came.

You fix yourself supper and retrieve one of the old photo albums from storage.

You flip through the pages as you eat.

The resemblance is too uncanny for it not to be the same woman,

Unless there's a close relation to be accounted for.

But given the dates on the pages of the album,

If it is indeed the same woman,

She's barely aged.

In the years since the images were captured,

It's the sea air,

You think.

She must come here for the benefits of sun and salt and spray.

To keep her looking young,

She comes back a few days later.

She still ignores your existence.

And later in the week,

She comes again and stands at the edge of the cliff and stares out at the sea for hours.

Finally,

You decide you'll talk to her.

You'll introduce yourself.

The next time she comes on a clear September morning,

You call out to her as she strides toward the cliffside.

For the first time,

You see her up close.

See how her dark,

Stormy eyes match the impression of the photographs.

How her brow furrows at your intrusion on her private cliffside ritual.

But she warms to you,

Quickly enough.

Her name,

You discover,

Is Tess.

And she's lived on the island for several years.

She came here for love,

Of all things.

She married a man who'd been here all his life.

He's gone now and she stays with a cousin of his.

She doesn't say any more than that.

You don't press her for the details.

You don't ask about the photographs in the lighthouse.

Not yet.

Tess comes back more frequently now that she knows you.

Every other day,

Sometimes on days back to back.

Most days.

You give each other friendly waves,

Exchange a few words about the weather or the goings on in town.

There's a familiarity growing between you.

An understanding.

You don't ask her why she comes to stare at the sea.

Why she looks so sad when she watches the ocean waves.

She doesn't ask you.

Why you left your life behind to take up the lighthouse post.

As autumn marches on and the island settles under an ever-present fog and chill,

You're surprised to see Tess continue to visit so frequently.

She shivers under a knit shawl on an especially chilly day,

The fog dampening her dark hair in coils against her skin.

There's an electricity in the air,

In the particles of fog.

There's a storm coming,

You're sure of it.

Twilight comes earlier and earlier now and you beg Tess to come inside and warm herself by the fire.

Reluctantly,

She agrees.

As soon as she enters the residence,

You sense a change in her.

You retrieve a wool blanket from your bedroom and urge her to wrap it around her shoulders.

Her slight frame is still quivering from the bone chill of the dense fog.

You prepare a hearty stew and tear off hunks of good bread from the village baker.

She protests,

But you insist that she eats something to warm her from the inside.

You light a cozy fire in the fireplace.

Outside,

A heavy rain descends upon the cliffs,

Shimmering in the occultations of the warning light.

The oil lamps flicker,

Lending an exquisite tranquility to the scene.

After supper,

The storm continues to rage outside,

But the tiny residence,

Which has survived a hundred years or more in the shadow of the lighthouse,

Feels sturdy and protective against the elements.

You're reminded of a long forgotten storm from childhood,

When you cowered in your bed against the breaking of thunder and flashes of lightning.

A blanket over your head.

That very night,

A loving caregiver held you and assured you all would be alright.

That in the morning,

The sky would be light again,

And the storm would be past.

You describe the memory to Tess.

You're not sure why,

But you feel compelled to give her this window into your past as an offering,

So she might let you into her past in return.

Your words seem to cast a spell.

Her face,

So solemn,

So infinitely forlorn from the moment you first beheld it in the old photographs,

Finally breaks into a smile.

She's picturing you as a child,

Reaching out for the warmth of a protector.

And you feel,

In this moment in the shining light of her smile,

That you'll become the very dearest of friends.

You could so use a friend.

The storm breaks,

Finally.

Night has fallen,

But the sky's clear.

You and Tess step out onto the soggy grass and look out at the ocean,

Black and tempest-tossed in the suddenly cloudless skies.

A silver moon waxes against a backdrop of stars and casts its fluttering reflection on the stormy sea,

Where it meets the reflection of the lighthouse light.

You're mesmerized by the ocean's subtle disturbances,

The push and pull between peace and agitation,

Stillness and motion on its surface.

Wordlessly,

Tess departs,

Her feet quiet upon the spongy earth.

You don't see her go,

But you feel as though her silhouette remains on the cliffs long after she's left.

You sleep deeply that night,

Your dreams a vision of wayward ships in heavy skies.

Tess doesn't return soon after.

You look for her on the cliffs as you wind the clockwork or polish the lens,

But she doesn't come.

You fear you became too vulnerable,

Offered too much of yourself during the storm,

That you frightened away the possibility of a true friendship.

You take another bike ride into town,

Ostensibly to pick up supplies at the market and say hello to your neighbors.

You're hoping to see Tess though,

Make sure she's alright.

You don't find her in the market,

Or at the post office,

Or the library,

But she comes to the cliffs again a week later.

Your heart exhales when you see her,

Somber as ever,

Dark and brooding as she gazes longingly at the tides.

She's brought a picnic basket.

You share lunch in the breezy grass on a mild afternoon.

And now,

Perhaps emboldened by her return,

You decide to ask her about the photographs.

The ones now packed into a box,

Now gathering dust in your bedroom closet.

There are dozens of images of her,

You explain.

They betray,

Perhaps,

A preoccupation with her visage.

The face that's hardly aged in these many years.

Tess is silent for a long time.

Silence filled only by the calling of gulls and the crashing of tides.

But you sense that something changes,

Softens in her.

When she speaks again,

She asks if you've yet been down to the beaches,

The ones that lie below the limestone cliffs.

You haven't.

She leads you down a steep and treacherous path,

One that's been concealed from your view till now.

It's all you can do to keep from falling down the side of the cliff.

But Tess navigates it with striking ease.

As you cling to the crags of white limestone,

The wind smooth against your skin,

Every few moments you have that sensation again of floating,

Weightless in limitless space.

You're grateful for the feeling of solidity when your feet at last meet solid ground.

The beach below is more like a narrow strip of pebbles and rock betwixt cliff and sea.

Judging by the waterline in the cliffside,

This slice of land likely spends much of high tide underwater.

You think of the storm a week ago,

And you wonder how high the waves rose that night.

Now,

The waters are quite calm.

A serene smile crosses Tess' lips.

The sun emerges from behind clouds and warms the shore,

Glittering golden on the surface of the water.

The light catches something out there in the waves at a distance,

Something dark and shining and organic.

Tess holds a hand to her brow,

Shielding her eyes from the sun.

She's looking straight at whatever's out there.

You squint and try to make it out.

The forms,

For there are a few of them,

Seem to be drawing closer,

Leaping above and below the surface of the water.

Soon,

You recognize the shapes as the silhouettes of grey seals,

Playfully jumping in and out of the water.

There are three of them,

As far as you can tell.

They stop before they reach the narrow shore,

But they're close enough to see them more clearly.

Heads bobbing above the waves,

They blink those big,

Watery eyes,

Observing you with curiosity.

You've seen similar eyes before,

Haven't you?

Dark,

Inquisitive,

Knowing eyes.

Tess breaks the silence.

She wonders if you've ever heard the legends or folktales of the Selkies.

Do they tell stories like that where you're from?

At the word Selkie,

Your mind fills with many broken images.

Glittering tides,

Sad maidens,

Lovelorn husbands,

Seals resting on pebbled beaches.

Of course,

You've heard the legends.

They're told all over this part of the world,

Aren't they?

The version you remember the clearest,

And this you begin to detail to Tess as it comes back to you,

Was recited by the same beloved caregiver who carried you through that childhood storm.

In it,

A farmer,

Waited by the sea for the seals to come ashore,

Where according to legend,

Once a year,

They'd shed their skins and take human form for one night.

He saw one seal shed her skin and take the form of a beautiful woman,

And he was struck at once with mad love.

He stole her seal coat so she could not return to her true form,

And he locked the coat away in a chest,

Never daring to remove the key from his person.

The farmer married the seal woman,

Who pined still for the sea despite caring for her husband,

And all the while,

The chest containing her seal coat remained locked away.

Until one day,

The farmer forgot his key at home.

When he went to the fields,

When he came back,

He discovered the chest lying open and empty,

And his wife gone,

Returned to the ocean.

Tess's eyes fill with emotion as you recount the tale,

She's heard such a version too,

And many others,

But she wonders,

Do you believe the legends,

Or do you assume they're merely the fancy of old wives and fisherfolk conjuring up folklore to survive the bleakness of the fog,

Or explain away the mysteries of nature?

A curious question,

But you have to think about your answer.

You've never really thought about it enough to believe or disbelieve the local tales.

You were just a child when you first encountered them,

Accustomed to a world of wonder and magic and make-believe.

If you really think about such legends,

Shape-shifting seal maidens,

You have to dismiss them,

Surely.

But you suppose there's a part of you that's always longed to believe in the magical,

The mysterious,

The unexplained,

And living here at the edge of the world,

You have no interest in assuming you know all of nature's secrets.

But now you're beginning to see,

In Tess's eyes,

The same dark curiosity of the blinking seals out to sea,

Her forlorn wanderings on the cliffside and wistful gazes at the open water,

The leather chest in your closet,

Its missing key.

Finally,

She tells you everything.

That she came ashore one night and shed her skin,

Eager to walk among humans for just one day.

She climbed the steep path toward the top of the cliff and collapsed on the moonlit grass,

Unused to having human legs.

The lighthouse keeper found her there,

Shivering and damp,

And he brought her inside.

He fed her,

Clothed her,

And let her warm up by the fire.

He was kind and lonely.

So she decided to stay a little longer than a day.

Within a month,

They'd married.

The lighthouse keeper had stolen down to the rocky beaches and retrieved her sealcoat there,

Hiding it somewhere.

She never knew where.

They were married for many years.

They never had children,

But Tess looked over her husband's cousin's brood most days,

Becoming a second mother to them.

She thought of the sea often,

And sometimes longed to dive right into the waters and swim away.

She loved the island,

Her husband,

Her family,

But there were times she felt disconnected and remembered the freedom of her seal days.

As the years went by,

Though her face had more lines,

Tess looked almost as youthful as she had on the day she shed her skin on the beach.

But her husband,

The lighthouse keeper,

Grew older.

A lifetime of climbing the spiral stairs,

Maintaining the property,

Cleaning the lenses,

And winding the clockwork had taken their toll,

And one day he died.

With him went the secret of Tess's lost coat,

And all hope of returning to the ocean.

But you know the story didn't end there.

For a new lighthouse keeper came to the island,

Shortly after Tess's husband's death.

And now,

You stand beside her on the shore,

Learning a secret no other living soul has heard.

When she finishes speaking,

Your heart aches for Tess.

In the short time you've known her,

You've come to respect her and cherish her company.

You couldn't have guessed at the source of her sadness,

Or her endless longing.

You want to show her something.

She leads you back up the rocky trail to the lighthouse,

Grasping your hand tightly.

When you fear stumbling,

You bring her to the closet and you dust off the heavy chest once more.

Tess runs a hand across the Pictish swirls and spirals in the leather.

Her breathing is shallow,

And her voice quivers.

This must be it.

The sealcoat must be in here,

But you haven't the key.

A sense of anti-climax falls over you and your friend.

Tess's freedom lies,

Presumably,

Just within reach,

At the bottom of the box before you.

But there's no way of getting inside.

You tell her you've tried every key on the ring,

And you've searched the likely places in the residence.

She sighs that the key probably went with her husband to his grave.

Perhaps he wore it around his neck when they buried him.

Or maybe,

All those years ago,

He cast it into the ocean so she'd never be able to leave him.

Feeling hope dwindle in the silence,

You and Tess part ways for the afternoon.

She goes back to the village,

And you go back to work.

Over the next few weeks,

You become almost obsessed with finding the key.

You search the nooks and crannies of your residence.

The corners of the closets,

Under loose floorboards.

You search the lighthouse itself as you work.

Between the gears,

You come close to digging up the gardens outside.

But it seems to be a lost cause.

Tess visits every few days,

Bringing you fresh bread or books from the library.

You can see in her eyes the lurking hope that one day she might come up to the cliffs to find you brandishing the key.

You're sorry to disappoint her,

But you don't speak about it much.

Time goes by,

And you settle naturally into your role.

You master the duties of caring for the lighthouse,

And you even take to planting native shrubs and plants around the residence,

Giving the whole place a more inviting atmosphere.

The townspeople all know you by name now,

And you're a welcome visitor at local businesses.

But as the air grows colder,

And the year weakens toward winter,

You find yourself withdrawing more and more into your private space.

Less inclined to hop onto your bicycle and ride into town,

Tess visits less,

Too.

Several heavy snows slow down any movement between places.

One afternoon,

As you polish the lens,

Fingers trembling in the unheated tower of the lighthouse,

You see a dark silhouette trudging through the snow toward your home.

The figure is wrapped so tightly in scarves and coats that you can't make out many details about them.

You head down the iron stair to greet the visitor.

It's the mail carrier.

You usher him inside the living quarters,

And he brushes flurries of snow from his coat as he steps across the threshold.

He's brought you a letter from the mainland.

It's only a greeting from a cousin,

Who wants you to know of their plans to visit the Americas.

Hardly anything so urgent that it needed to be carried through all this hideous weather.

But the mail carrier also brings a verbal invitation to Christmas dinner at his parents' house.

You assure him that won't be necessary.

You'll have a perfectly fine feast on your own here.

But the mail carrier insists that all the townsfolk have fought over who would coax you to dinner for the holiday,

And that it's no imposition or inconvenience,

But a genuine desire to see you and welcome you into their homes.

You're touched by the sincere plea.

You agree to join them for supper.

Christmas comes a week later,

And confident in the clear skies and melting snow,

You ride your bicycle into town for the first time in over a month.

You imagine you won't run into Tess,

As all the townsfolk are probably inside,

Decking their halls with evergreen and preparing supper for their families.

But you find a pleasantly bustling market square upon your arrival.

Cheerful people greeting each other,

Buying last-minute finishings for their feasts.

You do meet Tess in the square,

Surrounded by her cousin's gaggle of young grandchildren who beg for sweets and gifts.

It's a quick meeting,

With a friendly hello and little more.

You meet the couple who invited you at their home,

And you present a bottle of port as a gift.

A handful of cousins and their son are present.

They fuss and fight over you,

Taking your coat,

Remarking about how long your hair has grown,

And asking if you ever plan to get married.

The evening is warm and pleasant,

With drinks and games by the fire,

The delighted shouts of children at the hearth,

And at last,

A modest but delicious dinner.

You count yourself fortunate to live among such people,

Who refuse to let you languish entirely alone at your post.

After supper,

You sit by the fire again,

Enjoying being regaled by one of the cousins with stories from the mainland.

Suddenly,

The wife from the post office lets out a little gasp,

As though she's just remembered something incredibly important.

She runs from the room without a word,

Leaving you and the bewildered family behind.

When she returns,

She's holding a small box.

The contents rattle as she walks.

It's not wrapped,

Like a Christmas present.

Rather,

It's made of forged metal,

A safe deposit box you recognize.

The wife gives you the box with an air of significance.

You give her a puzzled look.

You haven't opened a safe deposit box on the island.

It belonged to the former lighthouse keeper,

She explains.

You blink.

Still,

You wonder why on earth would it be given to you,

And not the widow.

There were special instructions,

She says,

That it be given only to the next person to take up the posting.

She's simply forgotten up until now.

She'd lose her head if it wasn't screwed on.

She gives you the key to the box.

You don't open it.

Not yet.

Your head is spinning.

Could it be that what you've been searching for all this time has fallen into your lap?

The weather holds,

And you ride back to the lighthouse that night.

Under a brilliant moon,

Wrapped in layers of warm clothing.

Once home,

You light a fire and brew some tea.

You sit down and take a deep breath.

As you retrieve the safe deposit box and its key,

You open the box.

Inside is a surprising assortment of small objects,

None of apparent value.

You smirk that someone should take out a secure space for such innocuous things.

A fossilized seashell with a pleasant weight in your hand.

A brass ring,

Tarnished and discolored with age.

A deck of cards.

A faded yellow photograph of the lighthouse.

And,

In the corner of the box,

A small,

Silver key.

You hold the thing in your hands.

You have no doubt.

You think of Tess,

Probably having dinner with her family.

Of the icy foam on the seawater.

Of a warm,

Stormy night by the fire.

Of picnics on the cliffside.

Of staggering down the steep paths to the rocky beaches.

Of the truest friend you've made in many years,

And the only person on this island with whom you feel truly comfortable and unguarded.

What you would do to hold on to such a friendship.

For the first time,

You can understand the previous lighthouse keeper's impulse to hide the mechanism of her escape.

You can understand why he tried to keep her here.

You think about holding on to the key for a little while.

Maybe Tess will realize she prefers living on land.

Maybe she'll stay.

But then,

You remember the longing in her eyes when she looks at the sea.

You remember her sea-swept hair and stormy sadness.

You think what a gift her freedom would be.

And without another thought,

You ride back to town.

Tess accompanies you to the lighthouse under the milky moon.

Much lies unspoken,

But she knows what you possess.

Together,

You unearth the chest with the Pictish symbols.

You let her turn the key in the lock.

She has to force it.

Crackling through years of rust,

You help her open the lid,

Which is tight from the expanding leather and years of sealing.

A soft luminescence.

From inside the chest,

A glow like moonlight on snow and occultations on the ocean's surface.

A folded,

Amorphous thing.

Tess's eyes reflect the luminosity.

She reaches inside.

You feel a hand touch your cheek,

Leaving an imprint of warmth there.

You seem to hold the afterimage of her,

Eyes shining and reaching into the chest.

For a long time after she's gone,

You don't see her go.

She's just gone.

When you finally have the courage to move,

You follow footsteps in the melting snow over the clifftop.

At the edge,

You gaze out over the blackness of the ocean,

And you think you see dark,

Organic shapes moving playfully,

Swiftly across the horizon.

What must such a freedom taste like,

You wonder,

To have the whole ocean at your disposal and no obligations on the shore.

You return to your residence,

Extinguish the fire,

And retire to your bedroom,

Feeling a tingling warmth over your body.

The skies remain clear.

On your next visit to town,

The village folk remark on the sudden lifting of the island's ever-present fog.

There hasn't been even a slight mist since Christmas Day.

You become one of the townsfolk.

You visit frequently,

Learning every name,

Celebrating every birth,

And welcoming every newcomer.

You learn the peculiar local variations of folk legends,

And you tell wild stories to all the town's children.

They look forward to your visits and your exaggerated reports of magnificent sea creatures visiting your shores.

You consider running for mayor once a year.

At low tide,

A bob of seals arrive on the beaches below the cliffs.

Sometimes,

They shed their skins and walk among you for a day,

And then they return to the ocean.

Reviews

So good. As always! And, of course, u need to relisten as I fell asleep….💤 🙏

So beautiful thank you.

🦭💤🙏🏼

I love it i went to sleep 5 min in amazing 😍😍🌠

Your best story ever. I was moved to tears after the final words, and then I slept the whole night. You're so precious to me.....

Thank you for sharing this heartwarming story. 💕 Love and Blessings 🙏

Dreamy—but haunting… if I were Tess, I would have cut that box open!! Love the music too💕🙏🏽🌊