The Darkest Shore

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Safe!’ The reverend finished what he was doing and stood, grasping the mast above her head to stop himself falling as the deck lurched. ‘Nowhere you are is safe. That’s why I have to finish this once and for all. Cast Satan out of you, out of all you witches, and return the Weem to the godly haven it used to be.’

  His face was so close to her, she could smell his stale breath, the whisky he’d drunk, the wine and ale as well. Stumbling, he fell against her but made no effort to pull away. Their noses touched.

  ‘I see you for what you are, Sorcha McIntyre.’ His breath was hot against her cheek. ‘What your mother was as well. A temptress, sent by the devil himself to test me. To test all good Christian men.’

  With his free hand, he pressed against her breast, squeezing hard.

  Sorcha refused to cry out, even as he stared at her and twisted her nipple. She gritted her teeth. ‘Aye,’ she shouted. ‘I knew you were tempted, reverend. Did I not see what you tried to do to my mother with my own eyes? I saw how when she turned to you for comfort after the death of her husband, her son, you leapt upon her, ripping the clothes from her body so you could fuck her.’

  The reverend pulled away, his eyes narrowing. ‘’Twas not me, but the devil in her that made me do it.’

  Sorcha threw back her head and laughed. It was more like a scream. ‘’Twas not the devil in her, but the demon in you!’

  With a yowl of rage, he stepped forward and slapped her hard. Sorcha’s head rebounded against the wood and blood filled her mouth.

  ‘Liar! Bitch! ’Twas your filthy incomer mother who tempted me, with hair like silver and those blue eyes. She came to me in my dreams and whispered in her strange tongue and told me to take her. Who was I to resist? I’m a mere man and she, she was a witch. A witch in league with the devil, just like her daughter. A witch who, from the moment I arrived in the Weem, cast her spell upon me.’ The ship tilted and he fell against her again. His mouth was so close, his nose bent against her cheek. ‘Just like you.’

  Sorcha felt his sour desire in his every panting breath. Just as she feared he was about to kiss her, he pushed himself away with a cry of rage.

  ‘But God has spoken to me. He has shown me what I must do to save myself; to save us all.’ As he spoke, half his words were whipped out to sea. He picked up the remainder of the rope and wrapped it tightly around her waist, restraining her arms by her sides. ‘Janet Cornfoot shouldn’t have died,’ he yelled as he worked. ‘Not the way she did.’ For a fleeting moment Sorcha thought he was expressing regret.

  ‘She should have been lynched good and proper, like the witch she was.’

  With a sinking heart, Sorcha understood what was about to happen. Through the heavy rain, she tried to see the harbourfront, the shore. There was not a soul about. No one to witness what this deranged man intended to do. No one to stop him.

  He untied her from the mast, casting aside the bindings. The rope around her waist had been flung over the crosstree of the main mast and hung loosely until the reverend grabbed it and twined it around his forearm. Sorcha eyed it warily as it tightened as he dragged her towards the middle of the deck. She tried to free her arms, her wrists, but it was no use. Helpless, shaking uncontrollably, she stood looking from the deck to the freezing roiling waters, aware of the binding about her middle growing increasingly taut. She knew she didn’t have much time.

  ‘Reverend,’ she shouted, facing him. ‘Listen to me. Edinburgh will not tolerate another death. Not without a trial. You have me now, arrest me, lock me up and await their judgement. Prove to them I’m the witch you believe me to be. But don’t do this.’

  The reverend began to laugh. It was a sound to make the hair on Sorcha’s neck rise. ‘Prove it? To them? I ken what you are. I heard you chanting your spells down on the pier, calling up a storm fit to wreck everything we’ve worked to repair. That’s what you witches do. Destroy, wreak havoc and mayhem.’

  Sorcha stared at him. Was he referring to the song she sang? The song from her mother’s homeland?

  ‘That was no spell, you fool!’ She worked at her wrists, twisting them first one way then the other, trying to loosen the ropes that bound her. ‘That was a song my mother taught me when I was a bairn. A song about the sea, about fishing.’

  ‘Nae,’ said the reverend, unwrapping the rope that connected Sorcha to the mast from his arms and twining it around his midriff. He dropped to his knees before her and began to heave upon it. ‘It was about death.’

  Without warning, Sorcha was lifted off her feet. The air was dragged from her lungs as the rope drew tight around her waist. She rose into the air, swinging as if she was already upon the gallows.

  ‘Forget Edinburgh. Forget the Privy Council,’ the reverend hollered into the rain and wind, as if they were his congregation and this his sermon. ‘They know not what they do. You have bewitched them, you and all your damnable coven. This —’ he pulled down hard on the rope, ‘this is justice. This is what the town wants. This is what God wants.’

  Sorcha made one last attempt to appeal to him. ‘This is not God’s will, this is yours and you will be punished for it; just as you will be for releasing the prisoners from the Tolbooth.’

  The reverend froze. ‘How do you ken that?’ He half-rose and she plummeted towards the deck before being drawn up short. ‘There’s no natural way you could. If I’d any doubts you be a witch, there be naught now.’

  He struggled to his feet, leaning back, holding the rope firm and panting heavily. ‘And you ken what I’ll tell the authorities, don’t you? I’ll tell them it was you, Sorcha McIntyre. You who freed those men who killed Janet Cornfoot. Everyone knows there be no loyalty betwixt witches. You’ll betray and cheat each other if the devil tells you to. Unless the likes of me punishes you, you’ll keep on doing it, too.’ A spray of water doused him and he laughed. The sound was shrill, loud. ‘You released them and, seeing what you are, they turned on you and put you to death the way they tried to kill Janet Cornfoot.’ He laughed at the expression on her face. ‘Aye, you be right, witch. This is what I want. I want to silence you forever. You’ll take your secrets, my secrets, to your grave. No one will ken my part. The sea might have given you a life, but now it’ll be the death of you.’ Shoving her hard with one arm, he swung her off the deck and over the side of the ship. He braced himself and released the rope.

  With a scream, Sorcha plunged into the water. She hit hard, the freezing ocean closing over her head, streaming into her mouth, her nose. It was dark. She had no control. She sank deeper and deeper, the water folding around her, icy cold, bitter. The faint light from the surface vanished. She was in total darkness.

  Twisting and turning, she tried to free herself, to kick her way upwards, wherever that might be. She tried not to panic, praying the reverend would do what the men had done to Janet, just dunk her a number of times; she forced herself to be still as she sank, peering desperately through the murky depths. It wasn’t as dark as she first thought. There were shadows. She could just make out the hull of the ship. Barnacles and weed clung to its rotting wood like a disease. Her lungs began to ache as they willed her to release what was trapped in there, the air she knew was fast running out. Her wrists stung. Her ankles. Her eyes were burning, she wanted so badly to breathe, to feel the air in her throat, the cold, sweet air, the sharp shard-like spray of the waves upon her face.

  Although she forced her mouth to stay closed, bubbles still escaped. She watched as they spiralled away, above her head.

  Just as her feet touched the soft, silty bottom, she was hauled upwards. Her head broke the surface and she gulped great mouthfuls of air. Coughing and retching, she was lifted above the water, above the thundering waves until she was level with the deck once more. Level with the reverend.

  ‘Make your peace with the Lord, Sorcha McIntyre. Deny Satan and accept that God is your saviour before it’s too late.’

  Sorcha stared at him as she swung, doubled over now, the rope squeezing her and making word
s difficult.

  ‘God has always been my saviour, reverend,’ she spat. ‘But who is yours?’

  With a shout, he let her go again.

  It was much the same as before, only this time, he left her under longer. When he finally hoisted her out again, higher than the last time, she could barely breathe.

  ‘Deny the devil, witch. Deny him,’ he screamed.

  Uncaring that her wrists were rubbed so raw they were bleeding, she began to work at her bonds, trying to wriggle free, loosen the rope about her waist and ankles.

  ‘Very well,’ she panted back. ‘I deny you, Patrick Cowper, for you are the devil incarnate.’

  He released the rope.

  This time, when he brought her out, she spun around and around, first facing the Forth, then the ship and the reverend, then the shore. Though dawn was breaking, nobody appeared. In her head, she cried out for Aidan, for Nettie, for Beatrix, Nicolas, anyone — even Dagny. She shouted to God, to her mother, her father, her dead brothers, Andy, her wee dead bairn. But no one came.

  Down she went. Breaching the surface, she sank fast. Spinning like a piece of bait. This time, she was ready. She kicked hard, coming close to the hull, bumping against it, cutting her arm, her thigh. Keeping her mouth sealed, even though every instinct was to cry out, blood streamed into the water. She wriggled like a fish in a net. The rope was getting looser, greasier.

  Before she could do any more, she was dragged out.

  Again and again she was dropped, but each time she managed to steer herself towards the hull, directing her bound wrists and ankles towards the sharp shells clustered there. Missing and striking, slowly, the rope began to fray. When it finally snapped on her seventh dunking, she made sure she kept her hands together when the reverend raised her.

  Leaving her suspended, he wound one end of the rope around an exposed stanchion and came to the railing. Panting, he shook his head in sorrow. ‘I knew I was right. You are a witch, Sorcha McIntyre. The sea-witch I always thought you were. No Christian soul would have survived this. And so, witch, say your farewells and ask your dark master to prepare himself to welcome you, for I cannot do this any longer. Have you any last words?’

  Their eyes met. Sorcha opened her mouth to curse him, to send his soul to hell, then shut it. She was not a witch. Just a woman. He would not remake her in his image.

  ‘Very well then, witch,’ he said and, with a flip of his hand, unlooped the rope from the stanchion, keeping it about his waist before letting the length go.

  Taking a deep breath, as soon as Sorcha hit the water she shrugged her arms loose and untied her ankles, peeling off the rope from around her middle. It was harder than she thought and the push and pull of the tide meant she was swept past the ship. Other dark hulls bobbed above her. She knew as soon as she was unbound, the reverend would feel the slack. She had to act fast.

  Her head began to ring with want of air, bright bursts of colour flashed in front of her eyes before she finally freed herself. Pushing off from another boat, cutting her feet in the process, she swam towards the surface, all the while thanking her da that he had taught her to swim. Taught all his bairns. He could never understand how the folk of Pittenweem could put their trust in the sea and then fail to learn how to move within it. Not that it helped him or Erik. But it would help her.

  The reverend was right about one thing, she thought as, pushing aside her pain, she used even strokes to make her way to the surface. She was a fishwife, a woman who understood the ocean and respected it.

  Drawing in air, she floated, getting her bearings, grateful now for the wailing wind, the timpani of rain that hid the sound of her movements. Above her loomed the other side of the Sophia. It was too high and too damaged for her to climb, but the boat next to it wasn’t.

  Using the last of her strength, she pulled herself into it and sprawled on her back on the deck, panting, allowing the rain to fall upon her. As much as she wanted to lie there, she knew she didn’t have long. Scrambling to her feet, she used the rope attached to the boat to drag it closer to the pier. From there, she climbed onto the stones, some crumbling back into the water. She looked over her shoulder, but couldn’t see the reverend. Surely he wouldn’t have left? Assumed she was dead? He’d want evidence, if not for the council, then for himself.

  She crept towards the bow of the Sophia. It was bent and broken, half-embedded in the pier that held it and the remains of the bowsprit within its stony grasp. Quietly she leapt across, her bare feet making no noise that could be heard above the constant rain, booming waves and whistling wind.

  Around the side of the forecastle, behind the first mast and past the old coils of rope, collapsed sails and other equipment, she found an iron bar and hefted it in her hand.

  The reverend was bent over the railing, searching the surging water.

  She came closer and closer.

  ‘Lost something, reverend?’ she yelled.

  The reverend jumped and spun around. When he saw her, he gasped, then his eyes narrowed. ‘I was right. You’re a black-souled witch, Sorcha McIntyre.’ He tried to run at her, his clawed hands ready to latch onto her neck. ‘The devil’s handmaiden sent to torment us. Well, not while I still have breath in my body and the Lord to give me strength.’

  Sorcha swung the bar to protect herself. It missed his head and struck his arm, causing him to sway and trip, one foot landing neatly in the curl of rope on the deck, part of which was still looped around his waist. Refusing to be cowed, Sorcha lunged at him, determined this time to hit her mark. He backed away, hands raised. ‘You can’t hurt me, I am a man of God.’

  ‘You are a wicked man who uses God as a weapon,’ said Sorcha. ‘Now, feel mine.’ She brought the bar down.

  The reverend twisted hard to one side, the bar narrowly missing him, but as he did, he overbalanced and fell back against the railing. There was a great crack. Wood splintered and broke, tumbling into the sea below. The reverend wheeled his arms in a desperate bid to regain his balance. For a second, he was splayed like a crucifixion against the space. Behind him was the town, below him the dark sea, above the weeping sky.

  Then, with a great blood-curdling cry, he fell.

  The rope slithered after him, a serpent trying to escape. If Sorcha hadn’t leapt out of its way, it would have wrapped its sinewy coils around her and taken her over the side too.

  Bounding to the rail still in place, Sorcha looked down. There was the reverend, struggling and splashing in the heaving water.

  ‘Help!’ he cried. His head went under and bobbed back up again. He swallowed water, coughing, choking. ‘Help me, I can’t swim.’

  For a fraction of a second Sorcha was tempted to turn away and never look back. Only, she could not. Had not her da taught her to help those in need? Especially when it came to the sea. Even a misguided reverend deserved a fishwife’s help. A fishwife’s, not a witch’s.

  ‘Use your arms,’ shouted Sorcha, demonstrating quickly what he should do, before searching for something to throw him. The man was beginning to panic. His arms were flailing, the waves were going over the top of his head. He was swallowing more seawater. ‘Head for the boat,’ she cried between cupped hands, pointing at the same boat she’d managed to climb onto. The reverend ignored her and went under again.

  In the distance, she could hear shouts. There. At the end of the pier figures were running towards her. Relief flooded her body, relief followed by dread. What if they thought she was responsible for the reverend’s plight? What if he convinced them to finish what he’d started? She should escape. But where would she go?

  All of this occurred to her in a matter of seconds. Looking down at the water, there was no sign of the reverend. Then he surfaced again. Around his neck, across his arms, was the rope. Somehow, he’d managed to get himself tangled in it. Before she could cry a warning, he went under again.

  There was no time to think, no time to argue or prevent what happened next. The pro tempore bailies, Mr Borthwick and Mr Carter,
appointed to cover the duties of those still in Edinburgh, as well as Jon Durkie and Mr Adam and three soldiers, leapt aboard the Sophia and slipped and slid their way to her. First making sure Sorcha was all right, the men began to heave on the rope still attached to the mast and looped over the crosstree.

  Under instructions from Jon Durkie, the soldiers pulled and pulled, using all their strength. At some point, Mr Brown, Beatrix’s husband, came aboard and made his way across the deck. He took off his coat and placed it over Sorcha’s shoulders. ‘Dear God,’ he said in her ear. ‘What happened to you?’

  Sorcha didn’t hear, she was too busy watching what the men were doing. Shrugging off the coat and pushing Mr Brown aside, she leapt into action.

  ‘You have to pull faster,’ she snapped at the soldiers. ‘He’ll drown if we don’t get him out of the water now.’ She added her weight to the rope, bending and straightening, pulling with a strength she didn’t know she still had in her. Her heart was pounding, her body ached, but still she kept going.

  The rain had begun to lessen, the wind to drop. Still they worked the rope. Almost the entire length had sunk beneath the waves. More and more people emerged from their houses and lined up along the harbour. Ignoring the dangers of the decaying pier, many ran along its length to see what was happening aboard the Sophia.

  Thus it was that most of Pittenweem bore witness to the moment the reverend was hoisted from the murky depths of the sea he never trusted by the woman he tried to kill.

  When he broke the surface, there were those who swore he was still alive as his legs jerked and danced. Others said it was just his body in its final death throes, that his soul had already departed.

  But Sorcha knew he wasn’t quite dead when they hauled him out. The rope that had twined itself around his neck hadn’t yet squeezed the life from him. He kicked a few more times, unable to raise his hands as they were bound to his sides in the welter of rope and weed.

  Their eyes met — the sea-witch and the reverend. Hatred filled his gaze, hatred and a terror that came with the knowledge his end had come. There was nothing anyone could do. He opened his mouth to say something, to shout out in protest at such a dishonourable death.