by Karen Brooks
‘If that doesn’t allay any suspicions…’
‘Aye,’ said Sorcha.
They clinked cups and drank. Sorcha sank deeper into the seat, curling her legs under her. They sat quietly, their thoughts busy. Outside, the wind wailed and flurries of snow struck the windows. The fire crackled and spat and the clock ticked ponderously, offering a comforting contrast.
‘If nothing else,’ said Sorcha eventually, unfurling, leaning towards the flames, ‘Janet’s murder and what’s happened since has made me realise this is never going to end. Not until the reverend’s destroyed us, Nettie. You, me, Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel, our families and friends too. What’s left of them. Margaret and Lillie were lucky they fled when they did. Cowper’s desperate. He’s been made to look a right gowk with Edinburgh, and with the Weem. He needs to show he’s right, to prove we’re all witches. He’ll use God, guards, torture, fear, lies and whatever else he can to do that. If we’re condemned by our own words, even better. This is about more than simply exposing us as witches, or the righteous might of God, this is about saving his reputation.’
Nettie took a generous swig of her whisky. ‘And that makes him more dangerous than ever before.’
Cradling her drink, Sorcha went to the window, her thoughts in turmoil. She could hardly credit that she finally had the means to bring Patrick Cowper to heel, perhaps more. The man who’d hurt her mor, her family, her friends, who’d threatened and harmed her as well. Enough. It was time to put an end to the unnatural control he had over too many of the townsfolk once and for all. She had to remind herself he wasn’t an emissary of God, no matter what he said. No one God sent to do His work would behave as Cowper had, with such disregard for the truth, clemency and justice. He was a mere mortal, and an evil one at that.
Outside, the wind began to really howl, shaking the windows and driving heavy rain against the cottage. The roar of the ocean could be heard, a mighty surge that presaged a storm. She pressed a hand against the glass.
‘It be a wild night out there,’ said Nettie, joining her.
‘A wild night for a wild reckoning,’ said Sorcha softly. Her thoughts turned once more to Aidan. Aidan and Robbie. ‘Hopefully it will blow over before we’re ready to leave.’
Wherever Aidan and Robbie were, whatever they were doing, at least when they came home — and she had to believe they would — the reverend wouldn’t be able to touch them or threaten them ever again. Not once she used the information she had to bring him down once and for all.
Sorcha leaned her head against Nettie’s shoulder. ‘After I tell the others what we know, I’ll head down to the shore and start work as usual. That way, no one will suspect anything.’
Nettie kissed the top of Sorcha’s head. ‘Shall we compose this letter to the high and mighty lairds, then?’
‘Aye. And pray that this time, at least, God is on our side.’
They knocked their cups together again and finished the contents, sharing a secret and, for the first time in months, a triumphant smile.
FIFTY-NINE
Mackerel skies an’ mare’s tails,
Man’ suckle ships take’ little sails.
(Dark blue-grey skies or long wispy clouds foretell wind.)
The storm abated slightly as the night went on, introducing in its stead a heavy fall of snow. Dressing in the dark a few hours later, Sorcha made sure she wore plenty of layers. She donned her coat, wrapped a neepyin tightly around her head, and waited as Nettie threw on her coat and mittens.
Whirls of snowflakes spiralled in the air. Through the window, Sorcha could see how the moon shone upon the white-covered ground, creating an almost ethereal light. With a last glance at Nettie, she gave a nod and opened the door. The air was glacial, striking her face and ploughing her lungs. Shutting the door quietly behind them, the women held hands and trudged through the snow.
Out of the corner of her eye Sorcha saw a shadow keeping pace on the other side of the road. Her heart leapt into her throat until she realised it was Mrs Lentrow’s moggie Bait, probably out hunting mice. She silently wished her happy hunting as they passed the Mercat Cross and the junction.
Uncertain what it was that made them turn down Cove Wynd, a reckless streak perhaps, they glanced up at the silent Tolbooth, its closed windows like hollow eyes peering down at them. The kirk was silent, too. Only the manse had a pale glow from somewhere deep inside, and Sorcha wondered whether the reverend was up, praying to be forgiven for his many sins. More likely it was his put-upon housekeeper, rising early to have a chance of completing her chores.
Down by the waterfront, the women whispered farewells and shared a swift embrace. Tucked inside Nettie’s coat was their letter, which she promised to mail from Anster that very day. Sorcha remained where she was until Nettie was all but swallowed by the darkness, then turned and headed towards Beatrix’s house. She thought it only fair Mr Brown learn what they knew first.
Awake even though it was still dark, Mr Brown listened with wide eyes and exclamations of first disgust, then glee, as the meaning of what Sorcha had seen became clear. He tried to persuade her to stay until at least the wind abated, but Sorcha was determined to deliver her message before the sun rose and declined. When she arrived Mr Brown had been pallid and drawn, but now as she waved goodbye he had colour in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes. She continued on to the Adams’s cottage.
The blanketed roads shimmered in the moonlight. It wouldn’t be long before the white covering was trampled to sludge by numerous boots, hooves and carts. It was market day, so the farmers and their wives would be coming to town to sell produce; tinkers too. As far as Sorcha was concerned, the more people in Pittenweem today, the better. More witnesses if the reverend reacted badly, not only once news about the escaped prisoners spread, but in case he should turn on those who remained when he discovered Beatrix really had slipped his grasp.
A few rats scurried down the wynd, ducking into holes in walls, finding a pile of rubbish to burrow into as they sensed they were no longer alone. There was a flash of lightning over the Forth followed by a long, low rumble of thunder. The storm hadn’t blown itself out at all, but was preparing to return with renewed force. The idea invigorated Sorcha and she inhaled the acrid smells of nature, tasted the twirling wet snowflakes on her tongue and blinked them out of her eyes as she made her way to the Adams’s cottage on the eastern side of town, before heading to the Lawsons and then on to the shore.
Nicolas and her husband took Sorcha’s news to heart. Seeing their hollow eyes fill with purpose and their shoulders straighten, Sorcha knew her decision to share what she’d seen was the right one.
Having informed her friends, she continued towards the harbour, approaching the pier from the west. Lost in thought, hoping that now, with this new knowledge, their torment would be over, she only slowly became aware that the air was closer, colder, and the copper tang that presaged a mighty storm had grown. The sense of something off-kilter began to grow in Sorcha, as if a giant hand had wrapped itself around her and was pressing upon her lungs. It was hard to breathe. She kept glancing at the tenebrous sky, noting how swiftly the stars were being extinguished. It was as if the world was being swallowed.
She hadn’t gone very far when the rain began. It was no light spittering either, but dropped from the sky, a pounding like none Sorcha could remember. Chin tucked into chest, she forged ahead as it lashed her body, and gusts of sleet-driven wind tried to knock her feet out from under her. Down by the western shores, the road was little more than filthy snowdrifts interspersed with mud-filled holes. Wrapping her coat more tightly about her, she pushed on.
The journey was taking much longer than she intended. Around her, the familiar landscape of the fishermen’s cottages and their piles of disused creels, nets and lines, that had been nothing but a black labyrinth when she left her house, slowly began to take shape. To her right, the sea had become a seething wash of crashing waves and sea-spray that boomed against the distant pier, smashed a
gainst the rocks and showered her with frigid lances. Fighting against nature’s forces, refusing to seek shelter, her only chance of slipping home unnoticed was to hope that the fishing had been delayed. What would folk think if they saw her out in this tempest? Not even the foolhardiest of men would launch their boats in this weather, let alone take a stroll. The market would be cancelled and people would keep to their homes until the storm passed.
Wouldn’t they?
As the rain continued and the wind grew stronger and wilder and the sea groaned and growled, Sorcha couldn’t help but worry about what state Pittenweem would be in when this blew over. It had been a long time since they’d endured such a battering and then it had taken out half the pier and ruined the harbour wall and many livelihoods in the process. If this continued, the few repairs the council had paid for with incomer funds would be undone, and her boat and the rest would be forced to anchor in other ports, meaning a loss of revenue for the town.
Screwing up her eyes, she tried to see the pier ahead. For a moment, she thought she spied a lone figure moving along the eastern road. Instead of heading up the nearest wynd so the houses might offer some protection, she decided to continue lest whoever she thought she saw was some daft fishwife or fisherman appearing for work. After all, she couldn’t get much wetter and, despite the impossible swirls of snow, she knew where she was heading. She wondered where the escaped prisoners were and how they’d travelled. They would have had to seek shelter, surely.
Dear God, but she was cold. Her face was a mask of ice. Her hands, even in their thick mittens, refused to co-operate, they were so stiff and wet. Yet she felt somehow lighter, freer than she had in eons. Stopping where the pier began, a ruinous path into the Forth, she squinted. There was no sign of anyone. As she suspected, it had been a figment of her imagination.
Opening her mouth, her breath was snatched away. Her lungs burned. The roar of the ocean was an untamed beast, shouting in her ears, deafening. Even so, there was something mesmerising, liberating, about the swirling snow, the blasts of rain and desolate wind, the tossing seas and the great thunderous chorus they formed that held her there. So often when a storm broke they were too busy working to secure the boats, the creels and other equipment to appreciate its beauty, its raw song.
The sky continued to brighten, the air to grow colder. Squalls of rain came and went. The rolling grey-green of the sea was like a living field. If it hadn’t been for the explosion of white each time the water struck the walls, it would be easy to believe you could step onto its surface, ride it to another destination. She began to think of the sirens who lured sailors to their deaths, their beauty and that of their natural element an irresistible lure for those who felt bonded to the ocean.
Stepping closer to the edge of the damaged pier, aware of fishermen’s houses behind her, the small boats cracking and moaning as they were pummelled at their moorings along the harbourfront, she inhaled the tangy scent, the purity of brine and the sharp, acerbic scent of snow. The canting wreck of the Sophia, the site of Janet’s trials, listed beneath the mighty swells, grousing and whining as the hull rocked back and forth, its rotting timbers forming a chorus to the ocean’s choir; a dirge for her friend.
Instead of being afraid, Sorcha felt surprisingly calm. Bitterly cold, but assured in a way she hadn’t been for such a long time. She was on her own. The sea, the town, were hers briefly. Stepping carefully onto the pier, minding her footing so she favoured the mended parts, she began to make her way along its treacherous length, towards the raging might of the Forth.
Her thoughts travelled to Aidan and Robbie. The more time passed, the harder it became to recall with clarity what her mind and heart needed to sustain hope, especially for Robbie. Refusing to allow her recollections of either of the men to melt away, she worked to rebuild them again and again, asking herself questions and finding answers, no matter how foolish, to aid the process. She did it now. The way Robbie’s eyes would crinkle when he smiled. How, when he thought no one was looking, he would use his finger to clean not only his bowl, but hers as well. Even the way he used to say her name in a sing-song manner that was akin to a purr. She recalled the way Aidan would gently tug at his hair when he was thinking, or how, when he poured a dram, he would tip a wee bit extra into the quaich — especially hers. Then there was the magic of his dimples… Were they somewhere out there, her lads? Lost in this wet wildness? Wreathed in the thick heaviness of storm-soaked clouds unable to find their bearings? Afraid? Or resigned? Bold? Or missing her too? So close and yet so far away.
A wave washed along the top of the pier, saturating her boots. Jumping sideways, she laughed. She could hardly get wetter; what did it hurt anyway? A shower of salty water drenched her and she threw her head back, tugging her hair free of the neepyin, shaking out her wet curls, surrendering herself to the storm, to the mighty Forth. She pulled off her sodden, useless mittens and threw them into the heaving waters, making an offering of them along with her scarf. The sea had taken so many of her loved ones, but she still felt such an attachment to it. Somehow, she knew, deep in her heart, in her sea-charmed soul, it would not take her. Not even while she walked like a wuidwoman, teetering along the pier with its missing planks and gaping holes, its barnacles, slippery moss and seaweed-strewn surface. She didn’t falter, she didn’t misstep, she simply moved forwards.
As she walked, she prayed. For Beatrix, Nicolas, Isobel and Nettie. She prayed for all those Cowper accused, for the fishwives and fishermen and for her town. She prayed for Thomas Brown and Janet Cornfoot, for Lillie Wallace and Margaret Jack, wherever they were. Most of all, she prayed for Aidan and Robbie and asked the sea-gods to bring them safely back to her.
Toss them onto land if you must, only, she whispered, please spare them the finality of your watery embrace.
Like all the fishwives, she respected the ocean’s raw power; that it gave as much as what it took away. And here it was, on display, just for her. Uncaring of the dousing she was getting, Sorcha stopped a few feet from the end of the pier and raised her arms, bracing herself against the howling wind and churning water, the creaking and swaying, the shifting timbers beneath her, and laughed with the glorious fury before her.
The sea serenaded her, a combination of deep notes and whistles, throaty grumbles and whispers. And so, she returned the favour — she began to sing to it. It was a song her mor had taught her, a traditional Norwegian song called ‘Eg rodde meg ut’. Rising from the depths of her soul, it poured out of her in her mother’s tongue.
I rowed out to my fishing place.
It was early in the morning.
Then came Olav from Karelunnen
And placed his boat beside me.
So I hit him with my fishing rod
So that he fell unconscious in the bottom of his boat.
I was so happy that I started singing.
I had the place all for myself
Sudell-dudeli-dudeli-dei-ho
Sud—
The blow fell hard. Sorcha staggered and would have toppled into the water, only she grabbed hold of an old, coiled anchor chain. Another blow struck her shoulder, narrowly missing her head. She fell across the rusty chains, slicing open her hands, the hot gush of blood a shock across her freezing palm. Before she could turn to see who was attacking her or raise her arms to save herself, another blow struck.
There was a bright flash of light before darkness descended and Sorcha knew no more.
SIXTY
I never said eechy or ochy.
(I refuse to take sides.)
There was a hoarse roaring in Sorcha’s ears, as relentless as it was loud. Silently, she pleaded for it to cease so she might return to her slumber. Only, her bed seemed to be most uncomfortable and there were no blankets. She couldn’t move her hands. Worse, she was saturated.
She tried to open her eyes and was met with stinging resistance. A combination of ocean spray and driving sleet slapped her cheeks and eyelids. She tried to twist away from it, but
couldn’t.
‘It’s no use struggling,’ shouted a familiar voice. ‘You’ll not escape justice this time, no matter what you do.’
Wide awake now, she stared in astonishment. At her feet knelt Reverend Cowper. He must have come upon her on the pier and felled her. Why?
There he was, tying her ankles together. Beside him lay a length of rope. He was drookit. His robes were plastered to his body as he fiddled with knots. He wore no gloves and his red fingers weren’t cooperating. Seawater swirled about his knees, making him slide sideways before he propped his boots against a folded sail.
‘Reverend Cowper,’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing?’
He tilted his head to look up at her, a tic in his cheek working furiously. ‘Och, I knew a blow wouldn’t kill you, witch. And for that, I’m glad. There’s yet time to save your black soul.’
Sorcha shut her eyes and leaned back against the mast. The reverend had lost all reason. Madness twisted his features, his one good eye was as cold and hard as iron as he continued to bind her ankles together.
Blinking, she raised her chin. The storm was at its peak. Gusts of wind battered the harbour. Kelp had been flung against the seawall and lay strewn along the sands. From where she was, she could see the town’s lanes and wynds awash with sea and rainwater. Gushing back down to the shore, the foaming wash carried a catch of baskets, buckets, pieces of wood, a broken wheel and the dead bodies of birds.
A wall of water rose and broke against the stone wall that edged the pier, sending a fresh curtain of spray over her. Coughing and spluttering, she shook her head, fighting as her body tried to pull her back into the ease of unconsciousness. She had to resist, she had to. But where exactly was she? Why was the pier over there?
‘Please, reverend,’ she shouted as realisation struck. ‘You must release me. We have to get off this ship. It’s not safe.’
