Esme Thorburn

In the deep mind, you've always known, even before we came to you

Esme Thorburn, known as Selkie, is a lecturer of Nordic and Cultural Studies at the Oilthigh na Gàidhealtachd agus nan Eilean, Kirkwall, on the mainland Orkney isle. She was called upon to speak at a gathering in Northumberland regarding some recently discovered relics at Lindisfarne, but it was a typical Dragon ruse: a representative offered her a chance to do some research out in Maine, United States. "There are," she warned, "A few irregularities." The visit was timely; Selkie had swallowed a bee only weeks before.

Although the Secret World has offered sights she could not have imagined, she is not necessarily a newcomer to the concept of magic. She, like her mother and grandmother before her, is a spá-kona or spaewife, a wisewoman or witch gifted with foresight, healing knowledge, skill with charms and protections as well as other traditional folk rituals. They also served as midwives and counsellors.

For a child the craft was a dream come true, a real-life fairytale of daggers charged in the moonlight, gemstone charms to attract friendship, thorns in an apple to repel bullies and herbs on the bonfire to enhance intellect. Dreaming and waking blended like the sand and the tide, neither one more real than the other. In her teens she sold psychic readings and charms, hopes and wishes for tourists and easily amused locals. But with time came study and skepticism. During her Masters she put away childish things. The spá-craft was her tradition and her culture but there was no magic, only gentle suggestion, placebo and reassurance. The only prophecies she peddled were the self-fulfilling.

But now magic is all around, anima boiling in her sweat and blood, crackling at her fingertips in silken, liquid flames. Her work in Maine was saturated in draug, the undead, the spirits, the anima world, the lasting effect of a tragic death and the open secrets of the so-called normal folk. Egypt and Transylvania further pulled the veil away in a whirlpool of rising Gods, modern terrorism, time travel, vampirism and backwoods brutality. The Orochi teach her not all horror resides in the past and the traditional; the Phoenicians remind her there is still so much to learn. And the Dragon - the Dragon remain an enigma, guiding her gently and offering a few nods of appreciation, watching like a benevolent goddess ready to pounce when the moment is right.

A child of Gaia, a bee-blessed witch who can hear the call of Odin across the sea, whose dreams sing of rising gods, desperate children, shutters swinging in the fog and a ink-black cityscape. Whose beads and bundles and bonfires burn with intent and fear and ice-white fire. Whose rough-hewn poppet charms smile wickedly with grins of twine. She is drawn to the ocean, drinking in the siren's song and recalling the tales of the selkie, the seals who shed their skin and took a human form, caused mischief on the land and then returned to the sea. Pity the jealous lover who steals and hides a selkie's skin, trapping her to the land. Pity him and his inevitable end, his final words sputtered through warm blood and cold, cold saltwater.