The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  Aware the owners of the cottage and their servants were likely listening, she lowered her voice. ‘How will Bel manage? The man should have been made to own his mistakes.’

  She waited.

  ‘One cannot force a person to own anything, madam,’ said Captain Ross dryly. ‘Much less what you consider a mistake. It’s hard to credit now, but Miss Courie and the bairn will be much better off without Corporal Varner and the kind of support he might offer. We all will be.’ He regarded her with such kindness, she found her rage hard to maintain. Anyway, it wasn’t him she was mad at so much as mankind. If she was honest, Bel wasn’t exactly innocent in all this, it was her wee bairn who would suffer, and that infuriated Sorcha.

  Without a word of farewell, she’d stormed off up the street, ignoring those who hailed her, almost knocking over Widow Adams as she barged past the costermonger.

  Later that evening she learned from Nettie that the captain had arranged for some of the corporal’s pay to be set aside for Bel. She also discovered from Janet, who heard it in the tavern, that while Corporal Varner may have been married, Bel wasn’t the first lass he’d left with a bairn.

  Well, thought Sorcha, I hope she’s his last.

  Now she owed Captain Ross an apology for her behaviour. What right did she have to ask him for aid, then to rebuke him when he rendered it? She’d no reason to expect anything of the man, and yet she did. Apologising might be the correct thing to do, but was it wise? Given there was already talk in the village about her and the captain, to seek out his company again would only fuel further gossip.

  Sorcha pushed thoughts of him from her mind, and instead she focussed on the silhouettes of the larger ships dotting the coast, returned at last and bringing with them goods from distant shores and, just as important, news.

  Out on the water, smaller boats from the Weem, Anster and beyond surged against the currents, the men on the oars until they could raise a sail. She regarded them for a moment, admiring how they came together like dancers in a reel, marvelling at their united purpose to achieve a common goal. Why couldn’t people always be like that?

  The rise and fall of voices forced her to turn around and head back. Small groups of fishwives sat together on upturned barrels, their hands as busy as their mouths. Shucking off the melancholy thoughts Captain Ross had engendered, knowing what she must do, she hitched her skirts and joined them, picking up a net and perching on a barrel.

  Chatter washed over her. There was talk of how the men who’d returned from a long voyage days before looked and how they were behaving. The fishermen were always a little strange when they came home, walking with a rolling gait, inclined to sleep heavily and drink that way too, seeking each other’s company as if being trapped aboard with the same men day in day out wasn’t enough. Some of the wives despaired when their husbands returned, urging them out of the house even while they were grateful for the wages, companionship and tales they brought with them. Others, like her father and brothers, clung to home and its comforts as if they might slip away like a fish from a hook. Though what Sorcha’s da worried about most was that his wife would disappear.

  Sorcha was thinking about her da and wishing she’d been able to give the crew on his boat — her boat — more money, when Beatrix Laing appeared and flopped onto an upturned creel beside them with a dramatic groan. She dropped her bags on the ground and folded her arms beneath her heavy breasts. Her face was the colour of yesterday’s storm.

  ‘What ails you, Beatrix?’ asked Janet, wielding a needle as if it were an extra digit.

  ‘What ails me?’ repeated Beatrix loudly. ‘I’ll tell you what ails me. Bairns that have too much to say for themselves, that’s what.’ She pouted.

  Sorcha caught Nettie’s eye.

  ‘Who’s earned your wrath this fine day, eh?’ asked Nettie, returning to her mending. ‘I’d have thought you’d no one left to reckon with, having said your piece to most.’

  That raised a few chuckles. Like Janet, Beatrix had a reputation for telling people what she thought of them.

  Beatrix grunted. ‘Patrick Morton’s lad, Peter, that’s who.’

  Sorcha tried to picture Peter Morton. Like his father, he was a blacksmith. A strapping youth, he had dark brown hair and startling blue eyes. Working the forges and hammering metal had given him a broad chest and shoulders. His da, being close friends with the reverend and the Crawfords, was one of those less than happy to see Sorcha return, but Peter had given her a warm smile and even warmer greeting. When he caught her eye in the kirk her first Sunday back, he’d even dared a wave. He seemed a nice lad, even if Beatrix begged to differ, but then it didn’t take a great deal to upset Beatrix, much to everyone’s amusement. Given her contrariness, Sorcha half-believed the reason Beatrix had made a show of being friends with the McIntyres was simply to annoy the reverend.

  ‘Och, what’s that spit of water done to upset you?’ Janet put a piece of yarn in her teeth to rethread her needle, focussed on her task.

  ‘He refused to sell me nails, that’s what.’ Beatrix slapped her leg in disgust. ‘Nails my William needs if he’s going to fix our door. It’s coming apart and if he doesn’t repair it, we may as well live in a cave. Cheeky little bastard refused to part with any, even while dozens sat atop the shelves, right in my line o’ sight. You’d think I’d asked for gold without a penny to pay for it the way he carried on.’

  Sorcha hid her grin. ‘I heard he’s making nails for Thomas Whyte’s ship.’ She nodded towards where it lay anchored. ‘It can’t sail till the deck’s repaired. If the lad refused you, Beatrix, it wasn’t anything personal.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s making them for the King of France, he needs to be looking after all of us, not just bailies like Whyte. All I wanted was a handful.’

  Sorcha put down the net she was restoring and rested her fingers on Beatrix’s arm. ‘I know it’s frustrating, Beatrix, but a handful to you might be the difference between the ship remaining in port or putting out to sea. Without a working craft, the men cannot sail, the fish can’t be caught, purses remain empty, and we all go hungry.’

  Beatrix stared hard at Sorcha for a minute before throwing up her hands and shaking her head. ‘Stop being so bloody sensible, Sorcha McIntyre. Just like your da. I think I liked you better when you weren’t here.’ She produced a smile to show she didn’t really mean it. ‘Look, I ken you be telling it true being a boat owner and all, but it’s the boy’s manner that sticks in my craw. He wouldn’t listen to reason or curses.’

  As one, the fishwives stopped what they were doing and raised their heads.

  Nettie sighed heavily. ‘Tell me you didn’t curse him, Beatrix.’

  ‘Well, not much,’ said Beatrix, with a twinkle in her eye and a lopsided grin.

  Janet shook her head. ‘They’ll be the death of you one day, those curses of yours, you mark my words. They trip off your tongue like prayers from Cowper’s lips. Remember what happened when you cursed the Todd lad?’

  Beatrix waved a hand dismissively. ‘That was nine years ago. Even Cowper was forced to let the petition against me go — there was no proof. Anyhow, I didn’t curse the Morton lad,’ she objected. ‘I threatened to make a charm against him.’

  Sorcha couldn’t help it, she gave a gasp of mock horror. ‘But that’s exactly what Mr Todd accused you of doing to his son.’

  ‘Charms mean harm — isn’t that what Cowper says?’ piped up Nicolas who, along with two other fishwives, had been listening to the conversation with no small measure of alarm. ‘Don’t mock. He doesn’t mean harm from the spell, he means the harm that comes to those who cast them if he finds out.’ She waited for her words to sink in. ‘He says they’re the devil’s work.’

  Beatrix puffed in disparagement. ‘Do I look like a devil to you? I meant nothing by it. I told Peter if I have any say in the matter, he’ll get the claw — punishment. If not from me, then someone else. You ken what the lad did? Laughed. Right in my face.’ She folded her arms aga
in, brooding.

  Nicolas shook her head gravely. Janet rolled her eyes. Slowly, they picked up the nets and resumed their mending.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ said Beatrix after a moment, ‘maybe a charm is what I need. Not to get those nails for my William, but to remind young Peter of his manners.’

  ‘And you think a charm is the way to do that?’ asked Sorcha lightly, needle poised mid-air.

  Beatrix pushed her hands onto her knees and rose to her feet. ‘For an auld woman like me, it’s the only way. Lads and lassies these days, they’ve no respect for their elders, not any more. If I can’t get it by fair means, I’ve no choice but to use what’s available to me, even if it be foul.’ Her eyes lost focus and she scratched her neck.

  ‘Aye, well, you be careful, Beatrix,’ warned Janet. ‘Just because you got away with it before doesn’t mean you will again. Problem with charms and curses, once you make them, you never know how they’ll turn out. They’ve a power of their own and shouldn’t be used lightly.’

  ‘Och, I’ll not be using it lightly,’ said Beatrix. With a last wave, she hirpled her way back to the High Street, a sack of vegetables and a bag of grain flung over her shoulder. Sorcha hadn’t noticed her limp being so pronounced before. Some said Beatrix broke her ankle chasing her husband with a broom after he refused to do something she told him to. Beatrix always said it was running from his advances. That had been years ago and Sorcha knew which version everyone believed. Beatrix had a terrible tongue, but as she said, she meant no harm by it. It simply ran away with her.

  As she watched Beatrix leave, Sorcha also noted her friend’s bent back, how her hair was now more white than burned copper. Beatrix might be using what she felt was her only option to teach a lad civility, but Sorcha feared it wasn’t only Peter Morton who’d learn the lesson.

  TEN

  When a woman thinks alone, she thinks evil.

  — Malleus Maleficarum, The Hammer of Witches

  The following afternoon Sorcha was returning from a long day down by the shore. It had been a poor haul — mostly herring and a few cod — but a larger ship had sailed through the nets, tearing them mercilessly. It had taken all the fishwives working together with a couple of the old fishermen who no longer went to sea to repair them. One of the men, Thomas Brown, had been a mentor to her da and, after her father’s death and Robbie was taken prisoner, became one to her, advising where to send her boat and when, which men to hire, who to let go after a run. As she and Nettie fed the nets to him, pointing out where the worst of the damage was, Sorcha noted how easily his thick knuckles and twisted fingers moved to patterns he’d followed all his life. While they worked, he shared news from the other boats; what the fisherfolk down Anster way and beyond were saying. There was nothing they hadn’t already heard, and soon the conversation switched to Thomas’s daughter and her baby son. They enjoyed Thomas’s company so much, neither Sorcha nor Nettie complained when they were late leaving the foreshore to sell the catch.

  Adjusting her creel as she finally headed home, Sorcha thought Thomas was beginning to show his age. Why, he must be almost eighty. Tall and thin as a fisherman’s rod, her father used to say that when Thomas was young if he stood still on deck, the gulls would mistake him for the mast. Sorcha gave a whimsical smile. Not any more now his back was bowed and his eyes cloudy, though you wouldn’t know from the speed with which he worked. For an old man, he still had plenty of energy. Not even the hacking cough that occasionally racked his frame seemed to upset him.

  Sorcha might be younger than Thomas Brown by some decades, but she was exhausted and looking forward to a whisky, a meal and bed. Nettie had decided it was time to visit her husband for a few days and so had taken some of the catch to cook for him. It was weeks since Sorcha had the cottage to herself and she was relishing the thought. Lost in planning her evening, it took her a moment to notice someone walking close beside her.

  It was none other than Peter Morton.

  Squashing the disappointment that it wasn’t someone else, she swiftly concealed her surprise that the lad they’d been discussing by the harbour only yesterday should suddenly manifest.

  ‘Evening, Mrs McIntyre,’ said Peter, touching his cap. ‘Can I take that for you?’ he asked, nodding at her creel.

  ‘Nae, lad, but thank you. It’s not very heavy. I’ve only enough in here for myself; managed to sell the rest on the High Street.’

  ‘I saw you,’ said Peter, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Thought I’d take the chance to see how you’re faring now you’re back. I see you in the kirk, but we haven’t had the opportunity to chat.’ He gave her a wide smile, his eyes holding hers a bit too long. For someone so young, he had a way about him that belied his years, a confidence and strut that made her a tad uneasy.

  ‘I am faring very well considering, thank you, Peter. How about yourself?’ she asked, putting some distance between them on the road. She nodded to the McKenzies as they came out of the tavern, their dog at their heels. Peter beamed at them and touched his cap.

  ‘I be grand today, Mrs McIntyre. Not only did I just deliver the nails Bailie Whyte had me make for his ship, but now I have the pleasure of your company.’

  Sorcha didn’t quite know what to say.

  ‘I’ll be the envy of all the lads,’ said Peter, stepping closer to her and acknowledging the men loitering outside the tavern. ‘There’s no one who wouldn’t want to be in my shoes, walking with the bonniest lass in town.’

  Sorcha stopped in her tracks. ‘Are you flirting with me, Peter Morton?’

  Facing her, Peter put his hands on his hips and winked. ‘Aye,’ he said, a cheeky grin splitting his face.

  Sorcha couldn’t help it, as uncomfortable as she felt, there was something disingenuous about the lad. Anyhow, what harm did it do? Why, he was sixteen if he was a day, and what was she? An old widow of twenty-five. She could indulge him his fantasy. She was only practice, after all. As for him being the envy of the men for being in her company, more likely they’d be wanting to bathe him in holy waters, touch cold iron or perform an exorcism.

  They matched pace, Peter holding out his arm for her to take. Aware the eyes of those outside the tavern were lingering upon them, she altered the position of her creel and looped her arm through his, wondering what his da might say, let alone Reverend Cowper should he see them. She knew the Cowpers and the Mortons were close. No doubt word would get back. Recklessly, she drew him closer. She listened as Peter told her all about making nails. He even mentioned Beatrix trying to buy some, though he omitted the part where she lost her temper. She liked him better for that.

  They came to the Mercat Cross and paused. ‘I go this way,’ said Sorcha, indicating Kirkgate.

  ‘Aye, I ken where you live. But —’ Peter glanced at her shyly, ‘if you could just step into Routine Row with me for a bit, I could show you the smithy.’

  Thinking how gallant the lad had been and how it wasn’t really much out of her way, Sorcha relented. ‘Very well, but I can’t stay long.’

  Peter’s smile was worth her concession. Linking his arm through hers again, he almost dragged her the short distance up the street. She could see the Morton house with its red-tiled roof and the large building to the side with its own chimney to allow the smoke and heat from the forge to escape.

  ‘Da bought some new bellows,’ began Peter. ‘You have to hear them; they put auld man —’ Peter pulled up short and dropped her arm.

  Sorcha took a couple more steps before she realised he’d stopped, and turned around. Peter’s face was chalk-white. He was staring at a wooden bucket propped just outside the large double-doors to the smithy. A thin column of grey smoke rose from it.

  ‘Peter, what is it?’ asked Sorcha, concerned when he didn’t speak. ‘Peter?’ She touched his shoulder gently.

  He lifted his arm and pointed a trembling finger.

  ‘It’s a bucket, Peter,’ said Sorcha. To prove it, she stepped towards it, nudging it with the toe of her
boot and peering inside. There was some water and a fire coal floating on the surface. Sorcha did her best not to flinch. It was a sea charm — one cast to control the waves. An odd feeling began in the pit of her stomach. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Beatrix had put it there.

  ‘Look,’ she said as if she’d not a care the world. ‘It’s naught but a bucket and a bit of water. It’s nothing to be afr—’

  Peter let out a blood-curdling scream and, before Sorcha could prevent it, collapsed to the ground, thrashing, his head striking the road hard.

  ‘Peter!’ Sorcha flung off her creel, the fish slithering across the ground, and bolted to his side.

  Falling to her knees, she tried to stop his flailing arms and legs, protect his head, but her efforts were useless. Stiff-limbed, he kicked and jerked and threw his hands about, screeching fit to raise the devil. The skin broke on his knuckles as they struck the ground, blood splattering on his clothes, on Sorcha’s apron, her face.

  ‘Help!’ shouted Sorcha. ‘Help!’

  She tried to prevent him injuring himself further as he squirmed and twisted, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. He was strong, his heels pummelled her legs, he threw off her hands.

  People came running from their houses but halted a few feet away and stared, not knowing what to do, afraid. ‘It’s Peter Morton!’ cried someone. ‘Fetch his da,’ yelled another.

  There was no need. Out of the house next to the smithy bowled Peter’s father and his two eldest sisters. Throwing themselves beside Sorcha, they stared helplessly as their son and brother quaked and shrieked.

  ‘What happened?’ shouted Patrick Morton, trying to be heard above his son’s haunting wails. A huge man, he had a great dark beard and small beady eyes that failed to meet others’. His large hands hovered above his son’s body, too scared to touch him. His daughters began to sob.