by Karen Brooks
‘Aye, no need for us all to go,’ said the oldest of the fishwives, the kindly Therese Larnarch, bending back to her work. The others swiftly agreed.
‘I’ll wait with the lasses,’ said Thomas, picking up a needle and joining Therese.
Nettie frowned at them in disapproval. Fearing her friend might say something she’d later regret, Sorcha grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her away. ‘Let’s go. Sooner we find out what’s happening, sooner we’ll be back.’
By the time they reached Routine Row, they were simply part of a throng heading for the Morton house. Linking arms, Sorcha, Nettie and Katherine pushed through those gathered outside, until they were in their midst.
Sorcha’s heart sank as she heard the way people in the crowd were talking about Beatrix.
‘She cursed me, I tell you,’ said a woman behind them. Much to Sorcha’s dismay, it was Mrs Robertson, the cooper’s second wife, someone who’d known Beatrix her entire life. ‘The words that came out of her mouth were like none I ever heard before.’
‘Then you can’t have been listenin’ too hard to the others,’ mumbled someone nearby. ‘Since when has Beatrix Laing had a good word to say about anyone?’ There were chuckles. Sorcha began to relax a little.
‘All the bailies are inside,’ said the brewer, Graham Donaldson.
‘They’ve called the pricker and all,’ said the man beside him, the tavern-owner, Michael Bruce.
‘They’ll get a confession out of the auld bitch,’ said Widow Agnes.
‘You mean witch, don’t you, Agnes?’ said Michael. ‘Time to call her what she is.’
‘Och, prickers would get a confession out of anyone. They’d get one outta me,’ said Graham, thumping his considerable chest. ‘And I be no witch.’
‘You sure, man? Perhaps we need to ask your wife.’
Those nearby guffawed.
After that, Sorcha wasn’t sure who spoke, but the gist was the same. Everyone believed Beatrix was being questioned on suspicion of witchcraft. But that wasn’t possible, was it? Then again, the authorities had attempted to prosecute Beatrix before. But back then young James Todd hadn’t succumbed to fits, nor had there been any evidence of a charm; it had all come to nothing.
What was clear was that once again Reverend Cowper had been the one to lay the charge. Only this time he had demanded Beatrix be brought here, to the Morton house. Sorcha wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. They would soon learn.
Around them conversation rose and fell. The sun, which had been shining, became occluded by clouds, and pockets of cold shadow passed over them. The smell of burning peat and smoked fish floated in the air; the endless plash of the waves breaking on the shore could just be discerned.
They didn’t have to wait too long before the door opened and, in the company of two constables, Mark Smith and Simon Wood, Beatrix was escorted from the house. She looked old and frail. Dwarfed by the constables, she could have been anyone’s harmless grandmother. Raising her head, her sharp eyes took in the crowd, the leers, the curious, hungry stares.
‘Piss off, the lot of yers,’ she screeched. ‘There’ll be no burning today — or any day, if I’ve my way.’
There were jeers, some laughter but mostly dark mutterings. Honestly, thought Sorcha, Beatrix could be her own worst enemy.
Throwing off the men’s hold, Beatrix used her elbows to force her way through the mob. Hurling abuse if people stood in her way, they began to jump aside lest she touch them or, worse, lashed them with her tongue. It wasn’t until she saw Sorcha, Nettie and Katherine that she changed direction. Rather than acknowledge them while everyone was watching, she indicated the seashore with a jerk of her head. Stomping off down the Row, she darted into South Loan before anyone could stop her. Sorcha wondered where she was going. Would she dare head home or did she have another destination in mind?
The constables began to hurry the crowd along, but not before Sorcha saw who else spilled from the house. Sure enough, there were most of the bailies, Cook, Whyte, Bell and Vernour, along with men Sorcha knew were close to the reverend. Of the minister, she saw no sign.
But at least they’d released Beatrix. The talk of her being tried and a pricker being summoned appeared to have been exaggerated. Why then did Sorcha feel a terrible tension, like a rope about to snap?
It didn’t take the women long to get back to the harbour. There was no sign of Beatrix, and since the boats had returned, there wasn’t the chance to ask if anyone had seen her or even to exchange much news. Not that it stopped the fishwives — or Thomas, or the arriving fishermen — wanting to know what had occurred. What could they say? They barely knew anything, except that Beatrix had been taken to the Morton house and brought into the presence of the bailies and let go.
‘They wouldn’t have released her if she was guilty, right?’ said Nicolas hopefully.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, lass,’ said Therese, trying to reassure them.
Sorcha didn’t know how to respond. It’s what she hoped, too, but Janet’s stories of the Bargarran trials echoed in her mind. Those men and women had been freed only to die — one by his own hand and the rest later by the flame.
It wasn’t until Lillie Wallace, who’d been working the lines as long as Sorcha could remember, wandered over from the boats and whispered, ‘Meet in Katherine’s house when you’re ready,’ that Sorcha understood whatever Beatrix and her temper had started was by no means finished.
The weather had turned by the time those Lillie had approached gathered in Katherine’s cottage, a small, draughty place that overlooked the sands. Her husband was away on a long voyage, so the women had it to themselves. Katherine made some tea and found a dram to share, and they all sat in front of the fire; some on stools, the rest on cushions on the wooden floor. Wrapped in her shawl, head bowed, Beatrix sat in the centre.
For all she was trying to keep up a brave front, Beatrix was badly shaken. The men had come upon her in the High Street and before she could object, marched her to the Mortons.
‘They waited until William was away in the city, didn’t they? Not one word of explanation was I given. Just carted away like a common criminal,’ she grumbled. ‘They took my basket and all.’ She clasped it tightly to her chest lest someone snatch it away again.
‘What happened once you were at the Mortons?’ asked Nettie, prising the basket away from her and placing a mug of tea in her hands.
Beatrix stared at her drink for so long, the steam wavering before her face, Sorcha thought she must have forgotten the question. ‘I was taken into the main room,’ she said finally. ‘It was full of folk I knew, like it was my wake or something. There were the older of the Cowper children — the lads only, you ken. There were the bailies, and other important folk — MacDougall was there, MacDonald and Frost, the nosy bastard. There were so many I knew… Or thought I did.’ She took a deep breath. ‘The reverend was there as well.’ Her eyes narrowed and she folded her top lip over her bottom one. Thinking. ‘He didn’t say anything at first.’ She chewed her lips for a full minute. No one dared interrupt. ‘Then, in front of all these men, the bailies began to question me.’
‘What about?’ asked Sorcha softly, though she knew.
‘The bucket with the coal in it. They wanted to know if I set it at the smithy door.’
The women waited.
‘What did you tell them?’ asked Sorcha eventually.
‘That I did.’
Sorcha’s heart lurched.
‘And?’ prompted Nettie. ‘What did they say to that?’
‘Say? They wanted to know why I put it there.’
‘What did you answer?’
‘Naught. I said naught. Well, that’s not exactly true. What I said was, I’d no reason for doing it except a fancy to be putting my bucket there and placing a coal in it.’ She raised her chin and grinned at them before taking a slurp of her tea.
Unable to find any humour in the situation, Sorcha sat very still. Nicolas clicked
her tongue and folded her arms, shaking her head. Katherine looked grim.
‘What?’ said Beatrix. ‘What did you expect me to say? I knew what they wanted. They wanted me to own that I put it there to charm the lad.’
‘Didn’t you?’ asked Katherine crossly.
‘Aye, but not so he sickened. The charm isn’t supposed to work like that. I had no part in that. That was something else altogether.’
Before anyone could respond, there was a pounding on the door.
They froze.
Katherine slowly rose to her feet and cast an anxious look at the others; she put her finger to her lips, warning them not to speak. ‘Who’s a-knocking?’ she called.
‘It be myself,’ said a familiar voice. ‘Thom White. I’m told my wife is there and I need to see her.’
Nettie jumped up, put down her mug, drained her dram and brushed her skirts. ‘I’m coming, Mr White,’ she replied. Placing one hand on Beatrix’s shoulder and the other on Sorcha’s, she bent over. ‘You are walking a dangerous path, Beatrix,’ she said quietly. ‘And I am afeared where it will lead you. But stick to your story. They can’t prove intent, no matter what they claim. Intent is in the intender and they can’t wrest that from you unless you give it to them. You hear me?’ Swooping, she kissed the top of Beatrix’s head, then Sorcha’s.
Katherine held the door ajar.
Nettie turned to regard them one by one. ‘It be nothing but a storm in a bucket.’ She tried to smile at her joke, but it was weak. ‘And, like a storm, no matter how wild, it will blow over. We just have to stay strong. You, Beatrix,’ she jabbed her finger in the woman’s direction. ‘You need to stay strong.’
‘Och, don’t you worry about me, lass. I be sturdier than a Dutchman’s ship.’ Beatrix raised her mug to her.
As soon as Nettie left, Katherine poured another dram for each of them. The room felt bigger without Nettie in it, so large was her presence. Sorcha dragged her stool closer to Nicolas, who remained with her arms folded, her expression fixed. The sea was loud in the cottage, not so much the gentle breath she was accustomed to, as a roar. It was unsettling to say the least. The wind had also picked up and brought with it a right blash — sheets of rain slapped the windows, roof and sides of the cottage hard. They were being menaced from all directions.
Katherine took her seat and stared at Beatrix over the rim of her cup. Beatrix gazed at the fire, lost in thought.
‘I can’t believe you were fool enough to cast a charm, Beatrix, not after what happened to you the last time,’ said Katherine.
‘Nothing happened,’ grumbled Beatrix, daring anyone to contradict her.
‘Nothing except you were called a witch,’ corrected Nicolas. ‘A name that’s haunted you and all those you associate with ever since, for all you pretend it hasn’t.’
Lillie Wallace nodded in grim agreement.
Beatrix went to say something, then closed her mouth tightly.
They sat in silence, the wind and rain serenading their dark thoughts.
‘Did you see the Morton lad at all when you were in the house?’ asked Nicolas finally. She was pale but fierce, her dark eyes glimmering with unshed tears.
Caught mid-swallow, Beatrix shook her head, coughing and thumping her chest a few times. ‘Nae, but I could hear him and they told me what ails him. A bloated stomach, rigid limbs, splewing and choking. He’s stopped eating, too.’
Nicolas buried her head in her arms.
‘’Twasn’t me, I tell you,’ protested Beatrix. ‘But I ken what did it all the same.’
Katherine sat forward on her stool and looked from Sorcha to Nicolas and then at Beatrix. ‘What? What do you ken?’
‘Why, his own ill-tongue is what brought an evil spirit to torment him. An auld evil spirit who, like me, thinks the young should pay their elders more respect.’ She burst into cackles of laughter.
Katherine looked at her in sheer dismay. ‘That’s not funny, Beatrix. None of this is funny. You shouldn’t be saying such things.’
‘Katherine’s right,’ said Nicolas, unfolding her arms and lifting her shawl over her hair. ‘You’re a right fool to have done such a thing. Did you not realise what harm you were doing, intended or not? Did you not think about the trouble you’d make for yourself and for those you call friends?’ She stood and glared.
The barely repressed fury in her voice rendered Beatrix momentarily speechless.
‘I would never harm my friends. You ken me better than that.’
‘Do I?’ asked Nicolas. ‘Do any of us?’
Before Beatrix could respond, Nicolas swept past her, wrenched open the door and stood watching the downpour, trying to breathe against the howl of the wind. The fire fought the cold air, guttering and bursting back into life. With one last look over her shoulder, Nicolas ran into the street, slamming the door behind her.
Sorcha began to shiver. Katherine and Lillie stared at Beatrix. Beatrix stared at the floor.
‘Time for me to be getting home, before it gets dark,’ said Sorcha finally, breaking the silence.
‘But the weather —’ began Katherine, then pressed her lips together. As Sorcha suspected, she wanted her gone. She wanted them all gone.
‘Och, I don’t mind a drookin’.’ Drenched she’d be, walking through town in this weather. She glanced at Beatrix. She should offer to walk her home.
‘What about you, Beatrix?’ asked Katherine, catching Sorcha’s look, clearly keen for the woman to leave. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting home?’
‘I haven’t far to go, lass, don’t you worry. I’ll wait for Sorcha and Lillie here to leave, then you’ll be rid of me.’ She reached over and patted Katherine’s knee. There was no resentment, no attack, only a deep understanding and, if Sorcha read her right, apology. Beatrix never meant for this to touch any of them.
Sorcha also understood Beatrix didn’t want to be seen with her. If she was so determined she’d done nothing wrong, and today had been the authorities flexing their might, then why was she protecting them? What was Beatrix not telling them?
Farewelling Katherine, Lillie and Beatrix, Sorcha headed up the High Street lost in thought, only dimly aware of Captain Ross hailing her and responding with a half-hearted reply.
What were the bailies and Reverend Cowper really up to? And, if they were convinced Beatrix, on her own admission, cast a charm, why on God’s good earth did they let her go?
FOURTEEN
The proof o’ the pudding’s the preein’ o’t.
(Don’t form judgements without some knowledge.)
Sorcha was dreaming of her mor. Her long barley-coloured hair was unbound and she was standing at the water’s edge, arms outstretched, laughing, facing the Forth. Her smile was wide, her pale blue eyes sparkled, making her look like one of her Nordic goddesses descended from the sky. She was calling to her, but the gentle murmurs of the ocean and the wind stole the words from her mouth and transformed them into cloudy wisps. Sorcha wanted to share her mother’s unexpected joy, fly into those arms, feel the loving embrace she’d always imagined. But as she tried to make her way forwards, her mor’s face changed. Those eyes the colour of a summer morning widened in terror. Her beautiful mouth pulled back in a grimace of sheer horror. The sea, so hushed before, transformed into a mighty swell. A giant wave, starting beyond the Isle of May, became a solid wall that raced towards the Weem, towards her mor. She shouted a warning, screamed as, instead of fleeing, her mother lowered her arms, raised her chin and shut her eyes. The wave, a tower of deadly might, soared up and up before it folded, down, down, down, crashing upon the sand, the darkening shore, upon her mor, and in great, greedy gulps took all of Pittenweem with it…
‘Sorcha, for God’s sake, wake up.’
It took her a moment to cease flailing, before she understood her mother wasn’t being swept up and drowned, the village wasn’t being destroyed. She was in her bedroom.
‘Nettie.’ Sorcha sat up, untangling herself from the covers, looking around blinki
ng. ‘I was having a dream…’
‘Dream?’ said Nettie, propped on the edge of the bed. ‘Was a nightmare if you ask me.’ She appraised her friend. ‘What are you doing asleep at this time of day?’
Sorcha rubbed her eyes. ‘I didn’t sleep much after yesterday, what with Beatrix and all. And we were up so early this morning and then the catch…’ Her voice trailed away. Intending to simply rest her head when she came home, she could scarce believe she’d fallen into such a deep sleep.
‘Aye, it was a sorry showing,’ said Nettie, standing and throwing Sorcha’s skirt at her. ‘Now, get dressed, you sloven.’ Nettie went into the main room.
Sorcha heard her rummaging around with the pots.
‘Come on. I’ve news,’ she called.
Sorcha ran her hands through her hair and plucked her shift away from her body. She was sweaty and her heart was still racing. Aye, it was no dream she had. Dreams were what you held close to keep away the sorrows of the day; they were not meant to make the reality of living worse. Try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of the destructive wave, how it took out the whole town…
Throwing back the covers, she went to the dresser and plunged her hands in the icy water, splashing her face. Whipping off her shift, she dragged a wet cloth over her body, her skin goosing, her nipples hardening.
‘Can you stoke the fire?’ asked Sorcha, drying herself and searching for a clean shift and the clothes she’d been wearing. Still shivering, she pulled her skirt off the bed and climbed into it, fastening the button at the back.
‘Already done,’ answered Nettie. ‘I’m heating some milk for you.’
Sorcha bundled her hair and pinned it back into place. Gazing at herself in the mirror, she noted the haunted look she’d borne when she first arrived had all but gone. Even if she didn’t feel like it, she was looking more like her old self — not the self Andy wed or the one who lost Davan, but before her da, Erik and ma died. Before Robbie went as well. Older, aye, but hopefully wiser, and able to weather the storms that came with living in the Weem.
