by Cait Dee
I clench my fists and shake my head.
‘Pity. He’ll have no reason to show you mercy then, will he? If you don’t pay, he’ll not strangle you, not fully. You’ll still be alive when they set you afire. And then you’ll be burned quick. Not a very nice way to go. Lassie like you, they’ll hear your screams all the way to Falkirk.’ He gives a theatrical shudder. ‘Give me a swift death, any day.’
‘Let’s hope that day comes soon,’ I say.
‘Why, don’t look so downhearted,’ he smirks. ‘You’ve a few hours yet. Mayhap you can strike a bargain with one of your companions here. That big fellow down the back there, he might have a bodle or two. Might persuade you that you’ve something worth selling after all.’ He gives the phlegmy wheeze that passes for his laugh, then spits on the floor right in front of me.
After Campbell’s gone, I avoid meeting the eyes of the other prisoners, lest they think it an invitation. But in truth, they avoid my eyes too, the way I avoided looking at the others about to be executed, as if they had a contagion that could be passed on by a glance. I tried to convince myself that the others were different, their causes hopeless. Surely my life is worth more than theirs. Don’t they know who I am? I’m the guardian of the bloodstone!
Shaking with rage, I think on Campbell’s words. Burned quick. Strangulation is the one small mercy they bestow on witches. Can it really be true? I cannot set much store in anything Campbell says. If I were certain the executioner would burn me alive, then I’d do what Ishbel did. My beautiful sister, the fiery sorceress; she came back to us in the end. She didn’t let them take her. She spooked those horses so they rode into that oak tree. And then she cursed her feckless husband. I want to be as brave as her, come the time.
I try to lie down and sleep but Wallace shoots me a look of contempt: each tiny movement I make rattles the chain between us. She pulls hard on the chain, taking up all the slack, then sprawls out on the ground. So I sit up with my back pressed against the iron bar and close my eyes. If this is going to be my last night on earth, then I’ll spend it with the folk I love.
In my mind’s eye, I imagine the meadow near Grizel’s bothy where wildflowers grow from spring to late summer. Ishbel is there now, laughing and singing, full of joy. Just like she was before she married Gregor.
It’s Midsummer’s day and Grizel is picking St John’s wort. We’d always spend Midsummer’s day picking St John’s wort; by evening our hands would be stained red from the bruised petals. Before she picked any plant, Grizel would explain why she needed it. She’d ask the plant’s permission to take some. She never used a knife to cut it, but always plucked it with her fingers and never took more than she needed. That’s the greatest sin of all, she always said. Taking more than we need.
Cal comes into the meadow. I show him my red hands and we laugh. The sun is shining down. My heart is filled with peace.
I lie on my back next to Cal, the warmth of the summer sun kissing our faces.
Wispy white clouds steal across the sky.
I lie there for a long time, watching the clouds float by and feeling the breeze ruffling my hair. The faintest memory stirs, like a half-remembered dream.
Grizel once told me my great-grandmother, Rhona, sold the wind to the fishermen in Aberdeen. She captured it in a knotted kerchief: one untied knot summoned a light breeze; the second knot would unleash a blustery wind; the third a dangerous gale. She could call in the mists, too, using nothing more than a basin of water. And she could bring forth a mighty storm by entreating the twelve winds to send the rainclouds. When dark clouds filled the sky, she sent up golden arrows and made them burst. The arrows would turn into lightning.
Grizel never had the gift, so she didn’t tell Ishbel and me much about it. Still, she often called on Rhona when forging magic. Ancestral spirits are always with us in the Unseen world, always willing to render assistance.
The murderess makes a strange grunting noise. She’s asleep, her head back and mouth open. It brings me back to the Tolbooth dungeon. But now there’s an odd fluttering in my belly. Perhaps it’s foolish to hold out any hope, but unless I do something right now, my life is lost. There’s work to be done: time to call in the rainclouds.
* * *
They’re coming for me now.
My senses are sharper than they’ve ever been before. My skin tingles. I am aware of every sound, every smell, every touch, as if for the first time in my life. The guard’s keys jangling on his belt, his footfalls on the wooden floor, the key clicking in the lock. The smell of him: his unwashed clothes and greasy hair. The coldness of the iron shackles encircling my wrists and ankles. The still, damp air from the passageway giving way to warmer, drier air as he leads me up some stairs, through a hallway, to a closed door.
In moments I’ll know whether the spell has worked.
He tells me to wait.
I raise my shackled wrists. ‘Where would I go?’
He gives a faint smile. But there’s a doleful look in his eyes that betray the heaviness of his heart. I can read his whole history in those eyes. He dreads what he must do each day, leading prisoners to their deaths. He thinks there is something unnatural about it, that he will be punished for it one day. You mustn’t blame yourself, I want to say to him. You’re not the reason I’m here.
After signalling to someone through the window, the guard unlocks the door and it swings open. With pulse racing, I look up.
The sun is shining in a bright blue sky. There’s not a cloud in sight.
‘This cannot be,’ I mutter, horrified. My hand clutches at the doorpost, trying to steady myself. The guard signals to the soldier waiting for us in the close and then indicates that I should walk ahead of him but I don’t move.
‘Come on, then. Let’s not keep the bloodthirsty mob waiting.’ The soldier outside taps his fingertips on the pommel of his sword. Standing next to him is a heavyset kirk minister, wearing a long black coat buttoned to his neck. His pink jowls hang over the sides of his collar.
I want to break away, to run. Instead, my knees give way and I sink to the floor.
The minister steps forwards. ‘It is time,’ he says to the guard.
The guard hoists me up by the forearms until I’m standing on legs as wobbly as those of a fresh born calf. His grip is strong; reassuring.
‘Have courage, lassie,’ he murmurs. ‘Look for a loved one in the crowd. They say it helps.’
With despair, I realise I cannot follow this simple instruction. ‘But I haven’t anybody.’
‘Then look for a body with a kindly face,’ he says. ‘Use them as your anchor.’
The soldier is growing impatient. ‘Hurry up, man!’
The guard nods and then walks me the handful of steps to the horse, his eyes holding mine. I lean on his arm so I don’t fall.
The soldier orders me to kneel on a wattle hurdle tied to the back of the horse.
I shake my head. ‘I want to walk.’
He gives a hollow laugh. ‘Nobody cares what you want. Kneel.’
The minister clears his throat. ‘In the eyes of God and under Scots law, witches are not fit to walk the earth. You will be dragged to your place of death.’ He intones the words as if he’s said them a hundred times before. Perhaps he has.
‘Nae, I will not,’ I protest.
The soldier grabs me around the waist and lifts me onto the hurdle, then punches the side of my thigh until I fall to my knees in pain. Then he mounts the horse and gives her a kick.
It takes all my strength to hold on to the hurdle as horse and rider drag me through the narrow close and then up the hill towards the castle.
A large crowd lines each side of the King’s High Street. Soldiers walk ahead of us, clearing the way for the horse. Folk point and stare and jeer and catcall, and the bairns throw handfuls of filth at me. The hurdle hits every bump and pothole in the road. My knuckles collide with the cobblestones over and over, until the backs of my hands are bloody.
At the top of the
hill, the horse jibs after catching sight of the large mob gathered in front of us. The crowd behind us is closing in; they push and shove each other, trying to get in to the packed esplanade. The soldier curses and dismounts, and orders two other soldiers to take me the rest of the way as the horse will not go on.
The soldiers approach me but I just look at them dumbly, my hands still clinging to the hurdle. I squat down on my hunkers, making myself as small as I can.
‘Move.’ One of the soldiers lifts me up from the hurdle. I’m shaking so badly that my legs give way under me, so they drag me all the way to the wooden post.
My eyes are squeezed shut now, so I don’t have to look out at the crowd. Rough hands shove my back against the post. Then someone behind me winds coarse rope around and around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides.
‘Rope’s secure.’
I open my eyes to see a large, ungainly man inspecting the rope. His body seems lopsided somehow, with one shoulder higher than the other. But what fills me with dread is the black hood covering his face, eyes glinting through slits cut in it. He must see me start in fright because he turns away from me and continues tugging at the ropes, looking for weaknesses.
The ropes are so tight I can barely breathe. With each inhalation comes the bitter smell of tar. They’ve poured it all over the bundles of wood around the post.
My head throbs and there’s a high-pitched sound in my ears. My breath has quickened to short gasps. If the rope weren’t holding me up, I wouldn’t be able to stand.
There’s a sea of people in front of me. They look like a swarm of insects, waiting to devour me.
Finster stands at the front of the crowd, a triumphant look on his face. His eyes lock on mine and his hand goes to his neck. He pulls something out from under his doublet. It’s a silver chain, and dangling from it is the bloodstone. He wants me to see it. To know that he now possesses the thing most precious to me. To know that I will die, having failed. This is his moment of victory.
My attention is distracted away from the witch hunter when the crowd parts to let the officials and dignitaries through. They’ll watch the execution from a viewing platform near the pyre. To my surprise, Lord Abernethy is with them. He leans on his black cane, an elegant and imposing figure who seems oblivious to the crush of people teeming about him. Once on the platform, he gives me the slightest bow of his head.
A cold wind whips at my hair, blowing a curl in front of my eyes. I look up at the sky. A nor’easter has picked up, bringing with it low, grey clouds that have already hidden the sun. My heart lifts, but then the bailie steps forwards to read the sentence.
The crowd falls silent, but I don’t listen to the bailie’s words. Instead, I look up at the sky and recite in my mind the words I chanted all night long:
By the might of ancestral power,
I forge a spell this desperate hour.
Unseen ones, boundless and great,
Deliver me from this awful fate.
Wind and rain come to my hand,
Mark these words and understand.
A muckle storm to dout the fire;
To free me from this deadly pyre.
Balfours past, now hear my prayer,
Aid your sole and wretched heir.
Light the path to liberty.
And as I will, so shall it be!
I open my eyes. The clouds remain steadfast, with no hint of impending cloudburst.
Just then, a man from the crowd pushes his way to the front until he is standing before me. His face is partly hidden by the hood of his cloak, but I’d know those dark blue eyes anywhere.
‘Forgive me.’ He mouths the words. ‘Please, forgive me.’
Forgive him, after all he’s done? Would I even be here, now, if it weren’t for his betrayals?
Shaking my head with disgust, I turn my eyes away from Dalziel’s pleading stare.
I look up. A black shape circles high overhead, spiralling towards the ground. As it gets closer I see it is a raven, the final omen of death. Perhaps it will feast on my flesh, if there is anything left after they burn me.
Ravens are bold birds at the best of times, but this one lands right at the edge of the platform where the officials sit listening to the bailie wrap up the formalities. Perhaps it will not even wait until I am dead.
‘Kaarrk!’ the raven calls. ‘Kaaaa-kaark. Kaarrrk!’ The executioner throws a stone and the bird flies off.
With the formalities over, the bailie sits down next to Lord Abernethy. The judge appears to have his eyes closed. He holds the tip of his black cane off the ground, pointing it towards me.
Low, dark clouds have filled the sky but still there’s no rain. I close my eyes and, in my mind, fire golden arrows up into the heavens. I see the clouds break open, dissolving into torrents of rain. Then I make the sky explode with bolts of lightning and deafening claps of thunder. The ringing in my ears becomes so intense I cannot hear anything else. The rest of the world has fallen away and there’s just me here, alone.
Grizel, please don’t abandon me, not now.
Make it rain. Make it rain!
I open my eyes. The bailie nods to the executioner. The large man tries to conceal something in his hand but I know what it is. It’s the strap of leather that will end my life.
He walks towards me and takes up his position behind the wooden post.
Not yet!
The executioner slips the leather strap around my neck.
There’s a lump in my throat.
Don’t let them see you cry.
The leather strap tightens across my throat, crushing my windpipe. My mouth is open, gasping for breath. I can feel my face burn with blood and my eyes bulge in their sockets.
Grizel, I failed you!
Then, without warning, the pressure releases and I’m gulping in mouthfuls of precious air.
‘Broken,’ the executioner says, dumbfounded. He holds up two pieces of the leather strap, split right down the middle. The crowd hums with confused murmuring.
Finster shoves an old man out of his way and climbs the steps of the platform to speak to the bailie. Doubtless the witch finder thinks this is my doing.
To my left I hear the raven’s cry and strain my neck as far as it will turn.
The bird is sitting on the ground, preening its feathers. It cocks its head and looks at me with a golden eye.
Cal!
The unrest of the crowd grows. ‘Burn her. Burn her quick!’ A faceless voice, soon joined by others.
‘You see?’ says Finster, gesturing to the crowd as he speaks to the bailie. ‘These good folk have come to see a witch burning. It matters not whether she is strangled first. Why show the wicked such mercy? All over the Continent, witches are burned alive. I say we do the same here, this very day.’
The crowd cheers in response.
The bailie looks to the other officials, who are nodding in support of the proposal —all of them except Abernethy, who still appears to have his eyes closed. His cane is now resting on his knees, but his left hand is held in front of him in a strange gesture.
The bailie turns back to Finster and gives a small nod of assent.
‘Nae! Nae, you mustn’t. Please, I don’t want to die that way!’ I pull against the ropes. But it’s hopeless. Nobody can hear me over the excited buzzing of the crowd.
The executioner crouches low to make a spark with flint and steel. The bailie stands over him, sheltering him from the wind that’s picked up to a strong bluster. The spark catches and the executioner lights his torch and walks towards me. I shrink back as far as I can.
Panic claws at my chest and throat like a trapped wildcat. My eyes fall on Dalziel and I remember the guard’s words. Use him as your anchor.
Dalziel returns my gaze and holds it. Suddenly I feel calm, centred. Like he’s right beside me, holding my hand. And then I know that this is no time to be clutching at bitter memories.
‘I forgive you, Dalziel. For everything. I forgive you.’
A drop of rain hits my arm, followed by another.
The executioner hurls the torch onto a bundle of tar-covered wood at my feet. It catches fire with a loud pop.
There’s a bright flash and a loud bang overhead. A bolt of lightning hits the platform a few paces away, splintering the wood. The folk closest to the front scramble to move back. I can no longer see Abernethy, but Finster looks dazed from the lightning strike. He staggers a few steps and then falls backwards off the platform. A dark shape swoops down from the sky towards him.
‘Kaarrk. Kar-kaarrrk!’
The flames are roiling and leaping, burning my bare feet and searing my skin. I cry out in agony. Thick black smoke invades my nose and throat and I can scarcely catch my breath to scream. I close my eyes and will death to come swiftly.
The rain is pouring down now, but it’s too late.
There’s another lightning strike somewhere close by. The crowd scatters screaming, desperate to get away.
A lone figure approaches.
Dark blue eyes peer into mine. His hands are around my waist.
It’s too late. Too late.
Those hands drag me down.
Too late.
‘I’ve got you, Iona. I’ve got you. Can you hear me?’
But I am falling . . . falling into the darkness.
Shooting stars!
Grizel always said to make a wish when you see a shooting star. I make a wish, but then there is another star . . . and another. The sky is filled with shooting stars.
Something’s wrong. They’re not stars at all but fiery rocks raining down from the night sky. The rocks grow larger and larger until a giant flaming boulder streaks across the sky then falls straight towards me. The sky lights up with a flash of gold.
Iona, can you hear me?
It’s too late. Too late.
The Cailleach peers down at me. A crone older than time itself.
‘My lord, come quickly!’ her voice calls. ‘She stirs.’
She wears a dark blue plaid skirt and a red maud wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her white hair is scraped back from a deeply lined face. How did I mistake her for the wife of winter? She’s just an old woman.
