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.

Johnie Croy of Volyar was the bravest, boldest and bonniest man in all the broken isles of Orkney. Many a fair lass cast longing glances towards young Johnie, but never a one did he care for.

Now it happened one day that Johnie went to seek driftwood on the shore on the west side of Sanday. The tide was well out, and he was threading his way through the big boulders under the crags.

Suddenly he heard the most lovely voice singing a strange sweet tune. For a moment he stood dumbfounded with the beauty of the music. It came from the other side of a big point of the crag, and when Johnie peeped around it, he saw a wonderful sight. On a weed-covered rock sat a mermaid, combing her long hair. Like brightest gold it shone and flowed down over her white shoulders like sunshine over snow. A silvery, glistening petticoat hung down from her waist, the train of it folded together so that it lay behind her like the tail of a fish. And all the while she combed, she sang her bewitching song.

Johnie Croy was overcome with love for this beautiful creature. She sat with her back to the sea, and he got down and crept quietly among the boulders to get between her and the water. Every glance he cast at her over the stones made his heart burn more with love. Quietly, he crept up, coming within a few feet of her. Still she combed, and still she sang. Then Johnie sprang forward, threw his arms around her, and kissed her. She leaped to her feet (for two pretty white feet she had under the silvery petticoats) and gave Johnie such a wallop that he was thrown flat on the rocks. Gathering her shimmering train over her arm, she ran down to the sea. As Johnie scrambled to his feet, he spied the sea maid’s golden comb on the sand. She was out in the water now, staring at him with all her eyes, angry at being so rudely kissed, yet with love growing fast in her heart. She knew well that only if she could take a mortal lover could she keep her youth and beauty.

Johnie held up the golden comb and cried, "Thanks to thee, my bonny lass, for this love-token!"

The mermaid gave a bitter cry. "Alas, alas! My golden comb! Oh, give me back my golden comb! To lose it will shame me before all my people! Oh, give me back my golden comb!"

"O no, my sweet!" says Johnie. "Come you and live on land with me, for never can I love another now."

"Not so," replied the mermaid. "I cannot live in your cold land. I cannot bide your black rain and your white snow. And your hot sun and smoky fires would wizen me up in a week. Come with me, my bonny lad. I’ll make you a chief among the Fin Folk. Come away, come away with me."

"Oh, no," said Johnie. "You cannot entice me I was not born yesterday. But come you to my stately house at Volyar. There I have plenty of gear; I have cows and sheep. I will make you mistress of all my store. Never shall you want for what I can give you."

But the mermaid shook her head and replied, "Come, come now with me, my bonnie man. I will set you in a crystal palace under the sea. There the sunbeams never blind, there the winds do not blow, and the raindrops never fall. Oh, come away with me, and be my love, and we shall both be happy as the day is long."

"It is for the lass to follow the lad," said Johnie Croy. "Just come away and bide with me, my darling Gem-de-Lovely." So there they stood, each tempting the other. And the longer they gazed, the better they loved. But at last Gem-de-Lovely saw folk coming far away. Bidding Johnie farewell, she swam out to sea, singing mournfully, "Alas, alas. My golden comb. Alas, my bonnie man."

Johnie watched her go, her golden locks shining over her white shoulders like sunbeams glinting over sea-foam. Then he went home with a sore heart, carrying the treasured golden comb. His mother was a Spae-Wife (a wise woman), and Johnie Croy told her his tale and asked her advice. "Great fool that you are!" said his mother sharply. "To fall in love with a sea maid when any land lass would be glad of you! But men will be fools all the world over. To bring this sea wife to you, you must keep her comb well hidden; it is her dearest treasure. Keep it, and you have power over her. But be wise, my son. Take my advice. Cast the comb into the sea, and forget her. The folk of the sea are not of God’s people."

But Johnie Croy could not do that. "Then," said Grannie Croy, "she may make a bright summer for you, but it will end in a woeful winter. I have seen that you will ride your own road, though you sink in the quagmire at its end. Only one I can save I would it were you, my son. But what will be, will be."

Well, Johnie went about his work like one bewitched, thinking all the while of his Gem-de-Lovely and the cautionary words of his mother. But he put the Comb up safely for all that.

Then came a night when he could not sleep for tossing about and thinking of his lost love. Towards morning he dozed, and at day-break was wakened by beautiful music. He lay a while as if enchanted: it was the voice that he had last heard at the shore. Opening his eyes he saw that Gem-de-Lovely was sitting at the foot of the bed, the most beautiful being that ever gladdened a man’s eyes. Her face was so fair, her hair so gleaming, and her dress so splendid that Johnie took her for a vision and tried to say a prayer. But never a sword of a prayer came to his lips.

"My bonnie man," said the mermaid, "I’ve come to ask again for my golden comb. I’ve come to see if you will live with me in my crystal palace under the waves."

"‘No," said Johnie. "No, that I cannot do. But unless you bide with me now and be my loving wife, my heart will surely break."

"I will make you a fair offer," said Gem-de-Lovely. "I will be your wife. I will live here with you for seven years, if you will swear to come with me and all that’s mine, to see my own folk at the end of that time." At that, Johnie jumped out of bed, fell on his knees before her, and swore to keep the bargain.

And so they were married. Gem-de-Lovely shivered and shook as they came to the church, and stuffed her hair in her ears as the priest prayed. But folks soon forgot that, for a bonnier bride was never seen in Orkney. Her face was as lovely as the dawn; her dress shone with silver and gold; and every pearl in her necklace was as big as a cockle shell. Gem-de-Lovely was a frugal, loving wife to Johnie Croy. She baked the best bread in the island, and brewed the strongest ale. She was the best spinner in all the countryside. For seven years, everything at Volyar was in good order: the sheep and the cattle thrived; the barns were full. All things went merry as a Yuletide from one year to the next. But all good things must end; and the seventh year drew to a close.

Then; you may believe there was a stir in making ready for a long sea voyage. Johnie said little, but he thought much. Gem-de-Lovely was brisk and busy, and wore a far-away look. By now, they had seven bonnie bairns, all as strong and well-favoured as their parents. Each of them in turn had been weaned in Grannie Croy’s little house, and now she had the youngest sleeping in her own room. And what do you think Grannie Croy did on the eve of the day when the seven years ended. She rose in the midnight, and blew the ashes in the fire. She made a cross of wire and heated it red-hot in the glowing embers. And then she laid the red-hot cross on the bare seat of the babe, he screeching like a demon all the awhile. In the morning when they were fully equipped, Gem-de-Lovely walked down to the boat. And oh she was a picture. Stately and splendid as a queen in her shining dress with the great pearls gleaming on her neck, she came to the beach. There was her goodman, Johnie Croy with her six eldest bairns.

There also was Grannie Croy’, sitting on a stone with the tear in her eye. Gem-de-Lovely sent up the servants to Grannie Croy’s little house to bring the seventh bairn down in his cradle. Back they came, telling her that the four of them could not budge it one inch. A cloud came over her beautiful face. She ran up to the house and tried to move the cradle. Not an inch would it budge. She flung back the blanket to lift the babe out in her arms. But the moment she touched him, she felt a dreadful burning and started back with a wild scream. Down to the beach she went, her head hanging and the tears streaming from her deep blue eyes. And all the awhile, Grannie Croy sat on the stone with the tears on her cheek and a half-smile on her lips.

As the boat pushed off, they heard Gem-de-Lovely lamenting sore. "Alas, alas, for my bonnie boy! Alas, that I must leave one to live and die on dry land!" The wind blew; the sail filled. The boat turned to the west and swiftly disappeared. Johnie Croy and his fair wife and their six eldest bairns inhere never more seen in Orkney. But Grannie Croy nursed up the babe that was left, and she named him Corsa Croy (Croy of the Cross). He grew up the bravest, the boldest and the bonniest man in the islands. When his grandmother died, Corsa Croy took to the sword. Far over seas he advent on crusade to fight the Pagans in the Holy Land. And men said that enemies fell before his blade like thistles to the reaping-hook. Corsa Croy became rich and famous. He married a great jarl’s daughter and settled in the south country. He and his wife had many bairns and long life and happiness, for the descendants of the sea-folk are always handsome and always lucky.

There was a fisherman come down in the owl-light into St Audries Bay. He'd heard someone singing down there in the dark and he were curious. So he come down by all a tip-toe. But he couldn't be quiet enough if he tried and the sea-morgans was all away off the rocks and into the tide, but in their hurry they left a baby-morgan a-kicking and chuckling under the cliff waterfall and the fisherman found her.

His heart was sore for a little daughter he'd just left in Watchet churchyard and his wife's heart were abroke. So he takes the baby morgan whoame up over to the farm and puts her in the empty cradle, and his wife took to her at once though she couldn't ever get the little creature's hair dry--not properly dry even in sun and hill wind and it smelled of the sea.

The baby grew up like they all do, and, except that she would be forever paddling and dabbling in the spring-pond and the trout stream, she made 'en a real good daughter till a neighbour came pushing her nose in.

"Dear, dear, how wet your hair be. Go and dry it like a Christian!" But the girl just laughed. Then she had to go and say, "A girt girl like you a-paddling in the spring-pond an't Christian at all. You go down to the sea and have a swim there."

The old couple bustled her out and as she went she heart a queer song coming from the far-away sea. "What ever be that?" she asked, but they wouldn't say and she heard it again behind her and it was the girl singing. "That's my song," she say. "Someone wants me. There will be a storm tonight."

Well, that meddler ran and roused the Doniford and Staple men to chase away this witch--but the girl ran away from them all, laughing. They couldn't catch up with her, and then they heard the song and the waves was thundering on the rocks and they bided where they was up on the cart-track. They heard her singing as she ran out along the rocks and then a great wave took her and no one ever saw her again.

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Last Updated 24 April, 2002

 

Last Updated 24 April, 2002