by Karen Brooks
‘I don’t know,’ said Sorcha, trying not to let panic overtake her. ‘Help me hold him still, please. He’s hurting himself.’
Reluctantly, Patrick wrapped his hands around his son’s arms, pinning him to the ground. Sorcha took his ankles and leaned all her weight on them. The lad arched his back; the veins on his neck were cords. All she could think was, please don’t die. Please don’t die.
‘What happened?’ repeated Patrick Morton through gritted teeth.
Sorcha tried to answer as she battled against Peter’s unnatural strength. ‘One minute we were walking up the street, the next he stopped and fell to the ground.’ She looked over her shoulder; the wooden pail was still there, but the smoke no longer rose above it, thank God. Turning her attention back to Peter, she felt his movements weren’t quite as violent. His screams had transformed into dreadful heavy breathing, much like she imagined the bellows he wished to show her would have sounded. His neck was stiff and his eyes wide open, his pupils huge.
‘Let’s get him inside,’ said Patrick and, with his shovel-like hands, scooped up his son, throwing Sorcha back onto her heels. He carried him to the house. Scrambling to her feet, Sorcha followed. So did the rest of the folk. ‘Someone get the reverend. Now,’ ordered Patrick, pausing outside his door.
Seumas Cowper, the reverend’s oldest son, a rangy lad in his twenties, with thinning hair and narrow lips, who’d appeared when the screaming started, raced towards the kirk, casting a dark glance in Sorcha’s direction as he did so. ‘Fetch the doctor, would you, Mrs McIntyre?’ said Patrick over his shoulder as he kicked open the front door. Blocking entry momentarily, he waited for her acquiescence. He didn’t want her coming inside his house.
‘Of course,’ said Sorcha and, forgetting her creel and the bucket, ran back towards the High Street, aware of the whispers and pointing fingers of the Mortons’ neighbours, many of whom simply poured into the house behind Patrick, his now rigid, silent son and weeping daughters.
She hadn’t even reached the corner when she heard words that made her heart sink. ‘What’s that bucket doing there? Och, what mischief is this?’
As she spun around, she saw Mrs Crawford waddling towards the bucket, Mr Roberts and Mr Baker heeding her call. Upon their heels were Cowper’s two eldest girls, frowning and whispering behind their hands before raising their heads and staring at Sorcha with granite eyes.
She didn’t wait to hear what they might say, but ran, the feeling in her stomach transforming into a leaden weight.
ELEVEN
Keeping’ the stick in the wud man’s e’e.
(Keeping an argument going too long.)
It was late before Sorcha was finally able to go home. The sun had long since set and the wind had picked up, bringing with it a touch of frost as well as the melancholy sigh of the ocean and the smell of peat, fish and other reminders of comfort. An argument erupted from within a house, a lone bird shrilled. Smoke obscured the stars, but Sorcha knew they were there. It was the first night in ages there were no clouds. If she was up to it, she would try and see the starlight later, offer a few prayers for her family and the poor lad who lay stricken.
Sorcha had raised the doctor, but returned to the Mortons only to be denied entry. Joining the curious throng waiting outside for news, she was there when the reverend forced his way through and was admitted immediately. To her dismay, the bucket had been removed — to where, she dared not ask. Gossip was rife already. Talk of a wicked charm spread. Some of the folk had been inside and seen Peter laid on his bed. Sorcha didn’t need to ask how he fared, it was on everyone’s lips.
‘His face was unrecognisable,’ said Hetty Collins, the butcher’s wife, rubbing her gnarled hands together. ‘All twisted and ferocious.’ She pulled her mouth and widened her eyes to demonstrate.
‘Aye, and his chest was like a barrel, fit to burst.’
Sorcha couldn’t see who was speaking, only hear the glee.
‘It isn’t natural,’ said Hetty, shaking her head, clutching her little girl to her skirts.
‘Soon as the reverend heard,’ said young Rachel Johnson, a friend of Cowper’s eldest lass, ‘he declared it the result of malice, as God is his witness, he said.’
‘Maliss?’ asked Hetty’s daughter. Sorcha tried to remember her name. ‘What’s that mean, ma?’
‘Witchcraft, Mary,’ whispered Hetty, the colour draining from her face just as excitement filled her eyes. ‘Witchcraft.’
The mutterings and murmurs became a solid roar. Sorcha refused to listen. Instead, she waited for news of Peter, anything that might reassure her he was going to be all right. But as evening fell, the word spread and more people gathered, many clutching candles and lanterns. The chatter about witchcraft grew, until Sorcha could bear it no more. When Hetty and Mary went home, she departed as well, quietly, keeping to the shadows.
Exhausted, she hooked her creel over her shoulders. Grateful no one had seen fit to steal the catch as it lay on the street for a couple of hours, she no longer cared it wasn’t fresh and bore traces of dirt. She was famished and heartsore. None of this boded well.
For the first time that day she wished Nettie was staying the night so she might discuss what had happened. What she knew she must do before the sun rose, no matter what, was warn Beatrix. The charm the woman must have placed at the smithy to frighten Peter Morton had done more than intended. If it was discovered Beatrix was responsible, there’d be hell to pay.
Malice, the reverend called it. Nae, it wasn’t malice, nor the witchcraft Hetty and others believed it denoted. Just a foolish prank played by an old woman designed to teach a lad civility.
She’d only just reached her road when a voice came out of the shadows.
‘I thought I told you, it’s not safe to wander the streets at night.’
Startled at first, Sorcha was relieved when she saw Captain Ross approaching. Her hand dropped from her breast. ‘You’re making a habit of alarming me, captain.’
‘Not half as much as you scared me the last time we spoke. I swear there were lightning bolts shooting from those eyes of yours.’ He reached her side. ‘Once again, I’m sorry if I unnerved you, it wasn’t my intention.’
‘Nor was it mine to frighten you,’ said Sorcha quickly, before she could change her mind. ‘I apologise for what I said the other day. I was just so angry — not at you, but at the corporal, at the situation. I forced my way into where you’re staying and… and…’ She searched for words. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d already seen to it that Bel and the bairn would be taken care of. I should have known you’d do something like that. Please forgive me.’
Captain Ross smiled at her. ‘You were forgiven before you’d even finished, lass. You were right to be mad — at me. Corporal Varner was my responsibility and I should have watched him more closely.’
‘Aye, well, Bel Courie should have thought twice before bedding an incomer, a soldier as well.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s the bairn I really feel for… And now there’s this —’ She nodded in the direction of Routine Row.
They both stared up the street. The glow from the candlelight vigil outside the Morton house could just be seen, a faint aura above the rooftops.
‘I saw you coming away from there and wondered if you knew what was going on,’ said the captain. ‘The villagers in the tavern are full of talk. Something about the Morton lad and an evil charm.’
Sorcha sighed. ‘Aye, well, I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.’
‘It usually is. Here,’ said the captain. ‘Let me take that.’
Before she could protest, he lifted the creel, helping her with the straps that sat across her shoulders. Free of the weight, Sorcha rolled her neck. ‘Thank you. It’s heavier now than it was a few hours ago, but I think that’s because there’s now a greater weight in here.’ She touched her heart.
Captain Ross followed the direction of her hand then quickly looked away.
Embarrassed lest he think she t
ried to draw his gaze deliberately, Sorcha began to walk again. The captain fell into step beside her. Whereas Peter Morton had been of a height, the captain was much taller. She was aware of his broad form, a wall between her and the darkness beyond. When she didn’t immediately talk, he touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘You know, Mrs McIntyre, I find a burden shared is one halved. I’d be honoured to help lighten what you evidently carry.’ When she didn’t reply, he bent his head. ‘A complication can oft be made simple once described.’
Wanting to explain what had happened, even if only to herself, she quickly filled him in on Peter’s fit, omitting the part about what she knew the bucket contained and who she strongly suspected had put it there. She told him what the villagers were already saying, the conclusions they were leaping to. He listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he nodded gravely. ‘And do you think there is a charm involved?’ he asked.
Sorcha forced a smile. ‘I don’t really believe in such things.’
‘If that’s so, then why are you so worried? Why do you fear a complication? Surely there’ll be others see it as you do?’
They’d reached her door. Already dreading being alone, she was tempted to invite him in so she might pour out her heart, share her qualms; but she couldn’t afford to attract more gossip and innuendo, not now. She needed to think about what to do about Beatrix and the charm; think about how she, Nettie and the others could counter any accusations against her.
‘I hope so, captain, but the Weem be a place where superstition is sown, not just into the soil, but flows in the veins.’ Shaking herself, she remembered where she was and to whom she was talking. ‘I thank you for your kindness, for listening to me. I’m simply worried about Peter; he’s clearly very ill. He hurt himself badly when he fell. As for talk of a charm…’ She looked towards the kirk, then in the direction of the Mortons’ house. ‘It’s a nonsense. The boy was beset with apoplexy or some such thing. There is no malfeasance involved.’
‘I never credited it for a moment,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve been here long enough to know that while malice may not have been intended, it’s often how others read these things. The folk here seem to have a fascination for bewitchment and such — as you say, it’s in the blood. There’s a history of it in Pittenweem.’
‘Aye, there is — of accusations and burnings, though not for a number of years, thank the Lord. Nevertheless, some make a habit of seeing malevolence where none is intended. It suits their purpose, whatever it might be.’ She glanced towards the kirk once more before averting her eyes, fearing she’d already said too much.
They stood outside her house. Light from the neighbours’ windows allowed her to see the crags and planes of the captain’s face. He was a foreign country, a mystery part of her wished she could unravel. Gazing up at him, she exhaled quietly. Dear God, but the man invited peculiar thoughts into her head. Next, she’d be writing poetry or singing songs to dead lovers.
Dead lovers. Aye, well, she had one of those, only — was Andy really a lover? Loved, well, she’d loved him as much as she could. But he was not what she ever imagined a lover could be.
She shook herself out of her thoughts, wishing the heat that rose inside her would dissipate, and recalled what the captain just said. He was right. It was how Reverend Cowper and the rest of the Weem would read the bucket and coal that would dictate the fate of the person who put it there — they and Peter Morton, who, as they stood talking, lay in his bed, sickened.
Or, as others believed, bewitched; the victim of malfeasance…
‘Thank you for seeing me home, captain. And thank you for your kind offer. If ever I need to share another burden, I won’t forget it.’ What he didn’t know was she’d no intention of telling him anything more. He was an incomer and, as her da always said, fisherfolk stuck together — through good times and bad. Only, she couldn’t recall the last time things were good.
‘Be sure you don’t,’ said the captain.
She wished she could think of something else to say, a reason not to go inside. While she didn’t want to share her fears for Beatrix, she was enjoying his company and would keep him there. But there was no reason. With a small curtsey, she went to the door.
‘Mrs McIntyre,’ said the captain.
Sorcha turned. ‘Aye?’ He was right behind her.
‘I can say something to Mrs Laing if you wish — tell her what’s happened.’ He jerked his chin towards the dim light.
‘Mrs Laing?’ Dear God, why did he raise Beatrix’s name? She hadn’t mentioned her, had she? If the captain knew she’d placed the bucket and coal outside the smithy, then so must half the village. ‘Why would you wish to tell Mrs Laing anything?’ She hoped her dread wasn’t apparent in the question.
Captain Ross stood so near, she could smell him. A hint of whisky, sweat and a musky odour that made her think of bathing in the ocean, drying before firelight and hazy summer days.
He lowered his face towards hers and for one mad moment, she thought he might kiss her. Her heart beat frantically against her ribs. Her cheeks burned. ‘Because,’ his breath was hot against her ear, ‘I saw her talking to the Morton lad only yesterday and she didn’t seem very happy.’ He drew his face away slowly and gazed at her intently. ‘I wasn’t the only one. I thought it might be good for her to know what’s happened, lest people read something they should not into their conversation.’
‘I see.’ Sorcha’s mind whirled. The sooner Beatrix found out what had occurred, how Peter reacted to her charm, the better. It might be too late by morning. God knows what the reverend might do. Might make others do. And, if Sorcha was seen talking to Beatrix, what conclusions would then be drawn? Before she could change her mind, she gripped his hand. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Aye. It would be grand if you could tell her. Now, if that’s possible.’
‘Consider it done,’ said the captain.
‘But please,’ said Sorcha, her grip tightening, ‘don’t let anyone see you.’
‘If I don’t want them to, they won’t.’ He made no effort to leave.
She felt he’d more to say. She waited. The evening enveloped and protected them; the ocean whispered. The stars she’d longed to see sparkled above; the moon floated into view, casting its radiance over everything. Would that they could remain there forever, locked in moonlight and shadows, caressed by the salty breeze from the sea while the world outside passed them by.
Before she could think of a reason to detain him, he stepped away, forcing her fingers to drop, bringing her to her senses. He bowed and turned, swallowed swiftly by the darkness.
It was just as he promised. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him.
TWELVE
You’re in for a calahesion.
(You’re about to get into real trouble.)
Three days had passed since Peter Morton was bewitched. At least, that’s how Reverend Patrick Cowper described the lad’s affliction. The useless doctor might have tried to give an alternate explanation, but there was no doubt in the reverend’s mind that the old bitch Beatrix Laing had put one of her charms upon the boy because he hadn’t given her the nails she’d demanded. And it was no coincidence that the full power of the charm fell upon the lad when he was with Sorcha McIntyre. Och, she might deny it all she liked, she and the other fishwives, but the reverend knew a witch when he saw one and if those women weren’t a coven, well, the devil could take his soul, too.
He had barely stirred from Peter’s bedside since he was first fetched, and then only to deliver his Sunday sermon. Patrick was pleased to see the lad was at least lying quietly now, the paroxysms not coming upon him quite so frequently, even if their intensity had increased.
Dear God, when Patrick first arrived at the house it was akin to a marketplace with the boy being watched and commented upon by a crowd like he was a news seller or one of those theatrical troupes putting on a play. The place was filled with clash-bags, young lasses, lads and nearby vendors telling Mr Mort
on what they’d seen, what he should do, what the best cures were and all sorts of other rubbish.
At least Peter’s da had the sense to call for him. He could scarce believe it when his lad, Seumas, came a-huffing and a-puffing into the kirk with the story. When he finally saw Peter stretched out on the bed, his back arched as if he were about to break in two, his neck so distended and corded with veins, his eyes set to pop, he knew what he was witnessing and did not fail to name it: malice. Was it not his godly duty to smite witchcraft and all who practised it lest they harm good Christian souls? It was. And so he named it and made sure, despite the doctor’s call for caution, that the word spread.
Malfeasance had returned to the Weem.
Even though the day was cool, the lad was pale and sweaty against his pillows, his dull eyes fixed straight ahead. Patrick reached for his hand. As he held it, the lad blinked and tried to say something.
‘There now, Peter, be not afeared. God is with you, and so am I.’
‘Th… th… thank you, reverend,’ said Peter hoarsely.
‘Don’t speak. Not yet. Let me get you a drink.’ He fetched a cup of milk and put it to the boy’s mouth, tipping it gently. As he did so, he thought about all the lad had said since he’d taken ill. He’d blethered about a charm, about the pain in his limbs, as if a thousand rats were biting him with sharp teeth. He said he could hear voices in his head, chanting, whispering, luring him into a dark space where the light went to die.
Patrick knew God had sent him a challenge. It was one he accepted with grace and pride. He would find who was responsible for this devilment and fell them. And this poor lad, this once hale fellow whom he’d known for years, would help him.
Having slaked his thirst, Peter fell back on the pillows. ‘Thank you, reverend.’
Patrick smiled and brushed aside the appreciation. ‘’Tis naught, lad, ’tis naught. There’s no need to talk, I want you to save your poor wee throat. But it’s important I ask some questions. I have to ken what happened, find out who’s responsible. Your ma and da are relying on me to get to the bottom of this. Are you up to that? Nae. Don’t speak. All you have to do is nod or shake your head. Can you do that?’
