The Kelpie Diet

“I need to report a crime.”

The officer is running double duty, likely a receptionist, office manager, and accountant on top of his policing duties. And yet he still manages to look bored as he glances up from his report. I don’t blame him. The last true crime our village had was Anna’s report that someone was vandalizing her garden. The offender turned out to be a particularly mulish sheep. 

And that was ten months ago. 

The officer’s eyes brighten, however, when he sees me. I hold in a sigh. I’m considered plain by the standards of my species, so most of the time I can move through human society unnoticed. But sometimes a close encounter, particularly with a younger male, can still be overwhelming. And I do not have time for the inevitable attraction, the stumbling words, or the breathless distraction. Not today. I probably should have called, but why be up here at all if I don’t want to talk to humans face-to-face?

The police officer is still staring at me. I toss back my dark, curly hair in exasperation. It’s shot through with silver tresses, but in a way that makes me look mythic and wild rather than old. I narrow my large, dark eyes, wrinkle my round nose, and tap gunmetal-manicured fingers on the desk, “Hello? Report? Yes?”

“Oh! R-right!” He fumbles for a pad of paper, knocking a pen to the ground. He stumbles to retrieve it, slamming his head on the desk as he comes back up. There’s a yelp before he reappears, face flaming.

All right. I definitely should have called.

“You said there was a crime?” He prompts, “What’s wrong, miss?”

“I was walking on the beach this morning,” My stomach clenches at the memory, the horror washing over me anew, and I forget my exasperation in seconds, “And I found remains.”

He freezes, blood draining from his face. Remains are quite the escalation from sheep wrangling, “Human?”

“No. Seal.”

There’s a pause while he processes this, his fear giving way to confusion giving way to amusement, “You found a dead seal?”

“What was left of it,” I shudder a little, “It wasn’t much.”

“I see,” He taps his pen against the pad of paper, where he has yet to write a single word, “It was likely a shark, miss.”

I feel despair wash over me. I knew this was a long shot, but I’d still hoped… “It wasn’t a shark. It was a kel-”

I catch myself just in time, looking away as my face flushes. The officer cocks his head, “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

His voice turns placating, “I know it’s upsetting, miss. I love seals myself. But that’s just nature. Sharks need to eat too, and we can’t go about arresting them anyway. We don’t have the jurisdiction.”

I want to throttle him for the tone, but I force a weak smile at the attempt at humor, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that,” He gives me a friendly nod as I turn to leave, “And feel free to come back anytime if you do see something.”

That last sentence is practically dripping with desire. I’m just able to suppress my shudder until I’ve closed the door. 

Once outside, I pull my wool sweater tighter around me. It’s August, but in Iceland that only means that the wind whipping off the ocean takes dainty bites of one’s warmth instead of devouring it entirely. I make sure my backpack is secure, and then I begin trudging toward the water. I have a few hours before my shift starts, and I desperately need a swim. 

My home is on the edge of town, and even through my worry I soften a little when I see it. Sunshine yellow with a royal blue base and an apple green roof, it still takes my breath away every time. It’s barely more than a shack, but the small size makes the space all the more cozy. It’s just me, after all, and I have the whole ocean when I need to stretch my flippers. 

Enthusiastic barking greets me when I walk around back. There’s no fence, just craggy black rocks that lead straight to the ocean. Hannes, Edda, and Lilja, my seals, wiggle enthusiastically across the rocks toward me. I can’t suppress a giggle, a ray of delight breaking through the storm clouds of my mood. Seals are ballet dancers in the water, but land turns them into jiggling mounds of barely-coordinated blubber that one simply cannot watch without laughing, “My loves!” I croon, kneeling down, “Are you three having a good day?”

Edda sticks a wet nose in my face, and I pull back with a sputtering laugh, “Edda! We’ve talked about kisses!”

She blinks large, unrepentant eyes at me, and I kiss the top of her head, “I bet you’re doing better than I am.”

Hannes barks, nudging himself between Edda and I, “Of course he didn’t listen,” I lament, rubbing his belly, “He thought I was some soft-hearted animal lover. And he tried to flirt with me.”

Lilja moans, “I know!” I agree, “It was so awkward. And we’re no closer to fixing our little…problem.”

For a moment, the horror overwhelms me again. I look at the horizon and try to blink away images that surface in my mind like unwanted algal blooms. 

Last time, the remains were human. 

Of a sort.

I shake myself, refocusing, and three pairs of dark eyes are watching me anxiously, “Shall we go for a swim before work?” I offer, scratching Edda’s back, “I don’t have anywhere to be for a few hours.”

All three brighten visibly at the word ‘swim’, “Go on, then,” I pat Lilja and then make a shooing motion toward the water, “I’ll be right behind you.”

They tumble back toward the water, barking in delight, and I look around. I’ve planted thick hedges between my home and the water, and the rocks provide additional cover. Satisfied, I step behind a rock and open my backpack. My sealskin is safely tucked inside, the dapple grey pelt shimmering softly. I pull it free and shake it out, spreading it out on the sand before stripping off my human clothing. I pile the backpack and the clothing neatly at the base of the rock and wrap myself in my skin. The ocean’s embrace is glacial, but only for the seconds it takes me to shift from human to seal. Then I have a thick layer of blubber for insulation, and the water is cool and pleasant. I sigh, feeling my muscles relax in the water. I spend more time among humans than the average selkie, but even I need the ocean.

The clear water stretches before me, my seals doing somersaults as they wait for my arrival. For a moment, I consider simply fleeing. Consider moving up the coast to the next village, establishing a new identity and new roots. But I’ve already done that once, and trouble managed to find me again. So I square my blunt shoulders and swim out to join my seals, who greet me with affectionate nuzzles. They’re true seals, not selkies, and our relationship is akin to a human and their three beloved dogs, “Come on,” I beckon with one flipper, turning toward the harbor, “Let’s see if we can find him.”

They follow me eagerly, fanning out as we swim. Every so often one catches sight of a fish and darts off in pursuit like a hound after a squirrel, but they always rejoin the group eventually. We dive a little deeper once we enter the harbor, staying well out of the way of the boats, and I start scanning. It might be fruitless. He probably prefers freshwater, so the chance of him choosing the harbor for sanctuary instead of a local lake is slim. 

And then I spot him. 

The black water horse is asleep against a rock at the mouth of the harbor. His mane floats gently around him in the current, and every so often his hooves paws the sea floor restlessly. My heart sinks. My mother used to tell me stories about kelpies, horrifying tales of monsters dragging humans into the water and devouring them. Terrifying, but also a problem hundreds of miles distant. Or it was, anyway, until air travel became a reality. Now Scotland and Iceland are only a short flight apart, so a particularly enterprising kelpie like this one can easily make the journey to fresh hunting grounds.

A fact which sadly means I no longer have a mother. 

Or any family. 

Or any other selkies at all. 

I glare at his sleeping form. Why did he come here? Our village isn’t quite small enough that everyone knows one another, but it’s close. He’s going to have to be very careful not to draw attention to himself, as people tend to notice when neighbors they’ve had for decades go missing. Surely a city would provide more opportunities to snatch a human no one would miss? But he is here, and he’s not going to stick to seals for long. I’d hoped the police might help scare him off, but that plan failed miserably. 

I’m going to have to deal with him myself.

I bark a command for my seals to stay back, and I approach the kelpie cautiously. He doesn’t stir, but my heart still starts dancing a folk melody in my chest. He’s several times larger than I am, blacker than the deepest ocean trench. His mane is greasy, weeds woven in among the hair, and his hooves are knife-sharp. And he absolutely ripples with power from the tip of his snout to the end of his scaly fish tail. There’s no way I’d beat him in a fight. Selkies are peaceful by nature, and we’re not predators to anything bigger than a fish. Is there another way to beat him? My mother’s stories never gave a concrete answer, and I’m out of time to do any research before work.

Despondent, I rejoin my seals and we swim home. They flop onto the rocks and watch me remove my sealskin, changing back to human. I dress quickly, grateful for the sweater’s warmth, and carefully fold and tuck the skin into my backpack. I always carry it, even at work. Losing one’s skin means falling under the control of whoever takes it, and that’s an excellent way to find oneself in an unwanted marriage. I think of the police officer and shudder. 

I walk briskly to Soup and Saithe, greeting the humans I pass with friendly nods and smiles. There’s Rakel, a widow with skin so fragile it looks like tissue, watering her plants. Salka is on a walk with her baby, pointing out the various shops and other sights to the impassive newborn. And Jens is headed home from classes, gaze on the horizon as always. He’s headed for a foreign university soon, and I wonder if he’ll ever come back to our tiny village. 

Determination grips me. I might have lost one family, but I’ve made a new home here. None of these humans deserve a fate like being dragged into the water and eaten alive. 

I need to figure out some way to stop that kelpie. 

I’ve nearly made it to work when a neon advertisement in front of the pharmacy catches my eye. It’s for a new American diet pill, something with the letters “GLP” in the description. I pause, looking at the picture of a slim, happy woman for a moment while the seed of an idea sprouts in my head. Then I glance at my watch. I can spare a couple of minutes. I walk inside, a tinkling bell announcing my presence. 

Birta, the pharmacist, greets me warmly, “Sjór! On your way to work, are you?”

I nod, shifting my backpack a little, “Yes. But I saw the sign out front and wanted to ask about it.”

“Oh, that!” She sighs, “Those GLP’s are all the craze in America, and a number of people here have been requesting them. But I don’t like them. The side effects are a little scary.”

I perk up, “Side effects?”

“Oh, yes. All sorts of nasty gastrointestinal issues. Nausea, constipation, bloating, indigestion, fatigue…and appetite loss, of course.”

“Interesting…” I muse, thinking fast, “How long does it take to have any effect?”

“A few days to weeks. These ones are in pill form, but I don’t know if that makes them any faster than the injections. More pleasant to take, though.”

“Right,” My heart sinks a little, but then I remember that a kelpie and a human don’t have the same biology. Maybe the drug won’t affect our unwanted newcomer, or maybe it’ll act faster, “I’ll take two week’s worth of pills, please.”

“Oh, Sjór, really? You hardly need to lose any weight.”

“I know, but I…I heard they were good for headaches. And I get terrible headaches.”

“I did see some research about that,” Birta sighs and counts out the pills, handing them over as I pay, “Let me know if they work, but I definitely have other headache treatments here if they don’t. And Kristinn has an excellent physical therapy clinic down the road you could try.”

I nod, feeling slightly guilty in my deception. I’ve never had a headache, not even the time I swam headfirst into a glacier, “I will. Thanks, Birta.”

She waves me off, looking a tad glum, and once outside I pick up my pace. Inga, the restaurant’s owner, has enough children and dogs to look after that she won’t notice if I’m late. But I’m fond of her and her chaotic family, so I make punctuality a priority. I arrive with five minutes to spare, and the hostess is just seating my first table.

The kelpie enters our restaurant as evening is giving way to night. He stomps slightly as he walks, something the humans will attribute to his boots. They’d be horrified to know he was actually walking on hooves. His greasy black hair drips, and some of the weeds from earlier are still visible. He takes in the crowded restaurant hungrily, and I shiver a little. Is human on the menu tonight?

I take his grunted order - haddock and coffee - and pass the haddock along to the kitchen before I step behind the bar to the coffee pot. I pulverize three pills under the pretext of digging for a mug, sweep the dust into the mug’s bottom, and hastily pour the coffee. A tense moment of stirring follows as I realize I have no idea if they’ll dissolve, but I’m relieved to see them disappear. I add plenty of fresh milk to offset any odd taste and color, and I try not to let my hands tremble as I place the coffee on his table.

He snatches my wrist with snakeline speed, pinning it to the table as he looks me up and down. My breath catches, heart moving from folk melody to pure EDM, and I try not to look terrified as I meet his gaze. Does he remember me? Did he see me add the pills? 

But if he does, he doesn’t show it. He lets me go after what feels like a saga but is only a moment. His gaze wanders as he begins downing the coffee in deep gulps. I breathe a sigh of relief and return to work. My shift passes too quickly. The kelpie stays for hours, watching the patrons and staff with chilling intensity, but about half an hour to closing he pays his bill and vanishes.

The wind is on the devouring side as I begin my walk home, and I shiver. The darkness, usually a soothing wool blanket, now suffocates me as I hurry down the street. But I don’t make it far. The kelpie grabs my arm as I pass a dock, “Going somewhere, selkie?” He growls. His eyes glow inferno red, two demonic pinpricks in the inky black of night. 

I squeak out what I really wish was a scathing one-liner about revenge, but sadly it comes out the desperate cry of captured prey. The kelpie rips off my backpack and tosses it to the side as he drags me, screaming and kicking, toward the water.

And then he stops with a sudden grunt. Surprise and pain cross his face, and he releases my arm. I scramble backward, stopping as I feel my backpack behind me. I stare in wonder as the kelpie goes to one knee, groaning and clutching his abdomen. He looks at me longingly, like a cup of skyr he longs to devour but didn’t save enough room to eat. Then he turns and sprints down the dock, jumping into the water with a moan.

I blink at the sudden departure. Relief washes over me, and I can’t suppress an elated giggle, “Good luck eating humans with all that indigestion!” I call gleefully to the empty surf, “But just think of all the pounds you’ll shed! You’ll be beautiful!”

There’s no response, and I pick myself up and retrieve my backpack. This is a temporary win at best, but I’ll take it for now. And who knows? Maybe it’ll only take one bad night to convince him to move on.

Or maybe he’ll love his new body and move to America.

Either way, my new home is safe.