by Karen Brooks
By seeding doubt, the wily bawbag was warning people not to sell goods, even food, to those believed to be witches — or to buy it from them. To turn their backs on them in every regard, to deny them common courtesy or risk being condemned.
There was a deep silence broken only by the sound of the sea.
Casting around to see if anyone wanted to add anything, the reverend continued, asking for God’s forgiveness of the Weem, offering a prayer for the fishermen and the soldiers fighting for Queen and country before a last hymn and dismissing everyone to their Sunday.
Sorcha resisted the urge to bolt from the kirk. Striding past the reverend and his eldest daughter with barely a greeting, she waited for Nettie and Beatrix on Cove Wynd. Clutching her shawl against the cold wind and the icy blood in her veins, she noted that fewer people than ever acknowledged her. Some even went so far as to turn in the opposite direction, even though she knew their houses lay past where she stood. Others lingered around the kirk door, aligning themselves with the reverend.
Her heart sank into her gelid, worn boots.
When Nettie and Beatrix finally emerged, Nettie was stopped by the reverend who, resting his hand on her arm, whispered something. At first, Nettie gave a derisive sound that might have been mirth, but when he continued, her face paled and she staggered. Beatrix, who was standing next to her, wagged an angry finger at him, eliciting a mocking laugh while the other parishioners recoiled in shock. Instead of remaining together, the friends parted ways without a farewell.
Before Sorcha could ask what was wrong — aside from the obvious — Nettie took her arm and propelled her towards the cottage.
‘What is it?’ asked Sorcha quietly.
‘Not yet,’ murmured Nettie. ‘Wait.’
The Robertson family turned aside as they passed, pretending they hadn’t seen them.
‘Good day to you, Mr and Mrs Robertson, and your bairns,’ said Nettie pointedly.
Sorcha greeted them as well. They might ignore her, but she wouldn’t disregard people she’d known her whole life, no matter what they were thinking. No matter what the reverend encouraged them to do.
It wasn’t until they were inside Sorcha’s cottage that Nettie spoke. Hefting her burlap onto a chair and turning her back to the fire, she faced Sorcha.
Her eyes were blazing, her cheeks grey.
‘Nettie? What is it? What did he say to you?’
‘That bastard,’ spat Nettie. ‘Can you believe how he twisted the Edinburgh verdict?’
‘Aye,’ said Sorcha contemptuously. ‘I can. And before the entire congregation. I also witnessed how many were prepared to accept his version.’
Nettie closed her eyes briefly and sighed deeply. When she opened them again, she offered Sorcha a hopeful look. ‘Do you have any whisky left, hen?’
Sorcha peered around. She’d had a wee tipple the night before, enough to know all her supplies were drunk.
‘Nae bother,’ said Nettie. ‘Though I fear we’re both going to need some after I tell you what the blaggard dared to say to me and Beatrix.’
Sorcha sank into a seat and waited for Nettie to do the same.
‘He said he’s going to do his duty by God and his flock to save the Weem. When I asked, “What from?” he said, “The likes of you and your witch friends.” I started to laugh, Sorcha, even though his words felt like hoarfrost in my blood. That’s when he grabbed my elbow and said, “Enjoy the cold while you can, Mrs White, for where I am sending you, it is damn hot.’’’
Nettie rubbed her arm and stared mournfully at Sorcha.
‘He’s up to something, hen — and it’s not just trying to convince the parish our pardons are meaningless, I tell you. Just when I thought this was all over and we could return to our lives, he’s planning another salvo in this war.’
Sorcha reached for Nettie’s hand and held it tightly. ‘A war against us. Not witches, but women.’
‘Aye,’ said Nettie. ‘Only this time, I’m afraid he’s going to win.’
With a sinking heart, Sorcha knew she was afraid, too.
PART THREE
November 1704 to 30th January 1705
They asked her how she came to say any thing that was not true; she cried out ‘Alas, alas, I behoved to say so, to please the minister and bailies;’ and in the meantime, she begged for Christ’s sake not to tell that she had said so, else she would be murdered.
— Privy Council Minute, at Edinburgh, 15th day of February 1705, The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh
Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.
— Exodus 22:18 King James Bible
THIRTY-SIX
He be a muckle sumph.
(He is a stupid person.)
Alexander McGregor was a simple man. A fisherman for as many years as he’d been alive on God’s good earth, he did his job, went to the kirk regularly and, if he enjoyed more than a dram or two each night in the tavern and within his own four walls, God would forgive him.
All the same, he couldn’t help but think on Reverend Cowper’s words that Sunday. For months now, the reverend had spoken of witchcraft and witches as if they were striding the streets of the village day and night. As if it was just a matter of time before the likes of Janet Cornfoot or those others who’d been accused ran amok and they were all killed in their beds — or worse, recruited into Satan’s dark army to wreak havoc. The very notion made Alexander shiver and pull the thin blanket tighter across his shoulders.
Still, what the reverend said that day made sense. Alexander couldn’t remember the drave ever being so poor. Admittedly, in years gone by the catch had been so bad they’d been forced to take the boats into the deeper waters, risking storms and high seas. But doing that made little difference any more. Inshore or out past the Isle of May, the silver darlings, cod and other fish were scarce. No wonder some of the fishwives had taken it upon themselves to wander the coast, seeking work where they could find it. They had to make a living too, didn’t they? There was barely enough work to sustain those who remained — those fishwives who’d no choice but to gut, sort and mend the nets beside the suspect witches. He shuddered at the thought of the danger those women were in.
His stomach growled. It did no good thinking about fish, about food. It reminded him of how empty his larder, his belly. Pouring himself another dram, he poked the fire, the peat crumbling and sending sparks and smoke into the room. At least he was warm, which was more than could be said for some. And there was the reverend, asking for donations to repair the pier again. What they’d managed to fix with the money gained from Thomas Brown’s seized property and the incomers gawking at the witches barely made a difference. And now that had dried up. Christ, folk could barely put food in their pots let alone part with coin to save rotting wood and crumbling stone, much as the village might need the damn pier fixed.
What if the reverend was right and all this ill-fortune wasn’t God’s will but Satan’s? What if witches were causing it, all while living and working beside them, pretending to be affable and godly while undermining everything with their charms and evil spells? Taking another swig of his drink, he thought about the women who’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth. Some said they’d suffered greatly. He recalled how Beatrix Laing looked when she emerged from St Fillan’s Cave. He didn’t recognise her, so shrunken and pale had she become. Hard to believe it was the same carline who’d bark at you if you dared look at her twice. Nicolas Lawson had been carried out of the Tolbooth, the damage to her legs so great, some said she’d never walk again. Yet she did. How did she recover so well when he knew fishermen who’d been bitten from the frost to lose their limbs?
Filling his cracked quaich again, Alexander dwelled on the women. Why, that Sorcha McIntyre, for all she came out a bag of bones with her hair shorn, in a matter of weeks she looked bonnie again, bonnie enough that the captain bedded her — or so rumour had it. Same with Nettie Horseburgh. Nor had a spell in gaol softened that w
oman’s sharp tongue. According to Camron MacGille, it hadn’t blunted Janet Cornfoot’s either. She’d harangue and abuse whoever came to the cave to bring her sustenance. Mind you, if she was eating like him, kale and neep soup day in day out without the comfort of a fire, bed or whisky, no wonder she gave the guards a tongue-lashing.
He’d heard from the eldest Cowper lad that Margaret Jack and Lillie Wallace had left the Weem. Gordon Jack had gone with his wife and taken his long lines with him — a loss that would be hard to bear. Was that the witches’ intention, to make everyone in the Weem suffer? To make everyone blame God and each other before turning to their Dark Master? That’s what the reverend believed.
There was a shout outside followed by a short sharp scream. One of the Browning girls by the sound of it. She was always crying now she was wed to Gavan Wright. Fond of his ale and using his fists was the story. Another wail pierced the walls. He wished he could stopper up his ears. Maybe another dram would help.
Downing it quickly and refilling his cup, he stared at the amber fluid, aware of the fire burning on the periphery of his vision. A movement outside his window forced his head up. There were hushed voices. They reminded him of something…
Rain began to fall, gently at first, then it hammered the window, turning the sky dark, blocking out the light shining from the house across the way. The fire guttered briefly and shadows loomed. Not long until Hogmanay again. The last one had been bitter as well. And there’d been showers — right plouts as he recalled. What he didn’t remember was being quite so hungry, so cold and maudlin…
He’d invited Isobel Adam to come to his house last Hogmanay to mend some of his shirts. Difficult to credit she was one of the witches, pretty little golden-haired thing. She’d been in the kirk today and all. He’d caught her staring at Peter Morton, a peculiar expression on her face. An expression that plucked at his memory…
Alexander sat up suddenly, whisky spilling over the lip of his cup. He sucked it off his hand. Try as hard as he could, he never remembered opening his door to Isobel. First he recalled was waking to find her standing over him. He’d grabbed her. She’d screamed and run out before he could reassure her he meant no harm. She’d just frightened him, that’s all.
But what if it was more than that?
Isobel had been holding a needle and a piece of fabric. Screwing his eyes shut, he was sure what she’d actually been holding was a doll, a doll bearing his likeness that she was about to prick with that long needle.
His eyes opened.
She hadn’t just screamed, had she? Words had spilled out of her mouth. Frantic, hurried words that, try as he might, he couldn’t follow nor understand. Gibberish, it was. With a thundering heart, he remembered… there were coal-black figures cavorting behind her. He’d assumed it was the fire throwing shapes against the wall, but what if there was another explanation?
He became ice-cold before a raging heat filled his veins. She’d been casting a spell on him. That was why nothing had gone right for him all year, or for the rest of the crew on the boat that employed him. If he thought about it, he wagered he could pinpoint all the bad in his life to that night — Hogmanay.
Hogmanay and Isobel Adam.
Alexander leaned forward and stared at the smouldering peat, trying his hardest to recollect everything. Reverend Cowper’s words from a Sunday a few weeks ago overlaid the images that were dancing about his head; they mingled with the warnings the reverend had repeated that very morning. ‘Nae person shall seek any help from or consult with any users of witchcraft… on pain of death.’
Leaping to his feet, Alexander finished his drink and reached for his coat. He had to tell someone what he now knew to be true. His ill-fortune and that of the Weem was because of witches. It was because of Isobel Adam and all those she consorted with. She’d ensorcelled him in an attempt to lure him into her demonic ways. He’d woken in time and thus broken the spell and saved himself.
It was time to save others. To save the Weem. Just as young Peter Morton had tried to do. As Patrick Cowper tried even now. God bless them.
As he wrenched open the door, he heard the sobs of young Joanna Browning. Folk were peering through their windows and standing on their stoops despite the cold, not knowing whether to go to her aid but hoping to prevent worse happening. He ignored them all and strode down the wynd towards the manse. He had to tell the reverend. If he didn’t, then just like Cowper said, he was the same as those who aided and abetted the witches — he would be seen as one of them. A conspirator.
If he didn’t reveal what he now remembered as clearly as if it were yesterday, then he would be punished just as Reverend Cowper said — as a witch.
Punished unto death.
THIRTY-SEVEN
A drew gaun aboot.
(An unidentifiable illness attacking people all over town.)
When Patrick learned Alexander McGregor was at the door asking to see him, his first instinct was to send the ragabash away. It had been a while since he’d last enjoyed time alone with Peter Morton. God knew, the lad wanted to forget what happened in Edinburgh — they both did.
Not even his weekly entreaties from the pulpit about witchcraft had yielded the results he’d wished, never mind what the congregation’s reactions had promised. He knew folk were fearful and, as winter loomed and their food supplies shrank and the old parts of the pier continued to fall into disrepair, he hoped they’d be keen to attach the blame to someone. They always had in the past. This time he intended it would be the witches.
But McGregor had never come to the manse to seek him out before and, despite the lateness of the hour and his young companion, Patrick’s curiosity was whetted. When the fisherman was brought to the study, reeking of whisky and the musty smell of damp clothes seldom washed and dried by a fire, all tinged with the odour of fish and the ocean, he wondered what had dragged him out on a night like this. Wringing his cap in his hands, eyes darting, feet shuffling, McGregor was as disoriented in the study as the reverend would have been on his boat.
The reverend rose from behind his desk and crossed the room to direct his visitor towards the fireplace. The last thing he wanted was to have the malodourous man dripping all over the furniture.
‘Well, Alexander,’ he said, as the fisherman stood with his back to the flames, gazing in bewilderment at the picture of the crucifixion on the wall opposite. ‘What can I do for you this dreich night?’
Mesmerised by the painting, Alexander seemed lost for words. Nae, thought Patrick, looking at him closely, it wasn’t so much he’d lost the power of speech, as he was afraid of what he had to say.
‘Come, lad,’ said the reverend, though Alexander was of an age with him. ‘Anything you say to me is as if you were speaking to the Almighty Himself. Whatever ails you, you can share.’
Alexander’s eyes widened before they slid to Peter sitting quietly in front of the desk. ‘It’s not you I be worried about talking in front of, reverend, so much as the laddie.’
‘Whatever you have to say to me can be said before Peter. He’s as trustworthy as the sea is cold. He’s been forged in the hottest of fires and emerged unscathed.’
Alexander raised a brow.
‘The fires of witchcraft,’ said the reverend solemnly.
Alexander swiftly moved his hands from the small of his back to clasp them over his belly, his cap strangled between them. ‘It’s upon that very matter that I’m here, reverend.’
The reverend’s heart quickened. ‘Oh?’ He hoped Alexander couldn’t see how thrilled he was.
Peter sat up in his chair.
‘Come, come,’ said the reverend, walking towards his desk. ‘Why are you standing over there? Make yourself comfortable. Take a seat, take a seat.’ He led Alexander to a chair. ‘Don’t worry about a bit of water upon your clothes. Peter, pour the man a wee drink.’
Once Alexander had a glass in his hand and had downed at least half the contents, the reverend propped himself on the edge of his desk, folded
his arms, and tried to appear casual. ‘Now, what is it that you wish to tell me?’
As Alexander voiced what had happened last Hogmanay, how he woke to find Isobel Adam casting a spell over him, Patrick wanted to shout with joy. At last. Here was the proof he needed.
The more Alexander spoke, gleaning the grave interest of the reverend and Peter Morton, it was evident he began embellishing. He said how he understood, in light of what the reverend preached in the kirk that morning and many more Sundays besides, that Isobel and her accomplices had summoned a demon to dispatch him or worse. ‘Do to me what was done to you, Peter,’ said Alexander, looking at the lad. ‘But when her efforts failed, she must have done something so I couldn’t remember. Not until today. Not until your words, reverend, juddered the memory free.’
Patrick wasted no time but found a quill, inkhorn and paper. Pulling up another chair, he sat beside Alexander, glancing occasionally at Peter, who was working not to show his relief. If Alexander was tormented by the witches as well, then it cast a whole new light on what had happened to him.
As he questioned the fisherman carefully, Patrick made sure to catch the details. It was remarkable what, with a little prodding, the man could recall.
‘There were others with Isobel, Alexander?’ asked Patrick softly as the man finished, staring into his empty cup.
At a sign from the reverend, Peter swiftly refilled it.
‘I… believe so, reverend, but I can’t be sure who they were.’
‘Was Nettie Horseburgh one of them? She’s a good friend to Isobel after all. You might remember, they were locked in the Tolbooth together.’
