• Susan Sowerby

Saltwater in the Soul – book 1 – a novel about selkies set in the Hebrides

Updated: Dec 7, 2020

When I first visited the Findhorn Community, close on forty years ago, it was having an internal conference, so I was obliged to wait the time out on the Isle of Iona in the Hebrides of Scotland. Below is a channeling which came through an Hawaiian friend in the middle of the night, while we were there.

‘Fingal’s Cave rises out of the sea, so it has to do with the subconscious mind in humans which rules the rhythms and tides of the body – your endocrine system, your breath, your heartbeat, lymph and organs. All these have a frequency or keynote. In the coming age, people will learn to vibrate diseased organs back into harmony by using the correct keynote sounds. They will think cutting into the body with instruments very barbaric. We call this music of the Underworld and it greatly assists the healing of the physical body. It is maintained and augmented by what you call mermaids, subtle entities not of your dimension.’

I cannot help but notice that in more recent years, science has made some very interesting discoveries in this direction. This channeling is what triggered my Saltwater Series many years later. I will offer more of it in a future post. Below is the first page of ‘Saltwater inn the Soul.’


A novel about Selkies set in the Hebrides

It was 1999, and I’ll never forget that night, the night the strange visitor came to my door. I won’t forget the way the sea roared around the island, or the passion with which I loved its refusal to be tamed. The sea for me has always been like the lover I can’t quite reach, a ceaseless, painful yearning. I’ve always been tormented by something wild, something fathomless down inside. On that night, the storm matched my mood.

At the time, I didn’t know what drove me to this bleak hillside in the Hebridean Isles that lie off the west coast of Scotland, though I was painfully aware I needed to escape my family. Most guys of sixteen wouldn’t find comfort retreating to a fisherman’s croft, alone on the barren, windy Isle of Erraid. Few could stand the isolation when they’ve just come from a full-on city scene. I know many would have been afraid of the raw power that howled around the eaves and shook the very foundations of my cottage that night, but I’m fundamentally different, somewhere, somehow. I knew that – not that I liked or understood it.

It was mid-night. Seductive sounds of the elements enfolded me, whispering in the sweet lashing of the sea, in the bellowing of the thunder, the lightning, and the hissing torrents of the rain. All was music to my nameless longings, the night the visitor called.

There’s no electricity here. I could say there was plenty bouncing off the rocks and knolls that night, but none captive, so all I had for light was a hurricane lamp, a flash light and a few candles. I remember a God Almighty crack of thunder shuddering down my spine, then the door blew open and a sheet of sleet soaked me to the skin. It also tore the light from the lamp and extinguished the candles. The instant a sharp flash flickered, I thought I glimpsed a small figure, not five feet tall just standing there in the rain. Afraid I might be imagining things, I fumbled around for my flash light but couldn’t locate it.

“Are you all right?” I asked. The reply was silence, which made the hair on my head creep.

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