(prompt: 'lock' Feb 19, 2021)
The years unfolded in their own sweet way, as years tend to do. More often than not, the Orkney coastline was cruelly lashed by thunderous seas and thick, threatening mists. Many the time on a cold forbidding night out dragging and resting, dragging and resting, in his vast fishing nets, Magnus knew full well what that old Sea Mither of an ocean gave so kindly one day, could be ripped heartlessly away the next by the cruel and wintry TERAN.
For many years after his encounnter with the Selkie, Magnus had peered carefully at every whirlpool, every changing tide — his keen eyes never missing the slightest hint of a ripple of a seal's nose on its glassy calm. He was especially vigilant on each seventh year — the one where legend told a Selkie could communicate with mankind.
Despite his most ardent (but secret) wishes, those seven year stretches repeated with nary a glimpse of those long, black cheek whiskers twitching every which way; and the eyes... Were there ever larger, blacker pools of melted molasses to match the pain and the love that filled hers? When he did remember his Selkie, he couldn't help but wish he had been the recipient — of the love part, anyway. Bizarre, he'd think, and shake himself, and yet... a small feeling of loss remained.
Life for Magnus the Hunter became that of a husband, and then a father several times over - with all finally grown and gone their own ways now... not one a fisherman, sadly — although he pretended not to be disappointed. Still, sometimes when the wind howled most furiously, he would shudder, out there on his boat alone. And he would cry invisible tears, just like the Selkie, or so legend vowed. And though he spoke of it to none, not even his sweet own wee wifey, he would swear he heard the song of the Selkie in the softer, grey curling waves before dawn.
On land, he would strive to be just 'one of the men', joining in the general shenanigans and helping to grow the legends, watered especially well around the gnarled old oaken bar Magnus called his 'verra ain waterin' hole'.
So it may have continued... except for the night of the massive catch, when Magnus ignored the floodtide and stayed on the rock island too long to even be able to swim his catch ashore, holding and steering his boatload to safety. Long had his wife bemoaned his solitary occupation, and now it appeared all her fears were justified. Now the currents would have their way, and though Magnus would shout 'til he was hoarse, and wave his arms about to catch a landman's attention, it was all in vain.
His destiny seemed locked in a downward spiral. Nothing but dismal death lay before him.
Or did it?
Author's Note: Ohh...It appears there will be a Part 3.
I just learned that at the last sentence!
Ohh dear... there's no cliffhanger; just a heap of rocks.