by Julie Douglas
She stumbled into Dublin quite by accident. She found herself perched above the O’Connell Street bridge, looking down at the wet, shimmering pavement that stretched over the River Liffey. The web site promised a “live view” of Dublin, and it seemed an innocent enough diversion from her work. Michaela sipped her coffee and squinted at the computer screen. A tiny double-decker bus was caught on the screen, frozen as it crossed the Liffey. Ant-like Dubliners scurried along the sidewalk, captured in mid-step. They were probably, she thought, enjoying the rare sunny January weather. Or maybe they were firming up plans to meet at the pub after work. It was, after all, past noon in Dublin, time to look forward to a pint at the end of the day. Michaela gazed at the scene suspended on her screen. Just ordinary people doing ordinary things, oblivious to the fact that thousands of miles away a total stranger sat watching them.
She could not imagine anyone watching her go about her ordinary day. She spent it in front of her keyboard, typing out the article that was already a week late. The high point of her day would be the chocolate macadamia nut coffee, her Wednesday indulgence. And if she needed excitement, it would surely come from trying to avoid yet another angry call from her editor. Her dog snored loudly at her feet; a drizzly January rain that really wanted to be ice tapped against her window. No, not much to see here, she thought.
Later in the afternoon, article finished, calls returned, little chores accomplished, she sat again at her computer. The plain aqua screensaver glowed softly in her dim office. She had tried to choose a more interesting screensaver several times, but nothing really satisfied her as much as the plain blue-green. It gave the room a kind of aura, like being underwater on a bright day. It made her think of the sea.
She opened a folder she kept tucked in the desk. Inside were notes, skeletons of stories, to-do lists. It was like a child’s craft box, full of bits and pieces of things. Nothing complete, nothing polished, but ripe with possibilities. She pulled out a page and read the notes she had written.
“Selkies. The legend goes something like this: A race of seal-people are thought to inhabit the coastal areas around Ireland and Scotland. Occasionally one of these creatures will come ashore. It sheds its seal skin and takes a human form. But not without great risk. If someone finds the skin and hides it, the Selkie is forced to live out its life as a human. A selkie may accept its human form, although it always longs for its true, authentic self…a seal.”
Michaela felt sad when she read this, as she always did. She imagined a Selkie living on land. The Selkie would make a life for herself. She would find a lover, make a family, learn to stand upon the earth. And yet, she would never really be human, never be what she appeared to be. The sea would speak softly to her, calling her seal name, a name that only she would hear. The scent of the saltwater would fill her head and make her dizzy. She dare not go too close to it for fear she would give in and plunge herself into its depths. No, it would be better, safer, to pretend to be human. The Selkie would breathe, but her breathing would match the rhythm of the tide. Her seal-skin, her true form, would remain hidden from her.
The idea of the Selkie/woman stayed with Michaela as she pulled on a jacket and tennis shoes, and headed out for a walk, dog in tow. The sky was slate and the wind felt like cold cement. She stopped in at The Latte Da coffee shop at the end of the street and ordered a decaf to go. The chatter and warm, thickly-scented air enticed her to stay, but the sky was looking heavy, so she headed for home.
In front of the computer, a thin wisp of steam rising from the to-go cup, she found herself in Dublin again. It was after midnight, Irish time, now. O’Connell Street was empty except for blotches of wet, red light left by a passing car. She thought it was odd that they called this a “live” view. What would it be like to really see this way, in a freeze frame, time to study and consider each moment before moving on to the next.
The screen refreshed; the puddles of red light were joined by golden streaks of headlights. And there, at the corner near the edge of the bridge, stood a tiny woman. Or was it? Michaela squinted, just able to make out a figure standing huddled under a streetlamp. The figure clutched a bundle to herself. Michaela strained to see it. Sipping her coffee, she peered at the woman half a world away. The screen went blank and politely asked her to wait while the picture reloaded.
In the new picture, the woman had moved to middle of the bridge, directly above the Liffey. She seemed to be holding something up in front of her now, the way you would hold a coat before you put it on. Michaela wished she could zoom in on the scene. Although she could clearly see the tiny woman standing there, the picture was just too small to completely understand. Her writer’s mind forced her to question what she saw. Who was this woman? What was she doing on a Dublin bridge in the middle of the night? What was she holding in front of her like a coat or a blanket.
…Or a skin. The screen blinked and began to refresh. Michaela leaned in close and waited as the picture emerged. First the black Dublin sky at the top, the rooftops of the buildings, the neon sign. And then the bridge, the still wet O’Connell Street, the Liffey below. And the woman, she was gone now.
Michaela scanned the corners of the picture, searching for a figure. There was no one on the O’Connell street bridge. The Liffey lay frozen in the picture, a mosaic of black deep waters, patches of red and gold and green lights scattered over its surface. And there, just below the middle of the bridge, the water’s smooth surface appeared broken. Ripples of reflected light radiated from something that had only just splashed into the Liffey. Something that was now further on downstream and on its way to the sea.
© Julie Douglas. All Rights Reserved.
Julie Douglas is a children’s writer who lives in St. Louis with her husband and daughter. She is a former elementary school teacher and currently writes a newsletter, The Classroom Mouse, for early childhood teachers.
