by Karen Brooks
‘Aye —’ began Peter, then pressed his lips together and nodded.
‘Good lad,’ said Patrick approvingly. ‘Tell me, do you still hear the voices?’
Peter thought for a moment. He shook his head.
‘Do you still feel the pain in your legs and arms?’
Peter hesitated, then nodded.
‘May I take a look?’ asked Patrick and lifted the blankets when Peter acquiesced.
There wasn’t a mark upon the lad, just his sinewy legs and pale arms dusted with dark hair. He was a fine-looking young man, strapping and strong. It pained Patrick to see him brought low. To see that a curse wielded by ancient, devil-cursed witches could bring down such a one.
With great tenderness he touched Peter’s neck, then his shoulders, asking if he hurt. When Peter shook his head, Patrick frowned.
‘Can you tell me what caused you to fall that day, Peter?’
Peter stared, his eyes bulged, his lips contorted.
‘Aye, you can talk now,’ said Patrick, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
‘Nae, reverend,’ Peter croaked. ‘Though I did see a charm before the smithy. As soon as I laid eyes upon it, the feeling came over me.’
‘The feeling?’
‘Of a mighty powerful dread. Like my body was no longer in my possession. As if someone else had control.’
‘You mean like a puppet whose strings were being pulled?’
‘Aye, by an unseen hand.’
Patrick regarded Peter closely, then leaned back in the chair. Holding his narrow chin in his long fingers, he continued to study the boy carefully. ‘I see. Can you describe the charm?’
‘’Twas a bucket and it had smoke rising from it.’ Peter’s lips began to tremble. ‘I ken what that means, reverend. ’Tis a water charm that conjures up a storm, bringing ill-luck upon those who spy it. I felt it strike me straight away, as if I’d been bludgeoned.’ He paused and raised his eyes to the reverend’s. ‘Do you believe me, sir?’
‘Aye, I do, lad. I do.’
Peter’s eyes filled with tears and he squeezed the reverend’s hand in gratitude.
‘You see,’ said Patrick, leaning on the bed and tilting towards him, ‘this wouldn’t be the first time someone like yourself has fallen victim to the wicked ways of those who are in league with the devil.’
‘But why me, sir?’ asked Peter in a small voice.
‘You might well ask that. The devil likes to terrorise the innocent in the hope of converting them to his dark doings, using fear to force them to do his bidding. He recruits souls into his evil army. The more he recruits, the greater his force and the harder it is for others to resist. You wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last.’
Peter stared in horror. ‘There’s been others?’
‘Many. You heard tell of Mrs Dore from St Monan’s? She burned as a witch, as did Maggie Moran over fifty years ago. But there are others and younger than yourself.’ He let go of Peter’s hand, pleased to see the boy had reached for him before his fingers retreated under the covers. He rose and shut the door, then settled back into his chair. ‘Have you ever heard tell of the lass Christian Shaw, from the Bargarran Estate to the west of here?’
Peter frowned then shook his head.
‘Och, well, let me tell you what happened to that poor wee lassie.’ The reverend gave a crooked smile, sighed deeply, and took his time. ‘Christian was only eleven years old when a group of witches cast a terrible spell upon her. Like you, her body twisted and contorted. She shook like a trapped coney, flapped about on her bed like a fish brought to land and there was naught anyone could do to stop it.’
‘W… why not?’ asked Peter, bunching the blankets in his fists.
‘At first, because no one knew what caused such fits, and she became worse. The doctors could do nothing. She lost the power of speech, she couldn’t hear what was being said and even went blind briefly.’
Peter gasped. Patrick drew himself up. ‘After a while, she began to vomit up the feathers of birds, hair, coal cinders the size of chestnuts, and even bones.’
‘Bones?’ squeaked Peter.
‘Aye.’ Patrick paused, allowing the lad to absorb what he said. ‘She couldn’t bear to have clothes upon her body, for beneath them, she was being pricked and bitten by unseen imps who’d been called upon by the devil to torment her. Her body was marked by scratches and bites, terrible marks that sent her into agonies.’
‘But… why?’
‘Why indeed. ’Twas a spell, a charm cast upon her by ungrateful servants — witches by any other name — who together summoned up a demon, or even a few demons, to possess her and torment her until she was deceased.’
Peter swallowed. ‘She died?’
‘Nae, lad, brave Christian Shaw lived and does even now as we speak. But those who tormented her are dead. They were burned to death, as all those in league with Satan should be. As all witches must be to protect others from their evil.’
‘You think what’s happening to me is because of witches?’ Peter’s knees were drawn up, he clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
‘I’ve nae doubt.’
Peter gulped. ‘But, sir, there be no witches in the Weem.’
‘Nae?’ Patrick Cowper stared earnestly at Peter Morton. ‘There have been in the past. Why not now? Think carefully, Peter. Did you not tell me yourself that Beatrix Laing cursed you when you wouldn’t give her any nails?’
‘Aye, but —’
It was all Patrick could do not to crow. Beatrix Laing was considered a knabbie woman for a spinner of wool. By Weem standards she was very wealthy indeed, with a fine house, a husband who was a tailor and had once been town treasurer. And what about her daughter? Wasn’t she married to a fisherman who crewed on an Anster ship? Didn’t Beatrix help look after the wee bairn? What was her name? Elise? Emma?
‘Does not Mrs Laing have a reputation for cursing and making charms?’
Peter frowned. Patrick could tell he was reluctant to name her. Never mind, they’d time.
‘And what about those she regards as her friends?’ continued the reverend. ‘Janet Horseburgh, the one they call Nettie, was she not once labelled a witch?’
Peter’s eyes widened. He nodded. ‘Aye. She was. Once. Years ago. But da told me it was never proven.’
The reverend made a scoffing noise. ‘What of Nicolas Lawson who dabbles in potions? And what about the auld scold, Janet Cornfoot?’
Peter’s eyes rolled in his head. ‘I… I don’t know, sir.’
‘Well, I do. Though it was never official, there were those who made accusations. About both of them. Many times.’
Peter pressed himself into his pillows. His face had grown even paler. Sweat poured down his forehead, his hair stuck to his temples.
‘They are workers of malice, Peter. They’ve a history of it — the lot of them — and there are others will tell you it’s so. They got away with it before and they seek to do so again. They’ve set their sights on you, lad.’
Peter began to shake.
The reverend laid a comforting hand over his. ‘We have to put a stop to it.’
Peter fixed his eyes on the reverend. ‘You’ll help me, sir?’
‘Aye, lad, me and God.’
‘Thank you, reverend. Bless you, sir.’
‘But, Peter, in order to stop these women working their evil, in order to rid your body of the demon that’s been conjured, we have to identify all the witches involved. If we miss even one, then your torment won’t end. The entire village will remain at risk. Do you understand?’
‘Sir,’ said Peter, terror pinching his face.
‘Can you think of anyone else who might have worked malice upon you, lad? Apart from Beatrix Laing?’
Peter’s brow furrowed. He half-lay, knees drawn, hunched, quiet. The reverend remained silent. Peter hadn’t corrected him when he mentioned the Laing woman. Good.
Outside, the voices of those waiting for news wer
e a dulcet song. A dog whined and the shrill cries of gulls carried as they fought over food. A cart bumped along the cobbles, pausing outside the Mortons’ door. Within the house, Patrick could hear the low murmurs of one of Peter’s sisters and his ma, and the deep, short notes of his father’s voice. There was the smell of meat cooking. Patrick was hungry. A door opened, then closed.
‘I think maybe Mrs Wallace did curse me once,’ said Peter softly.
‘Margaret Wallace? The fishwife?’
‘Aye, that be her. My ma calls her Lillie.’
‘Good, good, Peter. Can you think of anyone else?’
Peter frowned deeply but finally shook his head.
Drawing his chair closer, Patrick whispered, ‘What of Sorcha McIntyre?’
Peter recoiled. ‘Nae. Not Sorcha. She be no witch.’
The reverend relaxed back into his chair. ‘But was she not with you when you were struck down?’
‘A… aye. But da told me Hetty and wee Mary said she did all she could to stop me hurting myself. She didn’t —’
‘She made sure you saw the charm, lad,’ said Patrick abruptly, slapping his hands against the arms of the chair, causing Peter to jump. ‘Did she not come with you up this very road and stop right where the charm lay, so you might be the first to set eyes upon it?’
In answer, Peter screwed his eyes up tight.
The reverend waited. Was the lad trying to remember, or trying to shut out the very thought of Sorcha McIntyre and the intoxicating spell she cast over every man she met?
Patrick recalled her as he last saw her, the bronze hair threaded amply with burnished copper, her eyes translucent blue-green like the sun on the Forth, that pale northern skin and the lush full mouth, more often drawn back in a smile that was never for him.
‘Like the others, she is a maker of malice,’ whispered the reverend.
‘Nae… I can’t believe it,’ whimpered Peter.
‘They’re witches, lad, every last one of them. Sorcha McIntyre too. Open your eyes. Open your heart. You must see the truth for us to bring it to light. In doing so, everyone else will see it too.’
Blinking rapidly, Peter opened his eyes. ‘B… But Sorcha would never do anything to hurt me. Nor would Mrs White, or Mrs Wallace.’
‘Are they not friends of Beatrix Laing? Did you not tell me that she cursed you?’
Peter turned his face away.
‘Peter,’ said the reverend softly. His voice was like warm honey. ‘’Tis a sin to lie, just as it’s a sin to curse and weave spells. You’ll not want to be like those who would cause harm, would you? And yet if you tell falsehoods, if you protect them with a still tongue, then you do the devil’s work for him…’
The reverend paused.
‘Aye, Mrs Laing did curse me.’ Peter’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘And what type of being is it that offers curses, Peter?’
‘A witch.’
The reverend took a deep breath, trying not to let triumph infuse his tone. ‘So, Peter, tell me. What does that make Mrs Laing?’
Peter raised hollow eyes. ‘A witch, sir. It makes her a witch.’
Patrick enveloped Peter’s hand with his own. ‘Exactly. She’s much more than a bad-tempered auld crone — she seeks to corrupt your soul. Force you to her will. She and the others. You’re not the type of lad to let yourself be forced by women, are you?’
‘Nae, sir,’ scorned Peter. He tried to sit up straight.
‘And, while you can likely defeat a spell cast by one witch, as we have seen, they rarely work alone. They stick together — there’s unnatural strength in their numbers. Once they choose a victim, they turn their wicked spells upon him and never leave him alone. They torment him forever and ever.’
Before Peter could pull his hand away, the reverend closed his other over the top, sealing it between his thin cool ones.
‘Do you want that to happen to you, Peter?’
Unable to speak, Peter’s eyes grew round. He yanked his hand out from between the reverend’s and grabbed at his throat.
‘Do you?’ insisted Patrick Cowper, compressing Peter’s other hand harder betwixt his own.
Peter tried to speak, but nothing came.
‘Ah, lad, it starts again.’ Dropping his hold, the reverend stood and went to the window, making a show of staring down upon the street. ‘They ken you’re speaking to me, and through me to God. You’re learning how to protect yourself and to prevent that, the witches have stolen your voice.’
He swung back to the bed. ‘Don’t let them win, Peter. They’re not your friends, they’re your foes. All of them are wicked, wicked women, every last one of them. One has only to hear what happened to Christian Shaw to see that. She endured for months, but she endured. Despite what they did to her, she triumphed over the devil. Do you remember what I just told you about that wee lassie?’
With both his hands now wrapped around his neck, his face turning red, Peter shook his head wildly.
Patrick tried to prise the lad’s hands away. When he couldn’t, he settled for resting his own over them. ‘I think I’d better tell you her story again. It’s a way of arming you lest this curse work further evil.’
He peered into the lad’s face, so close their noses almost touched.
‘Aye, reverend,’ said Peter, finding his voice at last. ‘I think you should too.’
‘Good lad.’
The reverend sank back into his chair and began to tell Peter exactly what the curse made Christian Shaw do, down to every last detail.
THIRTEEN
That’s anither day an’anither dinner.
(We’ll leave that for another time.)
It was a fresh spring day carrying with it a hint of the warmth of the summer to come. The waters were relatively calm and the sun shone upon the Forth, turning the usually grey expanse into a glittering pool of silver. Birds hovered over the boats that dotted the sea, marking their location the way a group of clouds indicates rain. Gulls and terns heckled those who worked upon the shoreline, ever-watchful lest a fishwife drop a mussel or an oyster.
Sorcha would have enjoyed the break from the cold and rain had it not been for what preoccupied them all: the condition of Peter Morton. It had been three weeks since he fell ill and, according to gossip in the streets and Reverend Cowper himself most Sundays, he wasn’t improving. Another doctor had been sent for from Anster and, when nothing he did worked, physicians from Edinburgh came calling. Baffled by what beset the lad, nothing they suggested improved his condition, not their purges, potions or ghastly medicines. Not even the prayers of the kirk or the reverend, who attended him daily. On the contrary, his fits had grown worse and the pain increased. It was said that red marks scored his body as if unseen hands and mouths tormented him.
While the physicians were at first sceptical of the reverend’s suggestion of bewitchment, they were soon to be heard uttering the word, albeit reluctantly.
It was all the town could talk about. Where there was witchcraft, there were witches. It had happened before. Folk began to look askance at each other, to whisper behind their hands and look suspiciously upon the actions of their neighbours. It was difficult to ignore the growing disquiet. Beatrix ridiculed their fears, the wild imaginings of the townsfolk, but Nettie, Janet and Nicolas grew introspective and cautious. They remembered what had happened in Paisley only seven years ago, when six servants from the Bargarran estate were strangled and burned as witches. The accuser had been an eleven-year-old girl, Christian Shaw. A child who held the power of life and death over those who’d served her family faithfully.
Then there were those in the west of the country who had been accused only two years later. They too had been sent to their deaths. As Thomas Brown reminded them, in the last one hundred and fifty years or so in Pittenweem alone, at least two dozen had been called witch and put to the flame.
Huddled together, baiting lines, mending nets, working in threes, the fishwives sat close to each other, drawing comfort
from proximity and their shared concerns. So caught up were they in exchanging news and pondering what might happen next, they only noticed Katherine Marshal, a seamstress and one of Beatrix’s friends, when she was almost upon them.
‘Nicolas! Nettie, Sorcha!’ cried the woman, holding up a hand to attract their attention as she staggered down the sands, her chest heaving. ‘They’ve taken Beatrix!’
The women stopped what they were doing. The net Sorcha was mending rolled off her thighs and pooled onto the sand as she slowly stood.
‘Who?’ asked Nettie. Her voice was thick. ‘Who has taken Beatrix?’
The other women put their work aside and waited impatiently while Katherine caught her breath. The old men who sat outside the cottages lining the harbour walked across the road and jumped down onto the sand so they too could hear what she had to say. Thomas Brown tilted his head towards Sorcha in an unasked question; she pressed her lips together and shook her head.
Bent over, her hands still upon her knees, Katherine raised her freckled face. Her cheeks were red, the broken veins around her nose and along her chin prominent. ‘The constables,’ she gasped. Hands flew to mouths. Wide-eyed looks of shock were exchanged. ‘They came to Beatrix’s house and marched her to the Mortons. They said the bailies want to question her.’
‘At the Mortons?’ asked Nicolas, confused. ‘Why there?’
‘What about?’ asked Thomas.
‘What do you think?’ asked Nettie sharply. She glanced at Sorcha, untied her apron and slipped it over her head. ‘Come on. I’ll be damned if I’ll sit here waiting to hear what’s going on. I’m to the Mortons.’
‘Me too,’ said Sorcha, taking off her apron and throwing it on a creel. She raised a quizzical brow at Nicolas.
Nicolas refused to meet their eyes. ‘I’ll wait. Someone should be here when the boats return.’ Sorcha knew what she wasn’t saying: Best not be seen together.
