The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  She began to think of what she’d write to Nettie — how she’d warn her to remain in Anster with her husband. She’d also write to Aidan. She composed sentences in her head, trying to explain these new developments without expressing her fear, her need of him and the comfort his mere presence bestowed. How, with him by her side, she would know the world hadn’t descended into complete madness.

  It wasn’t until she reached the Mercat Cross, vaguely aware of the crowd gathered outside the Tolbooth waiting for news of Isobel that, distracted, she almost collided with someone.

  As she took a step back, the apology died in her throat. It was Peter Morton.

  Since she’d been released, she’d barely seen the lad and then only from afar — on the street, in the kirk. Keeping her distance, she’d mostly ignored him. Much to her surprise she felt no bitterness towards him, despite what had happened. He was only a lad, after all. A lad in thrall to the reverend. Had he ever been sick? Sorcha wondered now, as she looked at him. Was it really only a few months ago that he’d collapsed at her feet and writhed and convulsed as if possessed? She’d seen how the fit had come upon him so suddenly; how sickly he subsequently became. What she couldn’t reconcile was how he identified her and her friends as responsible. All she could think was how much he must hate them. Him, or someone else.

  Despite what had befallen Peter, he looked hale. His shoulders had filled out, his face too; he’d regained any weight he’d lost. No more a lad, he was very much a man. A man who appeared cockier and more assured than he had a right to be.

  Surprised to see her, he stopped and stared, then dropped his gaze.

  ‘Peter,’ said Sorcha. Afraid of what she might say to him, the blame she’d lay at his large feet, even if he wasn’t the only one responsible, she went to pass him. Before she could, he blocked her passage.

  ‘Mrs McIntyre, Sorcha, I —’

  ‘Have nothing to say to me. Nothing I want to hear.’ Sorcha regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

  ‘Nae,’ said Peter bitterly. ‘I’m sure you save all your words for your fine incomer, don’t you?’

  Chin high, Sorcha took a few steps past him, slowed, then spun around. How strange that Peter should raise Aidan when he was so much in her thoughts as well. Unable to help herself, anger flared. Whereas Peter Morton had been the cause of so much misery, Aidan had tried to effect happiness and hope — to protect her and others. That Peter dare speak of him in such a way infuriated her, especially when she knew he must have also played a part in ensuring the captain was no longer in the Weem.

  ‘Bit difficult to utter any words to Captain Ross when he’s stationed in Bavaria. Not even a witch could shout that far.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘But I’m sure you and your friend the reverend know all about that.’

  The look of astonishment on Peter’s face was a performance that almost outdid the one he had enacted daily for months in his bedroom. With a click of frustration, Sorcha began to walk away.

  ‘Wait,’ said Peter, running after her. He grabbed her arm. ‘Wait, Sorcha, please. I didn’t ken about Captain Ross. He’s in Bavaria, you say? Why? When?’

  Sorcha shook his hand off and looked him up and down. ‘Why do you think? He was posted there weeks ago. I doubt I’ll ever see him again and I know who I’ve to thank for that.’ Once again, Peter couldn’t hold her glare.

  The sky was darkening as thick clouds gathered. A flock of birds cawed their way north. ‘Now,’ said Sorcha finally. ‘I’m going home to write to the very same man. Someone needs to know what’s happening around here before it gets out of hand. Again.’

  This time Peter let her go. Sorcha was astounded by the level of relief she felt.

  That might have changed if she’d seen the expression on the lad’s face, how it altered or where he headed next, striding away with fuming purpose.

  It wasn’t until she was inside her cottage, a piece of paper and her quill and ink ready, a small dram beside her, and had begun to record the latest events in Pittenweem, that the tightness in her belly started to unfurl. Not that she relaxed completely. Every footfall, raised voice and even the crash of the waves and the rain as it drummed upon the roof set her nerves on edge.

  As night fell and the room grew darker and the downpour became heavier, she finished her letter. When it grew lighter, she would take the missive to Mrs Fraser and ask her to ensure it was sent. Then she carefully washed, using a perfumed soap, dressed in her best clothes, combed her hair and tied a fresh scarf about her head. Shaking out her shawl, she wound it across her shoulders, pinning it with her mor’s favourite brooch. ’Twas of a mermaid. Sitting with her legs stretched out before the fire, she soaked in the sights, sounds and smells of her cottage. The way the windows rattled with every gust; how the embers in the fireplace looked like living creatures huddled together for warmth. How the smell of dinners past melded with the briny scent of the ocean, the almost mint-fresh odour of the rain. How the wooden arms of the chair felt beneath her callused fingers, the fabric of the worn cushions almost silky through her skirts. How the plates in the dresser gleamed, the patterns swirling as if they too were alive in the shadows cast by the flickering light. With her hand atop the letter clearly addressed to the captain, she waited for dawn to herald what she knew would happen.

  The guards would come for her. Just like Isobel, she’d be marched through the streets and to the Tolbooth. Only, unlike the last time she was there, she understood that on this occasion, despite what she’d written, despite the pleas they’d all make, there’d be no escape, not unless a miracle occurred or, worse, another tragedy.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The minister having got account of this from Mr Cook, he sent for her [and] he threatened her very severely and commanded the keeper to put her into some prison by herself under the steeple least (as she said) she should pervert those who had confessed.

  — A Letter from a Gentleman in Fife to his Friend in Edinburgh, 1705

  Despite Sorcha’s fears, the constables never came for her. Not that night nor the ones after. Beatrix and Nicolas were not so fortunate. Being in Anster ministering to her ailing husband didn’t spare Nettie either. She was dragged from his bedside and, along with the others, thrown into the Tolbooth once more.

  Not a day went past that Sorcha didn’t linger outside their prison to hear how the women inside fared. Racked with memories, trembling as her mind took over her body, she forced herself to knock on the Tolbooth door, plead with Camron, if he answered, to pass on the food she’d brought, the extra blankets and other comforts she knew all too well the women would need. It didn’t matter whether it rained, sleet dashed or icy gusts howled, there was always a group of people loitering nearby. Some would spit and call her names, reminding Sorcha that she too should be locked away. Others would turn their backs, pretend she wasn’t even there. She tried not to let them see how much their venom, aroused by dread and uncertainty, affected her.

  When she couldn’t bear the hostility any more, she would walk down the High Street and stand in exactly the same place Aidan used to, willing Nettie to look out. It worked. Nettie would come to the window, push it open and wave. Sorcha would fix a smile upon her face and return the gesture, determined not to let her friend see the anguish eating away at her; grateful she couldn’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Guilt was a shawl she donned daily. She should be in there with them. Had not Mr Adam said she was named as one of the witches who tormented Mr McGregor? How she evaded arrest, she was yet to learn. From the looks cast in her direction, the shouts that followed her wherever she walked, there were many who felt she had escaped justice. God forgive her, every time she stood outside the Tolbooth, every night as her slumbering mind took her back to that cold, damp cell and the attentions of Mr Bollard, the reverend and the guards, she was grateful she wasn’t. She despised herself for feeling that way.

  As the days passed, she learned that Isobel’s second confession, despite what they�
��d heard, was extracted after a series of beatings and pricking. A report on her arrest and that of her accomplices, along with Isobel’s signed confession, had been sent to Edinburgh. Camron told Sorcha that as far as he knew, none of the other women had been hurt, though they had been questioned. Through Camron, Nettie passed thanks for the blankets and food and said that while they were warmer than they had been the last time they stayed (Sorcha had choked back a sob; as if the Tolbooth was an inn, their internment a holiday), they lacked the one thing they sorely needed.

  Sorcha understood. What Nettie meant was hope. They were lacking hope. Truth be told, so was Sorcha, especially since the support they’d once had from the townsfolk had all but evaporated.

  Word in Pittenweem was that Edinburgh had played them for fools by forcing the early release of the witches, putting everyone at risk of sorcery and malfeasance. If Edinburgh wouldn’t look after them, they’d no choice but take matters into their own hands. Thank God for the reverend, people said. Sorcha felt like screaming.

  Look at us! she wanted to cry out. You’ve known us our whole lives. Comforted us when we skinned our knees as bairns, shared your bannocks, blessed our unions with your sons and brothers, passed us your wee ones to hold when they were born; cried with us at funerals, celebrated when the drave was fine and the ships came home. Why, Beatrix’s husband had been the town treasurer, feted and admired. How many of those baying for blood had not only brought their ripped shirts for Isobel to mend, but fantasised about bedding her? Sought Nicolas’s herbs and lotions when they were hurt? How many had benefited from the work of Nettie and Janet?

  Sorcha was forced to face the truth. Reverend Cowper had found his witches. In doing so, he’d not only divided the town, he now had the majority on his side. Sorcha was heartsick. Children started throwing clods of mud at her whenever she appeared and, as early snows fell, clumps of ice were aimed at her head. Cow and dog shit were smeared on her front door one night and even, after she’d been fruitlessly trying to sell fish around the outlying farms, left inside the big pot in her kitchen. When she came home one evening to find some of her mor’s plates smashed, and curdled milk spilled all over the chairs and bedding, she began to lock her door — unheard of in the Weem.

  She may have been spared arrest this time, but in the villagers’ eyes, she was as guilty as if she’d flown on a broom through the night skies raining curses on all and sundry. If it wasn’t for Moira Fraser and a few of the others, she would have starved or frozen to death as winter descended upon them in a fury of storms, snow and gale-force winds.

  It wasn’t just Sorcha who was targeted by frightened and zealous folk. Fishwives, even those who’d never been accused, were being refused service in shops, hounded wherever they walked. Unable to sell their fish as no one would buy from them, they ate what the men caught. They may not have earned coin from the extra catch, but at least they didn’t starve.

  Along with Nicolas’s and Beatrix’s husbands, the other fishermen were denied ale and whisky at the tavern. Furious at first, the fishermen soon jumped back in their boats and rowed to Anster to drink at the Dreel Tavern. Although they were regarded with some suspicion, they weren’t rebuffed; coin was coin, after all.

  To the people of Pittenweem, it was as if by turning their backs on all those who associated with the accused witches, they were somehow convincing the reverend, the council, God and even themselves, of their innocence. Scorning the witches’ families, friends and allies was a form of protection, a talisman against evil. With heads held high, they’d attend the kirk each Sunday and heed, with increasing fervour, Reverend Cowper’s sermons. Sermons that Sorcha knew were thinly veiled calls to act against malfeasance — threats against the likes of her.

  Listening to the reverend, Sorcha marvelled that this man of God, who should be alleviating people’s fears, was exacerbating them. When he should be encouraging unity, he was fostering discord and suspicion. How was this helping the town? It wasn’t. It was destroying it and giving Cowper the power he relished. She could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. It shone in his eyes every time they landed upon her. A self-satisfied gleam that some might read as godly fervour. Without words, he was telling her she was next. Part of her wanted to whisper to him to come and get her; the other part quailed in terror.

  After another dismal day and another fish supper, instead of retiring to bed and the consolation of dreams (not that they’d offered much of that of late), she found some paper and writing implements and determined to write to Aidan again, keep him informed of events. When she first wrote to him, she’d explained what had happened to Nettie, Isobel, Beatrix, Nicolas and Janet, sparing him her more dismal thoughts. Gazing out the window, she wondered where he’d be when he read her words. What he was doing? Was he safe?

  About to set down everything, she hesitated. It wasn’t fair to subject him to her tribulations, her apprehension, not when there was nothing he could do. Picking up the quill, instead she wrote about winter’s arrival, the way the clouds gathered over the mouth of the Forth, billowing ever forwards towards the shore, emptying their load of rain upon the township, causing rivers of water to rush down the wynds to the harbour. How children and animals were to be found splashing in the puddles. She described how the masts of the clippers leaving Edinburgh with their mighty sails full would catch the early or late sunlight, appearing like a group of angels hovering above the water. She chronicled the small catch, what she was reading, and how often she prayed for his safety. What she didn’t write was how much she yearned for him. It was an ache so deep, it was like missing a limb.

  In a postscript, she asked if he’d heard anything of Robbie. She didn’t expect that he would, but thought if nothing else, making enquiries about her brother might distract him from the danger he faced.

  She sealed the letter and, once it had cooled, pressed the wax to her lips, closed her eyes and tried to conjure an image of Aidan. The jet-black hair and coal-dark eyes. The evening shadow that limned his chin and the angular cheeks that made him appear so very rakish. She thought of the warmth of his body, the feel of his lips against hers. Heat that had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with her memories swamped her. She pressed her hand against her belly. She was so very lonely and not just for that, but for him and the pleasure his presence bestowed. All those she cared about in the world had been taken from her. Please, God, let Aidan not be taken too, forever and ever. Amen.

  If it wasn’t for the women in the Tolbooth, she would have left the Weem. But when she tried to imagine packing her burlap, locking the cottage door once and for all and setting out upon the road, she could not think where she would go. She couldn’t go to her sister, that was evident. The city held no appeal whatsoever. All she really knew was this sea life — the fishwives’ lot and the comfort of her daily tasks. But after one particularly rowdy sermon that had half the congregation on its feet chanting and punching the air, looking about for someone on whom to unleash, even that option was denied to her. Cornelia Gurr, the wife of one of the boat owners and someone Sorcha had always had an easy relationship with, came to see her and asked her not to come to work at the harbour any more.

  ‘We’ve no need of you at present, Sorcha, what with the drave being so poor and no one buying.’ Standing outside the cottage, declining the invitation to come in and sit by the fire, Cornelia refused to look Sorcha in the eye. Instead, she turned her head towards the spire of the Tolbooth, squinting into the fading light. ‘Far better you remain at home and look to your own self. Look to your boat. Or, if you be inclined, do what some of the other lasses do nowadays, chase the herring up the coast. We’ll manage without you.’

  ‘Better for whom?’ asked Sorcha softly.

  This time, Cornelia faced her. ‘For us all, lass. For us all.’ She hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind a wee bit of advice, I’d steer clear of the Tolbooth. All you’re doing lingering down there is reminding folk that you should be inside.’

  First
making sure there was no one to see her, Cornelia touched Sorcha’s arm. ‘This will be over soon. Then we can all get back to living.’

  Her choice of words took Sorcha’s breath away.

  Cornelia scuttled off down the road as if the hounds of hell were baying at her heels. In her mind, perhaps they were, thought Sorcha, trying to be affronted but feeling forlorn. Cornelia was right, this wasn’t living.

  The next day, the men who’d been sent out to search for Margaret Jack and Lillie Wallace — who’d both been named in Isobel’s deposition — returned. The women had disappeared completely, thank God. If only she could too. But Sorcha wouldn’t leave while Nettie and the others were confined. Especially not now she knew it was because of Peter Morton that she was not.

  Unable to withhold the information from her, perhaps hoping she’d look upon him with forgiveness, if not something more, the lad had followed her home after kirk last Sunday. Aware someone was behind her and assuming it was children up to mischief, Sorcha twisted around, fists raised.

  Upon seeing Peter, she’d lowered her arms. ‘Och. It’s you.’ She continued walking.

  ‘Mrs McIntyre,’ cried Peter and ran to catch up.

  ‘I haven’t changed my mind, Peter. I’ve still nothing to say to you,’ said Sorcha glumly. The last thing she needed was this man trailing her. She could scarce look at him, let alone speak.

  Peter grabbed her skirt and wrenched her around. ‘You could at least show me a little gratitude.’

  ‘Gratitude?’ Sorcha stared at him in disbelief as she tugged her skirt out of his hand. There was a tearing sound.

  ‘Aye. If not for me, you’d be up there with that lot,’ said Peter, thumbing in the direction of the Tolbooth.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sorcha examined her skirt with exasperation. The rip was wide. She wished she really was a witch and could not only repair her skirt with a spell, but cast one that would make Peter Morton vanish. The thought made her lips twitch.