Bitter Magic

by Nancy Kilgore

  When Isobel saw Margaret, she raised herself up and limped to the door—hobbling, barely able to move, vacant eyes staring without comprehension. Reaching the door, she dropped instantly back onto the floor. Isobel’s bald head was covered with sores, bloodstains spotted her skirt, and she was so weak and emaciated that Margaret hardly recognized the strong, earthy woman she had known. Her heart ached at the sight, and her anger began to melt.

  “Thou hast heard me callin’, Lady Margaret.”

  “What?” Margaret sank down and sat on the floor, where the reek was not so strong. “I did hear you, Isobel.” She coughed and covered her mouth. “But I thought—”

  “I was able to go in the shape of a crow,” Isobel replied in a faint voice that rang hollow from weakness. “But now, I have lost my powers.”

  “What have they done to you?” Margaret cried out.

  “They tried to make me confess, and I would not. But now I am ready.”

  “To confess? To witchcraft?”

  “I have done many evil deeds that I am sorry for.”

  Margaret let out a breath, and with it, her anger dissipated entirely. Who was this person, this creature wilted on the floor on the other side of the bars? “Then it is true? You have used black magic?” Even though she knew of her wicked intent, Margaret still thought of Isobel as a cunning woman, a healer. This picture of her as evil, as maleficent, was too hard to grasp.

  “When I was out with the fairy man, there was a man I killed, and I am sore afflicted with sorrow about it.”

  “Killed? But how?”

  “I killed him with the elf arrow. There were many of us, Elspeth Nychie and Jacob Taylor, Agnes Pierson, Lilias Dunlop and many more, all in my coven. And as the devil gave us the elf arrows, we shot and killed people.”

  Margaret thought of the stone Isobel had given her, the one she still thought of as a thunderstone. But no one could kill a person by flicking a stone off a thumbnail.

  “And we did covenant with the devil,” Isobel continued.

  “The devil? Not William, your fairy man?”

  “William is the devil, as Mister Harry said.”

  So, Mister Harry had given her the idea that her fairy man was the devil. Of course, Mister Harry believed that all fairies were devils. Probably, Isobel had heard his preaching on this so many times that she had come to believe it. “And do you now believe that all the fairies are devils?”

  “Nay. The fairies are neither good nor bad. Sometimes, they are both. But they can catch you and tempt you, like William did, and then you can never escape.” Isobel exhaled, sagging down a little more, as if she could hardly sit. “And I am sorry to you, too, Lady, for the curses I made on your father and brothers.”

  “But why, Isobel? Why did you do it?”

  Isobel shook her head sadly. “We suffered such loss in the raid.”

  “When my father took the cattle and grain?”

  “Aye. And the devil taught me the charms and the words, so I could have power, too.”

  “Power to kill?”

  Isobel nodded and lowered her head.

  They sat in silence, both women slumped on the floor. It was all so confusing. “But Isobel,” Margaret said, remembering Mistress Collace’s words, “my father and brother are alive. Your curse did not kill them. Perhaps you have been imagining the fairies and such?”

  Isobel quivered, wobbling her head. Margaret reached her hand through the bars, and Isobel slowly extended hers to take it.

  Why hadn’t she brought her something to eat? The woman was feeble, and obviously hungry.

  “She is so frail and thin,” Margaret said to Uncle Alexander. “They are not feeding her, Uncle. And no one empties the chamber pot. You must do something.”

  “Not feeding her? This must not continue. The woman needs strength to stand at trial.” He turned back toward the tollbooth. “I will arrange it.”

  Margaret’s life was turning again, this time in another direction. What she knew and understood to be true now seemed as shaky as a boulder teetering on the edge of a mountainside. She had seen magic and the way it healed. She had heard the crow, and seen both her brother Malcolm and her grandmother, even though they were dead. She had even heard Isobel’s voice calling her. These things were not evil. They were a part of the world that most people didn’t know or see. They didn’t conflict with Margaret’s Christian beliefs, but now everyone, including Isobel, was convinced that all of it was of the devil—and that Isobel had consorted with him. Could that be true, as well? Or was Mistress Collace correct that it was all delusion?

  Chapter 48

  Every inch of the kirk was filled. People were packed into every pew, crowded along the side aisles, and standing in the back. Most of the commissioners were in the front pew, while Mister Harry and Uncle Alexander sat on a dais facing them.

  Margaret sat beside Mistress Collace in the family pew. Being in kirk for a witch trial . . . how different it felt, how unreal. She knew there had been other trials in this place, when people were tried for working on Sunday or adultery. But to be in this place of worship for the purpose of condemning someone to death? That was wrong. How could she bear to live in such a place as this?

  Margaret trembled, clutching the edge of her cape. Isobel, who had been so full of life and strength in her own milieu, the world of nature, of earth and sky, now stood fragile and alone in a chamber of hostility. Uncle Alexander must have arranged better care, though, because she did look cleaner and stronger.

  The men sat like pillars of stone: Henrietta’s father, Mister Hugh, Uncle Alexander, and Margaret’s own father. These were the same men she had once known as kind and protective, all of that in another lifetime. Faces blank or twisted in deceit, they sat there looking important. They were ready to put Isobel to death. How could Margaret bear it? Her head fell down over her chest.

  She rubbed and twisted the wool in her fingers. She was cast down, lost like the pilgrim in the book by Elizabeth Melville.

  Margaret sat up. The people around her were talking and laughing as if it were any Sunday before kirk. Was Andrew here? She didn’t see him.

  There was Henrietta on the other side of the room. She was sitting beside her mother, Lady Anne, and looking at Margaret. Henrietta mouthed the words I’m sorry. Margaret felt such joy, and sadness too, at the sight of that pale face and the wispy red hair slipping out from under her bonnet. Margaret lowered her head again. She hadn’t visited her friend in so long. If anyone should be sorry, it was she. Henrietta was living in exile, and now she was offering sympathy to Margaret.

  The room was filled with noise and chaos. People argued and shouted, standing up and shoving, pushing to get a seat. In their midst, Margaret’s family was quiet. Mother had rested for some days and had now declared that her cough was almost gone.

  It was all so strange, like something Shakespeare could have written—but worse, because this was real. Isobel, who had always sat quietly in the back of the kirk with her family, was now the center of attention, forced to stand between the commissioners and Mister Harry. The crowd yelled, jostled, and shouted insults at her and each other, while Isobel, motionless, gazed out the window. She stood, forlorn but dignified, like a lone tree on the machair buffeted by wind and weather.

  But now Isobel’s body began to bend, as if the tree could no longer withstand the wind, and she buckled over. As she began to fall, Mister Hugh rushed to catch her and help her stand, and the commissioners argued amongst themselves until someone brought her a chair. Isobel sank into it as she sat down. People in the pews stood up to look at her. Her every move was significant, a thing to marvel at or scorn.

  Mister Harry stood and cleared his throat. The room had quieted, but still echoed with muttering as he began the opening prayer. It lasted ten long minutes, during which time the rustling, voices, and sh
oving grew louder and louder.

  Finally, the prayer ended, and the notary, Mister Innes, rose from his seat. “At Auldearn, on the third day of May 1662,” he proclaimed in a quiet voice, “at the hour of two or three in the afternoon, in presence of John Innes, notary public, Master Harry Forbes, minister of the gospel, John Hay of Park and Lochloy, Alexander Brodie of Brodie, and diverse other witnesses, a confession and declaration was spoken forth of the mouth of Isobel Gowdie, spouse to Hugh Gilbert . . .”

  Silence. The congregation, the commissioners, and Isobel all remained silent, as if the stone walls surrounding them had already absorbed this woman into death and the history embedded here.

  Mister Harry spoke. “Isobel Gowdie, you have confessed to intercourse with the devil. Speak now before this congregation of your sin.”

  Isobel rose from her seat. She stood tall and lifted her chest, seeming to gain new strength. Eyes flashing, she addressed the crowd. “I first met with the devil betwixt the towns of Drumdevan and the Heads, and there, he spoke to me and appointed me to meet with him in the Kirk of Auldearn, which I did in the nighttime.”

  “Ooh! Ah!” Sounds of shock and disbelief erupted from the congregation, contrasting with Isobel’s calm, almost merry voice.

  “And what did you do there?”

  “And there,” she continued, “I denied my baptism and put one of my hands to the crown of my head and the other hand to the sole of my foot and renounced all betwixt my two hands over to the devil.”

  Margaret caught her breath. Mistress Collace took her hand and squeezed it.

  “And what did the devil do?

  “The devil cut my shoulder, sucked my blood, and spat it in his hand. He sprinkled it on my head, and said, “I baptize ye, Janet, in my own name.”

  Isobel stood firm, smiling grimly at Mister Harry.

  Mister Harry coughed. “You have confessed to these heinous sins with the devil. And now you must tell, as you have admitted to me in private, of your carnal copulation with this vile creature.”

  Isobel glared at Mister Harry, raising her voice. “He had carnal copulation with me then, and frequently thereafter.”

  “And what did he look like?”

  “He was a large, hairy man, and cold. I found his nature as cold within me as spring water. And he lay all heavy upon us in my coven and had carnal dealings with us like a stallion among mares. His member is exceedingly great and long. No man’s member is so long and big.”

  There were more gasps and exclamations of shock, but the people remained still, spellbound throughout this recitation. Was Isobel talking about a real man she had met, or was this a product of her imagination? Or had she really met the devil?

  “Sometimes, he wore boots, and sometimes shoes; but still, his feet were forked and cloven. He was sometimes with us as a deer or roe.”

  Mister Hugh rose heavily from his seat. “And who else was with you in your coven?”

  Isobel looked around the room and smiled, her body alert. “There are thirteen persons in each coven, and each of us has a spirit to wait upon us. There is one called Swane, who waits upon Maggie Burnet in Auldearn—”

  “The alewife!” came a shout from the crowd.

  “Nay!” a woman’s shrill voice cried.

  “Hush!” another voice commanded.

  Isobel continued. “He is a young devil clothed in grass green, and the said Maggie Burnet has the nickname of Pickle Nearest the Wind. The next spirit is called Rorie, and he is clothed all in yellow, and he waits on Bessie Wilson in Auldearn.”

  Margaret’s mouth fell open. Bessie, who was sitting at the end of the pew, went red and shook her fist. “Liar!” she shouted.

  Margaret’s mother, Lady Elizabeth Brodie, then stood up and called out, “Fairy tales, m’lairds. Do not believe these tales!”

  Margaret was hard pressed to take it in. It was all happening so fast—Isobel talking about carnal copulation with the devil, Bessie accused of being in a coven, her mother shouting out loud in the kirk.

  “Silence!” Mister Harry shouted as Mister Gordon, the beadle, marched down the aisle and threatened both Bessie and Mother with the mace.

  “Please continue, Mistress Gowdie,” said Mister Harry in a quiet voice.

  “How many are there in your coven?” Mister Hugh asked.

  “There are thirteen persons in my coven.” Isobel went on to name seven other women, including Mister Harry’s servant girl, Agnes Pierson; Jane Martin, whom she called the “maiden” of the coven; Elspeth Nychie; Lilias Dunlop, the seamstress; and one man, Jacob Taylor. She gave the names of all of their spirits: The Roaring Lion, Mak Hector, the Thief of Hell, and Robert the Jacks in addition to her own spirit, Red Reiver. Each coven member had a fanciful nickname. Jane Martin’s was Over the Dyke with It, and Bessie Wilson was called Through the Cornyard.

  By this time, the crowd was in uproar. As Isobel went on to name other people and nearby covens, it was all Mister Gordon could do to keep the noise down to a level at which she could be heard.

  “She’ll name the whole of Auldearn!” someone shouted. “The whole of Moray!”

  Uncle Alexander rose and faced the congregation. “We will hear the confession,” he declared, “or those who create disturbance will leave the kirk.” The shouts died down to murmurs as he turned back to Isobel. “And what is the magic,” he said with a wince, “that you perform with your devils?”

  Isobel turned and addressed the congregation, most of whom made up her usual audience in the farmtown. “Jacob Taylor and Elspeth Nychie, his wife Lilias Dunlop, and I myself met in the kirk yard of Nairn, and we raised an unchristened child out of its grave; and at the end of Bradley’s cornfield land, just opposite to the mill of Nairn, we took said child, with the nails of our fingers and toes, pickles of all sorts of grain and blades of kale, and hacked them all very small, mixed together . . .”

  “No!” cried one woman, as two others wept noisily.

  “. . . and did put a part thereof among the muckheaps, and thereby took away the fruit of his grains, and we parted it among two of our covens.”

  “Have you done this before?” asked one of the men.

  “When we take grains at Lammas, we take but about two sheaves, when the grains are full; or two stalks of kale, and that gives us the fruit of the cornland or kale yard, where they grow. And it may be, we keep it until Yule or Pasche, then divide it amongst us.”

  “And what other harm have you done?” Mister Harry asked.

  Isobel stooped over, sinking back into the chair and loosening her hair from the cap. Her body hung down heavily and she swayed from side to side, pulling at her hair. “Alas!” she wailed. “I deserve not to be sitting here, for I have done so many evil deeds, especially the killing of men. I deserve to be riven upon with iron harrows and worse, if that could be devised.”

  Mistress Collace’s head bowed over her lap, and Margaret held her hand tightly. Now they would surely execute this woman. Such sorrow, such deep sadness and misery, such loss. There had been so much death in this place—Mistress’s children one by one, and now to hear of Isobel digging up a baby from the grave and using it like an ingredient in her potions. Margaret sat stunned by all that Isobel had said. A gray fog surrounded her and the whole congregation as if they, too, were dead, without feeling or thought, wandering ghosts in an endless dungeon.

  Chapter 49

  The sun was still bright in the sky as the Hay family sat down for the evening meal at eight. Through the open windows came the sounds of people working in the fields.

  To think that life could go on as usual after such desolation! Margaret was reeling on the inside at the image of Isobel stooped and wailing, and the thoughts of what she had done. Margaret could not reconcile any of this with the picture she had held for so long of Isobel surrounded by light and music.
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  Mistress Collace sat at table with them, as did Andrew, who glanced at Margaret with smiling eyes. He had not attended the trial, and she was comforted by his attention in the midst of her misery . . . but this same attention was also disturbing. He was eager to get married, as was she, but not yet! Margaret didn’t want to think of leaving home, of moving with him to England—and then the marriage bed, which would become the birthing bed, and then, inevitably, a place of pain and death. Did she really want to stay in this land of fear and vengeance and murder?? According to Andrew, England was more civilized, and Chesire a beautiful land. Could Margaret leave all she’d known here—her home and family?

  They were talking about the witch trial, a subject that was surely on the mind of every person in Auldearn and Nairn.

  “There is no question that this woman is guilty of witchcraft,” John Hay asserted.

  “But,” Lady Elizabeth protested, “what evidence is there that she has done actual harm?”

  “What harm?” he thundered. “The witch has raised the wind and caused Mister Harry to fall and break a leg, as well the sandstorm that ruined the crops. She cast a spell to keep Harry from healing. She has put a curse on this family. She has made a covenant with the devil. All confessed by her.”

  “She did talk at length about her bizarre deeds,” Elizabeth replied in a more measured voice. “Turning herself into a hare and being chased by a dog, flying through the night with the devil, raising the wind with a charm, killing people in the fields. And condemning our Bessie as one of her coven. Really, John, how can we credit such tales with belief?”

  “This woman cursed the males of the Hay family. Do you believe ’twas an accident that our recently-born son died in one week?”