The Sinclair Selkie

By Chris Quinton

American Donal MacCraith is on a road trip along the western coast of Scotland to the Western Isles. His family roots are there, but his main reasons for the extended vacation are the songs and legends. He's a folk-singer, come to collect some new old material. In Stornoway he meets the Shielingers and Niall MacLachlan. When he continues his exploration of Lewis, making for the small crofting community his grandmother left as a young woman, he finds Niall waiting for him on the road just outside the town.

Once out on the road, Niall makes a play for Donal, and they begin a casual no-strings relationship, though Donal senses Niall has an agenda of his own. He's right, and the clue is in the old family stories of the Sinclair Selkie Donal's grandmother had told him. That clue will lead Donal to the startling truth behind the legend, and he and Niall will be faced with life-changing choices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kouros Books
• Release date: Jan 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386593874

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

Book preview

Chapter One

Scenery, people, the céilidhs—those often spontaneous parties of song and dance—all of it had combined to make the Isle of Skye an experience not to be missed, and Donal MacCraith added half a dozen new songs to his repertoire in the week he spent touring around in his rented Peugeot Starstream motorhome.

Even the occasional gale force winds and sideways rain hadn’t diminished his enjoyment, balanced out as they were by sunny days, and amazing sunsets and sunrises. Now ahead of him lay the island of Harris and Lewis, the largest of the Western Isles, where his family roots were sunk deep, or so his grandparents maintained. The ferry’s destination was Tarbert, and from there he’d strike north.

Rochester, New York State, lay far behind him. This road and sea trip wasn’t a vacation; well, not entirely. Being a singer of mainly Scottish and Irish folksongs, he spent a lot of time on the hunt for new-to-him old material, as well as writing his own lyrics and music. Now, for the first time he’d come to the source.

Donal drove off the boat in fine weather, and by the early evening, he reached Stornoway, the principal and largest town in the Western Isles. Thanks to Eric, the ferry’s good-looking, very helpful—and very available—steward, Donal knew exactly where to go.

He turned into the parking lot of the Stuart Arms, where, Eric had assured him, he’d find a welcome, and a folk group or soloist. He dragged a comb through his hair, fastened it tidily in a ponytail, then set out with his guitar in its case slung over his shoulder.

When Donal entered the pub, he found the place was already beginning to fill up, so he ordered a plate of ham, eggs, and fries from the bar, and chatted amicably with the bartender while he waited for his meal. Among other things, he learned a local folk group would be playing there that evening at seven; the Shielingers.

The what? Donal asked. "I’m American, and my Gaelic isn’t as fluent as it could be, but I know what a shieling is. But shielinger? Is that even a word?"

The bartender laughed. Well, Fergus wanted to call the group the Crofters, but that name’s been taken so many times, it’s a joke. So, since the shielings are where the crofters lived when they used to take their beasts to graze up on the moors in the summer months, he stuck the e and r on the end.

Huh. Put like that, it makes perfect sense. Donal grinned. Smart guy.

They’re not bad, either. The landlord has them on a regular booking every Tuesday night and they always pull in a good crowd.

The bartender wasn’t wrong. Donal quickly ate his meal, and by the time he’d finished, the pub was packed. He retreated to an out of the way corner where he could keep an eye on the small stage and its piano at the end of the room. Three men were up there, gathered around the battered upright. One of them checked the tuning on his guitar while another attended to a fiddle.

They all appeared to be around his own age, in their late twenties, and like him, wore their hair long. Two had hair as dark as his, and again like him, tied at the nape of their necks. The guitarist, a short, stocky redhead, sported a bushy beard, narrow braids at his temples and a riotous mane around his shoulders. He looked like he could lead a revolt against the mainland at the drop of a claymore. His blue denim shirt and jeans didn’t take away from the effect.

Then Red called out a greeting in Gaelic and repeated it in English, Good evening, friends! The Shielingers are here! And they launched straight into a rousing rendition of Johnny Cope that had the audience joining in with foot-stamping appreciation. That was followed by Twa Corbies, Cam Ye O’er Frae France, then they slowed the pace right down with the ballads The Rose Of Allandale, and Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go?.

For nearly an hour, the Shielingers gave the audience a variety of traditional songs, from Jacobite rebelliousness to gentle love songs and lullabies, but none of them were new to Donal. He wasn’t disappointed though. The group was good, and the audience was having a blast if the decibel level of the choruses was anything to go by.

By the time the trio paused for liquid refreshment, Donal had edged his way to the side of the stage, and caught the redhead’s eye.

You guys are real good, Donal said honestly. It’s great the folk scene is going strong in the Isles. It’s what I came here for.

Yeah? He nodded to the guitar case on Donal’s back. You sing?

Yup. Donal MacCraith, Donal said, holding out his hand. The singer shook it, smiling at him. Call me Don.

Fergus Macauley, he responded. Pat Morrison on the fiddle, Niall MacLachlan on the bodhran and backing vocals. Pat, over six feet tall with the harsh-boned features of Viking stock, waved his bow in acknowledgment. Niall, shorter and dark-eyed, smiled slightly.

I’m over here from New York State to learn some new old songs, Donal said with a grin. I’m aiming to travel the Western Isles and Highlands for the next few months, see what I can find.

And you’ll be getting in touch with your roots? Fergus chuckled. That’s what most visiting Yanks do.

Well, maybe, but the songs and old stories are top of my agenda.

"Then this pub is a good place to start. If you’re into it, there’s a circuit in Stornoway. Any given night except Sundays, you’ll find a band or a singer performing somewhere. Sometimes the céilidh just happens; usually the landlord hires us for the night."

Sounds like a damn fine setup.

It suits us, Fergus said. Tell you what, we’re about to take a break. Why don’t you fill in the gap, show us what you can do. There was an element of friendly challenge in the man’s voice and Donal could never turn down a dare.

Thanks, he said, shrugging off his guitar. While he adjusted the tuning, Fergus stood back a few paces.

We’ll be taking a short break now, he announced, his voice pitched to carry over the general hubbub. But my man here, Donal MacCraith, will take up the slack.

There was a mild ripple of applause and moments later, Donal was alone on the small stage.

Hi, folks, he said, perching on the stool Fergus had abandoned, and did his best to appear at ease. He was no stranger to performing in public, but as always, a knot of tension lodged under his ribs. I’m a Yank from Rochester, New York State, but my mom’s family came from Lewis and my dad’s from Harris, and I learned my songs from them. You’ll probably be knowing all the words, so join in if you feel like it.

Beginning with I Will Go, Donal then segued into the Mingulay Boat Song. Halfway through, the rolling throb of a bodhran joined in to underscore the melody. He glanced around to see Niall smiling. Then the man’s fine voice joined in, husky tenor with Donal’s baritone, and it seemed like the whole pub came in on the chorus. When the song ended, the applause was more than polite.

Donal sang in English and Gaelic for twenty minutes, adding in a few of the more obscure songs from his granny’s repertoire; The Sinclair Selkie, a rollicking tale of a young man seducing a lovely maiden on the shore only to get the shock of his life, and The Calling In of the Waves, a slow, haunting song of love and loneliness. Niall’s bodhran accompanied him on every one.

During his final, more well-known song, the Eriskay Love Lilt, Fergus and Pat came back, their voices, guitar and fiddle, blending in seamlessly. When the clapping, stamps, and whistles died down and Donal started to leave the stage, Fergus pushed him back and shook his head.

Stick around, Donal MacCraith. You fit in just right.

That was all the invitation Donal needed, and for the rest of the evening he stayed with the Shielingers, taking over Niall’s bodhran when it was put aside for the tin whistle. Then, after the last song had been sung, the last beers ordered, Fergus pinned Donal in a corner.

That song you sang, he said without preamble. "‘The Sinclair Selkie’. I know