The Coat by the Door — Jack and Horn on Selkie Stories

The coat dripped onto the mat while Jack looked for a hook that wasn't already occupied. At this hour, even moving a hanger sounded inconsiderate. He shifted a scarf, hung the sea-soaked coat by the door, and spread its sleeves so they could dry.

From the sofa, Horn opened one eye.

“Don't hide that.”

“I'm hoping it will leave of its own accord. It's brought half the shore indoors.”

“The selkie skin,” Horn said, still thick with sleep. “That's how those stories start. Somebody finds something on the beach and decides it's theirs.”

Jack put a shallow tray under the hem. “I remember a man hiding it. She stays, becomes his wife. Then she finds it and goes back.”

“Stays.” Horn sat up enough to free a cushion from behind his neck. “Not much of a word for having no way out.”

The refrigerator stopped humming. Water ticked into the tray.

“Do you remember whether she tells him anything before she leaves?” Jack asked.

“Not reliably. I remember the finding. And children in some versions.”

“Yes. That's the part that makes it hurt.”

“For her too, presumably.”

Jack pulled the other chair closer rather than raising his voice. “I was about to say he loses her.”

Horn rubbed his face. “He does. Doesn't mean she was his.”

For a while they watched the coat. One sleeve hung lower than the other, its cuff dark with water.

“Why both, though?” Jack said. “Why a seal and a person? Why not just someone he won't let go?”

“A seal can have somewhere to go that he can't follow.” Horn tucked his feet beneath the blanket. “A whole life he doesn't get to be part of.”

“And the human shape makes him recognise her.”

“Enough to want her. Not enough to give the skin back.”

Jack glanced toward his camera bag beside the chair. “Depends where you put the frame. Stay in the house and the sea looks like the thing that takes her away.”

“Stay on the shore and the house does.”

“Neither quite human nor quite animal,” Jack murmured. “Or neither one as far as the people telling it can understand.”

Horn considered that. “She might not find being both confusing.”

The coat slipped a little on its hook. Jack stood and caught it, then settled the loop properly over the peg.

“Whose story do you think it is?” he asked.

“Hers. Though I'd want to hear the children too.” Horn lay back down. “Not just the person left looking out of the window.”

Jack turned off the brighter lamp. In the light above the door, the wet coat was still plainly visible. He left the tray beneath it and moved his shoes out of the way.