HERE IS A story handed down from many a year ago. The tale’s been told by many a tongue but I shall tell it so.

Duncan MacKinnon was a fisherman.

He sold his catch for a fee.

He lived in a lonely stone-built croft

by the side of the ragged sea.

And when he could, he would hunt the seals

and Vhe oleightstrip them of their hides.

He would keep and cure each precious pelt

but throw each corpse to the tides.


Now in those days the pelts were prized

and folk would pay full well

for a sealskin cap, or a bag, or boots,

or clothes, as I’ve heard tell.

And the local folk came knocking

at the sealskin seller’s door,

so in time he left his floats and nets

and hunted seals the more.

Duncan MacKinnon rowed the tides.

At his belt he wore a knife.

And with the aid of its deadly blade

he would take each sad seal’s life.

The hunter soon grew stout and rich

with the sale of the skins he caught.

He lived his life by the skill of his knife,

but gave the seals small thought.

It was on a day, in a sunlit bay,

when the whole sea seemed to smile,

he sighted a huge and handsome seal

stretched out on a rocky isle.

When he saw the size of the great, grey seal

he crooned, ‘With a skin like that

you could trim and shape a costly cape

or many a shoe and hat.’

So he moored his boat but a short way off

and he crept up, yard by yard.

Then, almost there, he leaped through the air

and he drove his knife in hard.

But the great, grey seal was a fighter,

and he writhed from the hunter’s grip.

With the knife in his side he dived for the tide

and he gave his man the slip.

MacKinnon shrugged and returned to his boat

to row to his own home shore.

‘The seals in the sea swim wide and free,’

he mused. ‘There are plenty more.’


Duncan MacKinnon, oh, Duncan MacKinnon,

now take great heed, beware.

The fill of a purse can be a curse

for living things to bear.

The clink of a coin and its comfort

may keep you warm and dry.

But what of the shame that sticks to your name

at each sad creature’s cry?

What is the worth of a wealth that’s ripped

from the world by a ruthless knife?

What of the guilt on which it’s built

as you strip each struggling life?

Duncan MacKinnon, when you were a boy,

did you never sit down on the beach

to learn from the pound of the stern sea-sound

the l [if"h="0em" essons that it might teach?

Faithless fisherman, when you were young,

did nobody think to tell

that there’s more in the sea than a hunter’s fee,

there’s life in the great grey swell?

Did nobody show you, upon the shore,

when you were both young and small,

that the rolling sea, so fair and free,

is the Ancient Mother of All?

Sad seal hunter, learn in time,

as you stack your brimming store,

when simple need grows into greed

there’ll be darkness at your door.


Late that night, as he sat by the light

of his guttering oil-lamp flame,

there came a knock at his low croft door

and a voice called out his name.

In a place so lone, at an hour so late,

who could this caller be?

The curious hunter loosed the door

and peered out cautiously.

There on the threshold stood a man

in a cape both dark and long.

He spoke to the wary hunter

in a deep voice, soft yet strong.

‘Duncan MacKinnon, say, is it so,

you have seal skins here to sell?

Are you that [>Ar size="-1" famous hunter

of whom the folk all tell?’


Duncan MacKinnon nodded.

‘Of skins I have full store.

I’ll sell you all the skins you need.

The sea holds plenty more.’

The dark-caped stranger listened

to the words the hunter told.

‘My master waits nearby,’ he said,

‘if you wish your skins all sold.’

Duncan MacKinnon and the stranger

walked out to the edge of the land.

‘Now where,’ said the man, ‘is my master?

He was here just now, at hand …’

They peered at the edge of the clifftop

where the brink might break and slip.

It was then that the hunter felt his arms

held tight in a vice-like grip.

And before he could make a murmur

or shake his pinned arms free,

the stranger leaped from the clifftop

and they plummeted down to the sea.

As they hit the cold and dark of the waves

the stranger pulled him down.

The hunter felt his life was done,

for now he must surely drown.

Down they went, far deep beneath

the foam and the rolling waves,

till they came to an underwater world

where the rocks were pierced with caves.

Still he felt the stranger’s hands

where they gripped his arms so tight,

as together they swam through the mouth of a cave

and into a greeny light.

And down in that weird and greeny light

where he thought to meet his death,

when his will gave way and he drank the brine

he found he could draw his breath.

Now as he drank that liquid brine

he felt both light and free.

And the eerie glide of his sinister ride

seemed neither of land nor sea.


It was then that he noticed the skin of his guide

had a silky, a slippery feel.

In the watery light he saw to his fright

that the man had become a seal.

Gone were the hands and gone were the feet,

and gone was the long, black cape.

For now the dark guide that he floated beside

was wholly a seal in shape.

His silent seal-guide drew him on

to an underwater town

where the walls shone white with a pearly light

and the seals swam up and down.

They swam till they came to a palace

and they passed on through its door.

[r.And once inside his eyes went wide

at the sight the hunter saw.

There were white rock seats in a circle

where many a seal sat round.

But in that solemn circus

there came not ever a sound.

For there in the circle’s centre,

set out on a white rock bed,

lay a seal so still and silent

it seemed that seal lay dead.


Then the hunter saw the knife in its side

and he opened his mouth to moan.

There on its hilt was the ring of gilt

that marked it as his own.

He fell to his knees on the chamber floor

and wrung his hands in fear.

Alone, deep down in the selkie town

he sensed his end was near.

But the seal-guide’s voice spoke up to him

and seemed to fill his head.

‘Remove the knife and smooth the wound,’

that strange voice softly said.

The hunter pulled his cruel knife out

and wiped its blade of steel.

When, with his hand, he smoothed the wound,

he saw it swiftly heal.

The great seal stirred and seemed to stretch,

then reared up proud and high.

He turned toward the hunter

and fixed him with his eye.

‘I am the King of the Seals,’ he said.

‘Your seal-guide is my son.

The time has come to settle up

the deeds that you have done.


‘Tonight my son has brought you here

to gather back your knife.

And if you now repent your deeds

I’ll grant you back your life.

‘If you will fish the seas again

and do the seals no ill,

we seals will always be your friends

and help your nets to fill.

‘But if you slay a seal once more

and take it for its skin,

the Selkie Folk will seek you out

and slay you for your sin.

‘Now stand again, and sheathe your knife

and say before us now,

will you give up the hunter’s life

and take the Selkie Vow?’

The hunter rose and sheathed his knife,

then, there upon the sand,

he saw appear these words so clear,

as if by secret hand:

I, who live by swell of sea,

will learn to use it modestly,

idth="0em" align="justify">to fish it but for honest need,

and not to grasp with rising greed.

I, who ride on wealth of wave,

will vow to cherish, succour, save,

never to pluck or cruelly plunder

what goes over, on or under.

I, who tell the turning tide,

will make the sea my place, my pride,

and guard all things that go within,

whether of scale or shell or skin.

I, who live beside the shore,

will know content, not ask for more.

I am for her, and she for me.

The Selkie Vow respects the Sea.


The hunter stood and took the Vow

and at each word he spoke

the darkness seemed to gather round

and wrap him like a cloak.

He fell into a deep sea swoon

where waters rolled him round.

And when he woke it seemed to him

he lay on solid ground.

He raised his head and looked about.

The moon shone sweet and soft.

Above him on the cliff he saw

his stony fisher-croft.

He climbed the path and found his door,

then stumbled to his bed. [s bt> [s b

And all that night the strange events

went reeling through his head.


But when the light of early dawn

came trickling through his pane

he rose to fetch his fishing nets

and cast them once again.

And, from that time, if traders,

skin dealers, came to call,

he’d show them where his dagger hung,

sheathed safely on the wall.

He’d sit them at his table

and tell his story through,

of how he met the Selkie Folk,

and the king he nearly slew.

And how once more he fished the sea

and looked to it for life,

but never more would harm a seal

with net or club or knife.

And how, whenever he rode the waves,

in swollen tides or calm,

his nets were never empty

and he never came to harm.


My story’s done and over,

my tale is at an end,

of how a cruel hunter

became the selkies’ friend.

It is a story handed down

from many a year ag [anyg [anygo.

The tale’s been told by many a tongue,

but I have told it so.


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