Testament of a Witch

by Douglas Watt

  An image of Lady Lammersheugh, face-down in the dark water, kept interrupting his view of the course. He opened his eyes. He was in darkness. The candle had burned out. He moved slightly and was aware of something in the mattress. He lowered his hand to a lump under his buttocks. He was sure that it had not been there the previous night. Pushing down, he felt something hard within the straw. No wonder he could not sleep. The mattress was full of stones! He pushed harder. It was gone. He lent down with more weight. There it was again. There was definitely something in the mattress!

  Pulling himself up, he kneeled down, feeling round the shape. He was quickly out of the bed. He must find out what it was. He lit another candle before heaving back the blanket and sheet. He threw the pillow on the floor, pulled up the mattress and pushed it against the wall.

  Having located its position he sought his knife. The blade cut through the fabric easily. Something rolled out and landed on the floor before him.

  At first he was not sure what it was. He took the candle from the table, holding it above the little object. He looked down on a wax painting, a doll in the shape of a man, perhaps six inches in height, produced crudely in wax. The shock was like a hammer blow to the chest. He felt it pounding against him again and again.

  He moved his hand forward. He turned it over. He experienced pure terror. Despite the crude style it was evident that it represented him. Pins were sticking from each side. He dropped it in his panic.

  He was out in the corridor in an instant, banging on MacKenzie’s door; nausea sweeping through him. There was an agonising delay. Finally he heard sounds of movement within. The door opened. A small pistol poked out.

  ‘It is me, sir. Davie Scougall!’

  ‘What is wrong, Davie?’ MacKenzie, also dressed in a nightshirt, followed him back to his room.

  ‘Look, sir!’ Scougall stood back, shaking in terror.

  MacKenzie raised the candle and peered down on the wax figurine. Although simply carved, it did bear a striking resemblance to Scougall. The sculptor had even added dark colouring to the cheeks to draw attention to his vigorous facial hair.

  ‘It is me, sir!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Davie. It is a piece of wax sculpted by human hands, placed here to scare you. You must think rationally. It is a warning. We are interfering in the affairs of the parish. You have made an important discovery today. This is not witchcraft, but the agency of man.’

  Scougall was unconvinced. Petrified, he closed his eyes and prayed for God’s protection.

  CHAPTER 45 - A Sister’s Love

  SHE IS IN the woods in the bright light of summer, standing outside Janet’s cottage. The garden is alive with insects, bees buzzing from flower to flower. The butterflies are huge, the largest she has ever seen, their colours vibrant. Janet’s dog is lying in the sun by the door.

  Her mother emerges from the cottage, smiling. She is wearing a luscious green gown. She walks through the garden towards her. As she approaches, her dress merges with the surrounding green of the garden. She disappears.

  He is beside her, the man she is to marry. He is tall and handsome, but his eyes are closed. He opens them. In the dark shining eyeballs is a reflection. She does not know if it is Satan or the pricker.

  She cannot understand how she is looking through the library window, two storeys up. She realises that she is hovering like an insect twenty feet above the flower beds. She is elated by the feeling of lightness. She looks inside the room. Cant and her sister sit at a table looking down at a large black book. Cant points to a passage with his finger and looks at Rosina. She stands up. She stares out of the window. She does not see her.

  Rosina lets her gown fall to the ground. She wears no undergarments. She stands naked in the room, the minister watching her. From outside she screams at her sister to put her gown back on, to leave his company. She does not hear her. Cant approaches, his eyes enraptured. He removes something from a bag. It looks like a small wand. She realises it is a pin, about two inches long. Rosina is expressionless, staring out of the window. The minister is beside her. He raises the pin, placing it on the surface of her breast. She screams at Rosina to run. She does not hear. As he inserts the pin into the soft flesh, he turns. It is not the face of the minister. It is Him. It is the countenance of Satan, black, handsome, all-consuming.

  She was awake again, the dream or vision fresh in her mind. She remembered where she was. The desperate cries of the prisoners, the endless stream of obscenities were audible again. She wondered if they had stopped waking her. She was sure that she had slept. Perhaps they had given up. Then the image of Cant came back to her, his black gowns, the Bible, the pin – the Devil. Cant was the Devil. She must warn Rosina, somehow.

  CHAPTER 46 - Letters from Edinburgh

  31 October 1687

  SCOUGALL SAT BESIDE MacKenzie in the dining chamber of the inn, pale and drawn after a sleepless night. A dark shadow covered his cheeks and neck. He had not shaved. His mind was fixated on the wax figure.

  ‘Take your porridge!’ MacKenzie urged.

  This affair was becoming darker by the hour, their antagonists, whoever they were, more brutal. He wondered if they intended to scare them off. Or was something more sinister planned?

  The innkeeper approached the table. ‘Two letters for you, Mr MacKenzie. One for you, sir.’ Scougall was distracted as he received few letters, only an occasional one from his parents or sisters. He took his without saying a word.

  MacKenzie recognised the handwriting on one and opened it. ‘Ah, it is from Rosehaugh…’ He read it quickly. ‘The news is not good, Davie. Euphame weakens. He fears that she will not survive long.’ He passed the letter to Scougall.

  Edinburgh, 30 October 1687

  My dearest cousin,

  I have received yours of the 26th October. I will of course act for the accused. It is fortunate that you find me in the north with a couple of months to spare and little to do. My experience should prove of value.

  I have visited the poor girl in the Tolbooth. She is a very lamentable sight, having been denied sleep for a number of nights. Much pressure is applied to her to make a confession. She has stood firm as yet.

  I hope her kin will intervene soon on her behalf. My greatest fear is that she will not live to see her trial which is set for 15th November. She is as thin as a skeleton and has the look of death upon her. Please send anything you consider pertinent to me at the above address. I will add my own weight to the voices which have been raised on her behalf. You know that I am sceptical about the crime of witchcraft. It goes without saying that I will need as much evidence as you can provide to help her cause. I enclose a copy of the instrument of sasine which you requested.

  I remain your most humble servant,

  Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh

  PS Our common acquaintance Archibald Stirling wishes you well. He asks me to remind you of the great Montrose. When the occasion allows, after your business is complete in Lammersheugh, please send him your thoughts.

  MacKenzie looked deeply perturbed. ‘We must do something or Euphame will die soon.’ He raised his voice, taking hold of Scougall’s cuff: ‘This is no time for dark reflections. Euphame needs your help. You are no good to her in this condition. Am fear a thug air fhèin, thug e buaidh air nàmhaid, as we say in Gaelic. He that conquers himself conquers an enemy, or as the Bible tells us, “He that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city.” Apply a razor to your face. Meet me here in twenty minutes! Make a prayer to your God!’

  Scougall was shocked by the outburst, but he departed with the letter.

  MacKenzie unfolded the copy of the instrument and read it carefully. It described the purchase of the Clachdean estate by Colonel Robert Dewar in 1681. In addition, a series of bonds were itemised by which the transaction was funded. The colonel had borrowed significantly from Lady Girnington to purchase the lands. MacKenzie examined the witness list:

  Dated at Girnington 4 August 1681 before the following
witnesses – Lillias Hay, Lady Girnington, Alexander Hay, Laird of Lammersheugh, Colonel Robert Dewar, Gideon Purse, writer in Haddington.

  Rosehaugh had scrolled a short note in the margin of the copied document. The original was witnessed by Colonel Robert Hay, but ‘Hay’ had been scored out and replaced with ‘Dewar’. MacKenzie experienced a revelation. He was making progress, at last.

  He opened the other letter, written in a hand which he did not recognise. There was no date or signature on the short note:

  I have important news. Meet me at Rooklaw Tower tonight at midnight.

  MacKenzie looked round the inn, overcome by a feeling that he was being watched. There was no one in the room. Outside on the street, a couple of women were deep in conversation. He wondered what motivation lay behind the note. Was it advice from a friend or an enticement by an enemy? The awful gravity of the situation bore down on him. Inactivity might cost Euphame her life. He imagined his own daughter chained in a cold cell in the Tolbooth. What vileness could condemn men and women to such humiliation? Zealots, using the cloak of Christianity. He hoped, almost prayed, that the light of reason would one day shine on Scotland.

  And there it was, the familiar feeling of dread, washing through him from the black ocean of his soul; a knot deep inside. He knew that he could not afford to fall into melancholy at such a time. It was enough that Scougall was showing signs of the condition, brought on by the discovery in the mattress. The tide receded.

  They must act. He would have to risk their lives.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Cockburn with a worried expression on his face.

  ‘I have just heard the news that there has been another arrest.’

  MacKenzie groaned, shaking his head: ‘Rosina?’

  ‘No. John Murdoch is accused of being a warlock. He is taken to the steeple.’

  CHAPTER 47 - The Prayers of Theophilus Rankine

  RANKINE AND HIS sister were on their knees. With eyes shut, he clasped a Bible to his stomach, speaking in a voice just above a whisper, so that a person at the other side of the room would have had difficulty hearing what he said. His legs were stiff. He had been in the same position for half an hour, experiencing the intoxification of communion with his maker.

  ‘Lead us through this valley of sin. Lord, give us strength to turn away from sin.’ His eyes remained closed. A vision of his sister came to him as it often did during prayer. Was God testing him, or was it the Devil? It was forty years before in the Blinkbonny Woods. The image was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. The green dazzle of spring sunlight through the birch leaves, the touch of her skin, the awful taste of lust. But he had turned away from sin. He had turned away from Satan. This knowledge gave him a tremendous rush of joy. He had been a miserable sinner, beaten down by the grossest of sins. But he had been forgiven. He was chosen. God had told him he was one of his Elect, his immortal soul saved from the beginning of time. And his dear sister, the receptacle of his sin, the conduit of Satan, she too was promised eternal glory. ‘Thank you, Christ Jesus. Thank you Lord.’ He opened his eyes. Angels descended through the roof into the room in which they were kneeling. He saw himself and Marion carried aloft by gentle arms, away from this vale of tears, away from this world beholden to filthy lust, away from warlocks and witches.

  He heard his sister whisper beside him. ‘Thank you Lord. In a parish which is stained with sin I will be thy rod to smite those who follow Satan. They have made compact with Him. They have sold their souls. They follow lust in all its forms – dancing, fornicating, singing. Through this they worship him.’

  Rankine’s mind was enlarged with a vision of a glorious conflagration. In the centre was a coiling mass of fornicating bodies swirling against the black face of Satan. For a moment he gazed in pleasure, experiencing arousal, but recognising it was the Devil’s snare, he continued to pray in a low voice.

  ‘I will serve you Lord. I will seek out witches. I will seek them out and destroy them. Margaret Rammage sinned against you. She is burned to dust. Helen Rammage was a filthy fornicator. She is destroyed. Grissell Hay sinned against you. She is food for the worms. Euphame Hay is a witch. She will be burned for thy glory. Rosina Hay is a whore of Satan. She will burn also. We will cleanse the parish. We will make it as a shining light unto you. Nothing will stop us, O Lord. The time comes when we will rise up against him. The reign of Antichrist is over!’

  CHAPTER 48 - A Letter for Davie Scougall

  FORTUNATELY MACKENZIE HAD removed the figure during the night, but Scougall examined the small room inch by inch, even dropping to the floor and checking under the bed.

  Only once he had satisfied himself that no intruder had entered did he sit down to look at the letter. The address was written in an unfamiliar hand.

  To David Scougall notary public, at the house of

  Mr Porteous, Lammersheugh, Haddingtonshire.

  He broke the small seal and unfolded the paper. The hand inside was familiar. The letter was from Elizabeth MacKenzie!

  30 October 1687

  Libberton’s Wynd

  Edinburgh

  Dear Mr Scougall,

  You must excuse the subterfuge, but I could not risk my father recognising my hand and opening this. I asked my friend Helen Oliphant to write the address.

  I know that I can write to you in confidence as a special friend.

  Scougall read the sentence again. The words ‘special friend’ rekindled feelings which he had suppressed. They resurfaced, dulling his fear. The thought of Elizabeth’s pretty face calmed him. His tremors began to subside. What would she think if she could see him in such a state? He continued to read:

  We have heard the terrible news of the accusations against Lady Lammersheugh and Euphame Hay. I am worried sick as my father has not written anything to me except a brief note after his arrival. I know he is busy but I am very concerned. I beg you to write to me with haste to set my mind at rest. I beseech you, do not tell him that I have written to you. I fear that great evil is unleashed. There are rumours in Edinburgh that the Whigs plan another rising.

  I have another piece of news, Mr Scougall. Euphame’s trial is set for 15th November. I took the liberty of visiting her in the Tolbooth. I cannot describe what terrible conditions she suffers under. She is crushed by the accusations and the denial of sleep, surely the vilest of tortures. She can barely speak. Her gaolers believe she will not live to see her trial. Something must be done with great haste or I fear she will die.

  You are both in great danger, so tread with the utmost care. I know that my father will look out for you. Please have care for him.

  Your affectionate friend

  Elizabeth MacKenzie

  Scougall placed the letter in his leather bag. His hands had stopped shaking. How could he settle for a Musselburgh wife? But she was to be married to another. Whatever happened, he must live up to her expectations. He could not lie here like a coward.

  He got down on his knees and, closing his eyes, began to pray. A vision of Christ came to him with his gentle words on the Mount. He felt his fear dissipate further. God had surely intervened through Elizabeth. He knew that he had the strength to proceed. He would do as she asked. He would do anything for her.

  CHAPTER 49 - An Interview with George Cockburn

  ‘THIRD TIME LUCKY, Davie!’ They had taken up position outside the school house, when a group of boys emerged in a gaggle of laughter. ‘Are you Adam Cockburn’s son?’ MacKenzie addressed the tallest of them.

  ‘No, sir. There’s Geordie.’ He pointed to a dark-haired boy behind him.

  ‘I am Geordie Cockburn.’ The boy had large brown eyes like his father.

  ‘It is good we have found you at last, Geordie. You have not been to school for two days?’

  ‘I have not been well, sir.’

  ‘What has been wrong with you?’

  ‘A fever. It is gone today.’

  ‘How old are you, Geordie?’ MacKenzie continued in an aff
able tone.

  ‘I am ten years old, sir.’ The boy looked nervously down at his boots.

  MacKenzie smiled. ‘I am John MacKenzie from Edinburgh. I am an acquaintance of your father. He may have mentioned me. I was Lady Lammersheugh’s lawyer. I now act for Euphame. This is Davie Scougall, my assistant.’ The boy looked at them as if he had done something wrong in the classroom. ‘Do you play golf, Geordie?’ MacKenzie asked in a friendly manner. The boy nodded. ‘Then Davie will give you a round on the Links at Leith the next time you are in town.’

  This seemed to settle him: ‘I have never been so far, sir.’

  ‘But you have been as far as the Devil’s Pool.’ MacKenzie observed the boy’s reaction. Geordie continued to look down. ‘Your father told me about what you found there.’

  Geordie hesitated before answering. ‘He said that you might come to speak with me. He told me to tell you everything I know. He says you are an honourable man.’

  ‘That is very kind of your father. Why don’t we walk up to the wall over there where we can talk?’

  They sauntered up the High Street for fifty yards until they reached a low dyke. MacKenzie indicated that Geordie was to sit on it.

  ‘What do you think happened to Lady Lammersheugh?’ he asked.

  ‘She drowned, sir.’

  ‘How did she drown?’

  The boy looked away for a moment, before blurting out: ‘The Devil did it.’

  ‘But why would the Devil want to kill Lady Lammersheugh?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  The boy was shaking. MacKenzie patted him on the shoulder. ‘I want you to help me, Geordie. I want you to tell me as much as you can remember about what you saw at the pool. You do not have to tell me all these things. But I think you would do anything to help Euphame. I believe she is a friend of yours. Is that correct?’

  The boy nodded.

  ‘She is in trouble, great trouble. She needs your help. Tell us everything you remember about the day you found her mother’s body. There is not a single detail that I do not want to hear, Geordie. I am a man who loves detail. I love tiny facts. Each piece of information you provide will make me happier. Start from the beginning of the day when you awoke in the morning. Tell us everything that happened to you, everybody you saw, everything that occurred at the pool, every thought you had, everything. For as we say in Gaelic, which is my first tongue and which I spoke before I knew a word of English, Is fheàrr an fhìrinn na’n t-òr – do you have any?’