Star of the Sea

Christina Rosso's story this week reveals nuances of myth in a watery Selkie realm.  ~ Julian and Fran, November 17, 2024.

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Star of the Sea

by Christina Rosso

The truth is I wanted to get caught. I wanted the human men to see my silky limbs dancing on the shore, their jaws quivering, their breathing shifting into thick, oxygen-strained pants. Since I was a pup, I’ve recognized the power of beauty. How it can weaken a much stronger predator to a mollusk, a vulnerable organism you can slip down your throat in one salty gulp.

Perhaps I craved the danger. The metamorphosis from one body to the next. Trading one world for another. I’ll tell you my story, one unlike any you’ve heard before. Perhaps you’ll think me a monster. Perhaps you’ll cast me as the victim. Perhaps, you’ll think, I was simply bored with the status quo.

Each night, I lie awake next to a man I do not love. I stare out the oval window at the sea below and think about dragging a shell across his throat, scooping his innards out like humans do sand on the beach for their castles. The sand, the sea, our bodies, we are all vessels to them, to be gutted and stuffed. Some nights I dream about turning the shell against my own throat, emptying me out until I am as gutted as I feel.

My husband didn’t trick or trap me. In most of the tales of my kin, he is the hunter and I, a slick gray beast, am the prey. In this story, he is a means to an end. A creature to slip into and under for a pause. Eleven cycles of the moon, and one cycle of my body.

You could say I did it for my mother to avenge the atrocities she faced from my father. A hulking human who took one look at my slippery amniotic-yellow newborn pelt, ripped me from my mother’s arms, and tossed me into the sea. I was alone until my aunt found me, an orphan pup whimpering for her mother, the call unanswered.

You could say I did it for my cousin, Nora, whose husband stole her skin while she slept and locked it inside an impenetrable trunk, enslaving her to this form and this man for the rest of her days.

You could say I did it for my sister, who, as we speak, floats too close to the beach, watching the men and dreaming of fairy-tale love and happily ever after. She doesn’t heed the stories as unavoidable truths, as the fate of our kind. She thinks her prince, her beloved, will be different, but you and I know that’s just a fantasy. We’ve all heard the story—mankind whittles us beasts down until we’re floating sea-foam.

You could say I did it for all of these reasons, but more than anything, I did it for love.