The Last Balfour

by Cait Dee

  ‘Where did you find her?’ I ask Cal.

  He scratches his head. ‘Better you don’t ask. Cattle raiding’s a hanging offence in Dunshee and I’ve grown quite fond of your neck. I shouldn’t like to see it stretched any time soon.’ He gives me his crooked smile.

  My head turns as I hear someone climbing the hill. ‘Euan?’ I call, frowning.

  ‘Aye, a moment.’

  Presently Euan appears from the western side of the hill. We give him some time to catch his breath.

  ‘Och, it’s steeper than it looks! I’d almost forgotten about this place. I’ve not been up here since I was a lad.’ He stands and looks around. ‘It moves, you know.’

  Cal and I exchange a puzzled glance. ‘What do you mean, it moves?’ I ask him.

  Euan shrugs. ‘I remember my grannie telling me so, but I never really believed her until I saw it for myself. There was a time when I could glimpse the hill from the window of my front room, but then it moved further south-east, and now the kirk steeple blocks my view of it. An eldritch thing, to be sure. The auld ones say it’s a hollow hill. The Good Folk bide deep within.’

  Glancing at the darkening sky, I say, ‘Are they all out?’

  ‘Aye.’ Euan nods.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘I checked them myself. They’re all out.’

  ‘But do folk know —?’

  ‘Aye, aye! All the fires are out. There’s not a body left in Dunshee who doesn’t know what needs to be done. I told you I’d take care of it. Troth, you’re worse than a swarm of midges, wee lassie!’

  Cal laughs but I shoot him a look. This is no time for merry banter. The spell won’t work unless every last flame in Dunshee is put out. Euan spent the afternoon knocking on doors, telling the townsfolk to dout their hearth fires and to light no candles or lamps in the evening. The older folk, the ones who remember the old ways, promised they would see to it. Euan stayed in town to make sure it was done.

  ‘Very well,’ I say. ‘Let us begin.’

  Cal leads Euan to the leeward side of the kingstone, which offers some shelter from the early-evening breeze. Euan sits on the ground, back pressed to the stone. He arranges the fire-making apparatus between his legs. The flame must not be struck with metal or flint. Only a spark from two pieces of wood can create the need fire.

  With one of his knees Euan secures a small plank of oak into which he has wimbled a hole. He slides a piece of bark beneath the plank to collect the embers. Then he picks up an elderberry branch, slightly smaller than the hole in the plank, and inserts it. He birls the branch between his palms. Within Euan’s reach Cal places a bundle of dried grass fashioned into a bird’s nest. Also nearby are some giant puffballs we found in the woods earlier in the day.

  The need fire is summoned only at times of great despair, when everything else has failed. I only saw Grizel make a fire this way once before. A few years ago, a murrain threatened to wipe out all the cattle in Heatherbrae. The need fire worked then and I have prayed to Bride that it will work for us now. If it doesn’t, then Bessie and the others are surely lost.

  Lighting a fire is a delicate business at the best of times and one that is trickier still in the fading light. Everything depends on Euan, and he senses it. As he spins the branch between his hands, beads of sweat form on his brow. It is difficult not to watch him. Once or twice he looks up with a glare.

  After a while he stops his exertions and shakes out his numb fingers.

  ‘Cal, take over for a while.’

  ‘Nae, I told you, only a married man can kindle the flame.’ I didn’t know why this was so, but Grizel had said it was crucial for the ritual to work.

  Euan scowls, gingerly poking at the blisters forming on his palms. ‘It just won’t catch.’

  Something feels amiss. I stand on the kingstone and close my eyes, gathering a sense of the place. Euan confirmed that it’s a hollow hill; a home of the Faerie. They detest iron and take great offence if it’s brought onto their land. The last thing we can afford to do is offend the Good Folk, for they can seize the energy of the spell and work all kinds of mischief with it.

  ‘Take your belt off,’ I say to Euan.

  ‘My belt? But there’ll be nocht to hold my breeks up!’

  ‘Don’t be troubled, you’ll have it back. Just while you’re kindling, you shouldn’t wear any iron.’

  ‘But there’s the hooks on my jacket. And the buttons on my breeks.’

  ‘Then take them off too.’

  Euan looks horrified. ‘Cal?’ he pleads in a soft voice.

  ‘We spoke of this, cousin. You must do as she says, else it won’t work. Think of wee Bessie, now.’

  Euan stands and meets my gaze.

  Earlier, when I told Euan that his daughter must be passed through fire to cleanse her of the affliction, his face turned pale.

  I’m a godly man, he’d said. I’ll not let my daughter have any part in witchery! He said God condemned as the worst sinners of all those who passed their children through the fire. His eyes were wide with fear.

  I told Cal we’d have to forget the ritual. But he sat his cousin down and told him that Bessie wouldn’t survive another day. Reluctantly, Euan had agreed to help, but he wouldn’t allow his daughter or any of the other townsfolk to take any part. It’s for your own good as much as theirs, lassie, he’d said.

  Now I could sense his resolve seeping away like water spilled on dry earth.

  ‘I’ll turn my back,’ I say.

  Muttering to himself, Euan drops his belt and takes off his outer garments, which Cal throws over the side of the hill. Euan looks sullen as he fusses with his cloak. Cal struggles not to smirk and I fight back a giggle.

  Crouching down, Euan attempts to arrange his cloak over his smallclothes. He pulls at it and stretches it and then tries to kneel on it, but the wind conspires against him at every turn, whipping the corners out of his grasp and leaving him exposed. I pretend to cough, trying to muffle my laughter.

  Cal throws his head back and howls. ‘The west wind has bested you, cousin!’ he says, wiping a tear from his eye.

  ‘Stop it at once!’ Euan cries. ‘I’ll leave you both here and you can do it yourselves!’

  Cal sees the alarm on my face and acts quickly to placate Euan. ‘Here, let me help you.’ He stands in the direction of the wind and shields him so Euan can reposition his cloak and preserve his modesty.

  Euan begins to work the fire again. Before long, smoke rises from the hole in the plank: a sign that an ember has formed. Then Euan lifts the plank and carefully transfers the small smoking pile of black dust from the bark into the nest of dried grass. He folds the grass around the ember and waves it in a circle so the fire can draw. In moments, the grass bursts into flame. Cal and I exchange relieved grins.

  Euan carries the bundle of flaming grass over to the pyre of sacred woods. First, he takes a bundle of birk twigs and feeds them into the flame. The twigs are dry and brittle and they catch easily. Next, he adds slightly larger twigs and we wait until they too smoke and crackle. The flames grow and he adds larger sticks and branches. Soon, we’re standing in the hot glow of a blazing bonfire.

  Cal says something, but it’s as if he’s speaking from far away. I can no longer hear him, or anything else other than the crackle and spit of the fire. The flames gather me in, illuminating the dark places within. Nothing else exists except the fire.

  Then I call in the blessings of the nine sacred woods:

  By hazel and by oak

  And by the magic rowan tree,

  I call upon the forest folk

  And bid their power come to me.

  By the willow of the streams,

  By the ash tree of the glade,

  By the silver moon that gleams,

  This way my spell is made.

  Into the fire goes alder switch,

  Soon follows the silver birk,

  Yew tree, sacred to the witch,

  Grows gnarled in yards of kirk.
<
br />   Bringing healing to this pyre

  Are boughs of apple tree.

  Sain this town, o hallowed fire,

  By these words, so shall it be!

  After a time the fire dies down a little. I pull a branch from the bonfire and use it to light the puffballs, which I place into a wicker basket. Then I smoor them with a thick layer of ash. This way, the embers will smoulder and Euan will be able to carry the need fire back to town.

  ‘Light your hearth, then boil the large basin of water I left for you. Your neighbours must only light their fires from yours.’ All the fires in Dunshee must be born of the need fire in order for the town to rid itself of the illness and break the evil luck of the past.

  Euan nods and covers the basket with his cloak. He tentatively steps sideways down the steep hillside. But when he stoops to gather his clothes, he stumbles and slides part way down the hill.

  ‘Euan!’ Cal calls after him.

  There’s a heart-stopping pause, but finally he calls, ‘It’s all right! The basket’s all right!’

  Cal lets out a snort of nervous laughter and squeezes my shoulders. I rub my scalp with my fingertips, trying to ease the tightness in my head.

  When I’m sure Euan is far enough away, I turn to Cal. ‘It’s time.’

  Cal nods and walks over to the calf. He unties her from the stake then, with a gentle tug of the rope around her neck, leads her to me. She nuzzles at me with her wet nose. I avoid looking into her large brown eyes as I tie Bessie’s kerchief around the calf’s front leg. Then I steer her with the rope, walking widdershins around the fire. I try to drive her over the dying flames but she resists, digging her heels into the soft earth. Cal picks up a stick and strikes her hard on the rump. The calf lets out a pitiful wail as the flames singe her legs. The acrid smell of burnt calf hair sears my nostrils.

  ‘Hand me the dirk,’ I say.

  Cal gives me a look. ‘If you prefer, I could . . .?’

  ‘Nae,’ I say, my hand unsteady as I take the blade from him. ‘I cannot ask this of anybody else. It’s for me to do.’

  * * *

  In the clear, cold darkness we trudge back to Dunshee in silence. When we reach a small burn I call for Cal to wait. Kneeling by the riverbank, I plunge my sticky hands and the dirk blade into the icy water. Hot tears pour down my cheeks as I rub my hands clean. But the water doesn’t wash away the smell of blood and burned calf hair, or the fearful look in those eyes. In that last moment I saw myself reflected in them.

  My whole body starts to shake. Tears drip down my chin and disappear into the stream. Cal crouches beside me and puts his hand on my shoulders, holding me steady. I’ve seen animals put to the slaughter many times, but this felt different. By killing that calf, I lost a part of myself. Perhaps that’s what Grizel was always trying to warn me about. Why magic is always the last resort.

  Cal helps me stand up. He stares at my dress and I follow his gaze down. There’s blood spattered all over it.

  ‘Cal!’ I wail.

  He nods. We both know I can’t go back to Euan’s house looking like this.

  He unlaces my bodice and helps me out of my skirt. Perhaps I should feel ashamed to have Cal see me in nothing but my underclothing, but after all we’ve been through I cannot pretend to false propriety. It’s only been a few days, but I feel like I’ve known him my whole life. He rinses my clothes in the flowing waters of the burn while I watch him, wrapped in my cloak.

  Afterwards, we follow the path towards the woods, planning to return to town by the siege tunnel. As we approach, the town gates swing open and a figure on a horse gallops towards the south road. We dive to the ground so the rider won’t see us.

  ‘I thought Dalziel said there were no horses left in Dunshee,’ Cal whispers.

  A sense of dread washes over me, as I recall Dalziel’s promise to give me a head start provided I didn’t linger in town. There’s no time now to dwell on it.

  ‘Come,’ I say. ‘We’ve work to do.’

  By the time we get back to Euan’s house, the basin of water is bubbling away over the hearth fire.

  ‘Water’s ready. What shall I do with it?’ Euan asks.

  ‘Let it cool down a wee bit. The afflicted need to drink it. I’ll take it to them. Do you have something for me to wear? Something of your wife’s, mayhap?’ Euan nods and disappears into the back room of his small house.

  With Euan out of the way, I gaze into the basin, my hand rising to my neck to untie the leather cord.

  By my will and bloodstone’s power,

  Forge I a spell this midnight hour.

  Bone to bone and vein to vein,

  Skin to skin; make whole again.

  Fat to fat and flesh to flesh,

  Pith to pith; begin afresh.

  Warm to warm and cool to cool,

  Water from the healing pool.

  Blood to blood and balm to balm,

  The Balfour stone here in my palm.

  Make whole the folk of fair Dunshee,

  And by my will, so shall it be!

  I let the bloodstone fall from my hand; it hits the water with a plunk! and sinks to the bottom of the basin.

  Euan gives me some of his wife’s clothes and I quickly get changed. By now the pot of water has cooled down enough and I give the first sip to Euan’s daughter, Bessie.

  Between them, Cal and Euan carry the pot into the first tenement with a white rag over the door. I scoop the water into a cup and move from body to body, giving them sips and whispering words of comfort.

  As the night wears on to early morn, I cradle bairns in my lap and hold the wrinkled hands of the elderly, just like Grizel once did in Heatherbrae.

  By the time I’m finished, the rising sun has set the clouds aflame with streaks of pink, orange and purple. I’m so exhausted I can barely walk the short distance back to Euan’s home.

  Cal puts his arm around my waist and I lean all my weight against him.

  ‘Do you want me to carry you?’

  I laugh, but he looks at me in earnest. ‘I would, you know. It’s not far.’

  ‘You’re too good to me, you are,’ I say with a weary smile.

  ‘I’d do anything for you. Worst of all, you know it.’

  My cheeks grow hot and I turn my face away from him.

  It’s the first time in a long while that I’ve felt this way — not since before Grizel was arrested. No longer is fear gnawing away at me; no longer am I looking over my shoulder. A sense of peace fills my heart; a peace that is more than the absence of fear. Just as I saw Cal as the wolf, he has seen me for who I truly am. There’ll be no more running. No more hiding.

  When we get back to Euan’s house, I ask Cal if his cousin would mind if I sleep on his floor. All I want to do is curl up in front of his fire.

  ‘He’ll mind a great deal!’ Cal says. ‘You’ll take his bed. He and I can sleep out here.’ It would be proper for me to refuse, but I’m too tired to argue. Gratefully, I repair to Euan’s tiny sleeping chamber.

  * * *

  I’ve just put my head down when Cal rouses me by shaking my shoulder.

  ‘Go away,’ I groan.

  He shines a rushlight in my eyes. ‘You’ve been asleep for three days, Iona. Here, drink this.’

  I force myself to sit up and he hands me a horn of ale. I gulp down the cool liquid.

  ‘Your clothes are here, on the end of the bed. Get dressed. Quick, now.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter?’ With a sense of dread, memories come floating back to me. The need fire. The sickness. What happened? Did I fail? The townsfolk must be gathered outside, waiting to arrest me —

  ‘It’s Finster,’ Cal says. ‘He’s just arrived in town.’

  The fog of sleep infects my mind and I have trouble understanding Cal’s words. How can it be? And then I remember the rider leaving town the night of the need fire.

  ‘Iona, did you hear me? Finster’s here!’

  My head feels fuzzy. ‘How do you know?’ I say, push
ing the blankets aside.

  ‘I saw him ride through the gates. Big fellow. Yellow hair. Eyes like winter, just as you said. He rode past me and went straight to the kirk with Dalziel. Some of the king’s men were with him — I recognised their raiment. It’s only a matter of time before your friend tells the witch hunter where to find you.’

  I blink at him, still feeling groggy. ‘Finster,’ I repeat. ‘You’re certain?’

  He gives me another shake. ‘What’s wrong with you? Get dressed. We have to go.’

  He leaves me to dress in the dark. It’s late, probably near midnight by the position of the moon, and the townsfolk are all asleep. But Euan is awake, waiting for us with our belongings.

  ‘You must hurry. I’ve the only rushlight burning in the whole town. If they see it —’ He stops abruptly and hands me my leather bag. ‘Cheese and oatcakes. Make them last.’

  ‘How is she — your bairn? And the others . . .’ I’m struggling to remember if it was real. The remnants of sleep stick to me like a spider’s web. Grizel used to get like this when she forged magic, as if part of her were still in the Unseen world. Sometimes it would last for days.

  ‘We lost some of the auld ones; they were too far gone. But the bairns all survived.’ Euan’s eyes fill with tears and he squeezes my hand.

  ‘And Bessie?’

  Euan nods to a small figure curled up asleep in front of the hearth fire. ‘Slept as long as you.’ He hugs me then, and I return his embrace. ‘Farewell, lass. I’ll always be indebted to you. All of us. If there’s ever —’

  ‘Come on,’ Cal says, pulling my sleeve.

  We leave Euan and run down the alleyway towards the siege tunnel. Then we race down the stair. Cal walks just ahead of me with the lamp.

  He goes to push open the iron gate, then grabs the bars and shakes them. ‘How can this be?’ He turns to face me, eyes wild.

  The gate is locked. I rattle the bars, but they won’t budge. It doesn’t make any sense. We’ve used the siege tunnel to come and go from Dunshee several times now. Cal gets down on his knees to search for a key, scrabbling about on the floor while I watch him numbly, unable to shake off the torpor left over from the need fire.