The House Where It Happened

by Devlin, Martina

  “Nobody’s jigglin’ you,” I said. “You’re in Knowhead House, among friends.”

  “They say they’ll keep it up till they shake the teeth out of my head.”

  “Who is doing this to you, Mary?” asked the mistress.

  “The witches from the cave. They’re intriguing against me. They’ve sent their shadows to torment me.”

  “But why do they intrigue against you, Mary?” she asked.

  “Their master orders it.” The chair stopped moving and she shrank back into it, a look of horror on her face. “She has a whip in her hand!”

  The mistress and I exchanged glances, helpless.

  “Keep her off me. Someone stop her, for the love of God!” She pulled off her cap and aimed it at something. It sailed through the air, landing with a plop on a chair back. A shriek fit to raise the dead burst from her. “She’s ripped my skin off. Look at her laughing. Oh Christ above, I can’t stand the pain!”

  I brushed back her hair which was sticking to her face, trying to calm her. Dark pools of sweat gathered at her armpits. She trembled in my arms, clutching at her thigh. I lifted her skirt and petticoat, but there was nothing to see. Yet there was no doubting her pain.

  “She has the whip still. The others are urging her on. They say my flesh is going to be striped red and white by the time they’re through with me.”

  “Do something, Ellen!” said the mistress.

  My mouth fell open. What could I do?

  “Make them go away. This is hell on earth!” Mary Dunbar was panting, her ribcage rising and falling like a bellows.

  I sucked on a loose length of hair, and for once the mistress didn’t pick me up on it. How could we save her from an invisible enemy? Her squeals were real enough.

  “We can’t manage on our own any longer,” I said.

  Mistress Haltridge nodded. There was no more talk of tongues flapping about Knowehead.

  “I’ll run out now,” I said. “I’ll not come back without help.”

  “Be careful. It’s dark outside.”

  “I bain’t afeared of the dark, mistress.”

  The mistress didn’t like to let on she was nervous of the dark. “You could miss your footing and fall into a shuck. That’s all I meant.”

  “I ken the pads through these fields like the back of my hand. I’ll be back with the minister afore you know I’m gone. You need to stay with the young lady, mistress.”

  “But what if she attacks me?”

  “I’d be more afeared of her harmin’ herself. Never you leave her alone for a minute.”

  “Very well. But we need to give Mary something to pacify her. There’s no telling what she might do in this state. Before you go, tell Peggy to mix up one of her cordials.”

  “Aye, but the best service we can do her now is to have her prayed over. It was the only thing gave the aul’ mistress any peace. Somebody needs to get down on their knees and ask the Good Lord to send your cousin back to us – because she’s bein’ taken places no Christian soul should go.”

  Peggy was awake, the blanket clutched under her nose, when I went flying back to our sleeping place in the loft. I was in such a rush, I caught myself a clip on the head from the roof beams.

  “A body would think she was bein’ hit by the hammers of hell,” said Peggy.

  “Maybes she is. Best stir yourself. I’ve a message to run, and the mistress is wantin’ cordial for the young lady.”

  Peggy wrapped a shawl round her shift and climbed down to the kitchen after me. Muttering away, she took out a wooden bowl and pestle from the cupboard, whiles I tugged on a pair of worsted stockings and kilted up my skirt. Jumping over shucks was muddy work, never mind the cow claps. At first I thought Peggy was mumbling a string of complaints as she mixed dried herbs. But as I went to pull the door shut behind me, I realized the sounds coming from her lips were something else entirely. They were prayers.

  * * *

  On the way to Robert Sinclair’s house, the only creatures I saw were some whitricks, looking about their supper like as not. Mercy Hunter answered my tap on the kitchen door. She was dying to know why I was sent to fetch the minister, and pinched me for answers leading me in, but I was in no mood to satisfy her curiosity. This would get out soon enough.

  Mister Sinclair was in his study preparing his sermon. He was a man of some fifty years, with a face marked by smallpox, and a wig that vexed his head, because he was forever scrabbing underneath and never put it back straight. The kirk in Scotland sent him to us in the back end of the 1690s, to take John Haltridge’s place after he was carried off. His wife was reluctant to come, or so they said, and found no shortage of reasons to take the three-hour boat-trip home to her own people. She was there now, helping a sister who gave birth to twins late in life. The minister and his wife had neither chick nor child. His congregation laughed at him, behind his back, for tolerating an absent wife. It was the worst of both worlds, they said.

  I gave a bob, minding my manners. “Sir, Mistress Haltridge begs you to come at once. She has a guest in trouble.”

  “I’ll come gladly. I presume it’s the young female relation she’s been bringing to the meeting-house. But what kind of trouble does the visitor find herself in?”

  “Sir, she says witches are meddlin’ with her.”

  The intake of breath was sharp, though he tried to disguise it by clearing his throat.

  “There’s something else, sir. She says the witches cast their spells in a cave. It sounds as if it might be Lock’s Cave. I’d say it needs to be searched.”

  “I’ll go to Knowehead House at once.”

  He rang the bell, and Mercy Hunter came so quick she must have been on her knees by the keyhole. She had the run of the house, with no mistress to bring her to heel. “Mercy, tell Thomas to saddle Sobriety, and look sharp about it. Then bring me my cloak.”

  She rolled her eyes at me on her way past.

  The minister fumbled among the papers on his desk. “Where did I set my Bible?”

  “Please, sir, is that it sitting on the chair? It’s lying open at one of Paul the Apostle’s epistles.”

  “So it is. Paul has useful words to say about fornication which I intend drawing to my flock’s attention. I hope you are a good girl and stay pure in mind in body. Remember, your body is shaped in God’s image and likeness and not intended for idle amusement.”

  “Aye, sir.” I had learned my lesson the hard way.

  He placed the Bible, a braw book made of panelled calfskin, in a leather satchel. Something occurred to him, and he peered at me over the top of his reading spectacles. “You can read? You knew the page my Bible was open at?”

  “Aye, I can write, an’ all. My master taught me how.”

  “Good. In our faith we believe in reading the Word with our own eyes, rather than depending on someone else to deliver God’s message. But you would do well to restrain your reading to the Holy Scriptures. They are meat and drink enough for any man or woman.”

  “I do read the Bible, sir. There’s a copy of it in Knowehead. Master Haltridge was civil enough to say I could borrow it whenever I had a mind to practise reading.”

  The whiles Mister Sinclair gathered himself together, I thought about the lessons I had with my master. They were the happiest times of my life. The reading came first, before we moved on to lettering. At first, my master intended only to teach me to draw the symbols that set down my name. But he said I had such a knack, it would be a shame not to take it further. He put the first quill ever I held into my hand. His hands were soft, the nails clean. Cleaner than mine. Softer, forbye. He said what he was about to give me was worth more than rubies: “It raises you above the herd.” Them were his exact words. I was only half-listening to Mister Sinclair as he droned on like a goodwife on market day. Instead I was remembering the touch of my master’s hand against mine, as he showed me how to hold the quill. Such gentleness there was in him. I never knowed much gentleness in my life. It left me defenceless when I
met it.

  Mercy landed back in with a black woollen cloak over her arm, a hat and a pair of boots. The boots were clabber from tip to toe. I should have been ashamed not to take a scraper to them boots before handing them over. But Mercy was a clattery being, and Mister Sinclair pulled them on without noticing. She was always yammering about him being tight-fisted, insisting she could get higher wages elsewhere, but he was an easy master for those of a slothful disposition.

  “The King James’s Bible is the only chainmail a man needs against sin,” he said. “It was that far-sighted monarch’s gift to his subjects. A Scotchman, of course, like myself. The king, who is grandfather to our own Queen Anne – long may she reign – ordered the translation of the Bible into the common tongue, so that all his subjects could read it. The papists opposed it, Rome-ridden lackeys that they are. But it was the king’s crowning achievement.’

  I thought about our queen. She buried all her babbies, one by one, poor lady, and so her people were her children now. Even queens don’t get everything their hearts desire.

  As I followed the minister out, Mercy dragged me back. “Ellen, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Mary Dunbar. She’s taken a fit.”

  “What kind of fit?”

  “I could’n say.”

  “Pull the other one. You’re a finder-outer. You worry away at things, getting’ at the whys an’ wherefores.”

  That stopped me short. It’s always a surprise to have our natures laid bare. “You’re a fine one to talk, Mercy Hunter. Any word of Ruth?”

  “Back home, bein’ bate black and blue by her da. Pleasures have to be paid for, as me master is never done remindin’ us.”

  “No time for idle chit-chat!” called the minister. “You can ride behind me, Ellen Hill. My mare’s a strong animal and will carry two.”

  Thomas Kane, his man, held the bridle of a roan horse with a white flash on her forehead. Mister Sinclair used a starting block to mount, and still managed to make a poor shape at it. I scrambled up behind, with a push from Thomas Kane, and no sooner was my backside on the mount than the minister clicked his tongue.

  We could not help but touch each other, with me seated behind and holding tight to his belt through his cloak, as Sobriety jogged towards Knowehead. Maybes that’s why he spoke of fornication.

  “Carnal lust is no venial sin but a serious one which pollutes the body. God ordered man to abstain from fornication, speaking through Paul. Fornicators are lowering themselves to the ranks of dogs and swine, and by their –”

  Some of his words were lost in the clop of hooves and the creak of saddle and reins, but I couldn’t think of myself as a pig, let alone my master. Yet what my master did with me counted as fornication in the minister’s eyes. In God’s eyes, too. I knowed he’d want us to do it again. But he’d never push himself on me – he’d take no for an answer. Provided I was strong enough to say him nay. A wee voice in my head whispered I had fallen already, so what difference would a second time make? But another voice said only a pockle would take such a risk after the near-miss I had.

  I closed my eyes and, from a pocket in my mind, lifted out the soft words my master spoke to me on the day before he rode off to Dublin. He came to me then, promising we’d take up where we left off when he returned. “It’s not a sin to hold each other, Ellen. Don’t think of it as sinning.” He slipped his hand inside my clothes, stroking my secret place, and the pleasure of it left me weak – not shocked, the way I should have been. It drew a sound from me, louder than was seemly, and he put his other hand over my mouth. Its suddenness was a slap. Above the hand, his face was panicky, and it was like a splash of ice water. I saw he feared discovery, and it helped me to pull away. I would have spoken out then, giving shape to my fear that I was carrying his child, but wee Sarah ran up and the chance was lost.

  The minister’s voice drifted back to me. “There are some men who hold fornication to be no more than a pastime, like shooting or fishing. Their day of reckoning awaits them.”

  But was it truly fornication if a maid loved her master – and he loved her just a little?

  * * *

  When I arrived back with the minister, both Peggy and the mistress were sitting with Mary Dunbar, Mistress Haltridge being reluctant to wait on her own. Mary was resting, her head against the chair back, but her eyes opened at our approach.

  “I am one of God’s chosen ministers.” Mister Sinclair laid his hand on her head. “I have come to pray over you, child.”

  He told us to kneel, and led everyone in the Lord’s Prayer, Mary joining in. When it came to the line “And lead us not into temptation,” she wheezed as she held her stomach. “They’re punching me!”

  The minister gave us a sign to continue praying, but our voices were drowned out by the din as Mary cried about blows raining down on her. We tailed off, and the minister alone was praying. Instead, we were watching.

  “No, I won’t do it. You can’t make me!” yelped Mary. All at once, she rolled up her sleeve. “See how they persecute me?” A row of bruises covered her arm. “Stop nipping me. I won’t say it. You can pinch me all the colours of the rainbow, but it won’t change my mind.” She showed us more bruises on the other arm. “Sir, send them away, I beseech you. They’re peeved with me, because I try to stand up to them. They tell me I must do as they command, or they’ll torture me twice as hard. Ouch! All right, I’ll say it. Give me peace and I’ll say it. That chanting fool in the black cloak is nothing but a long streak of misery. No wonder his wife put a sea betwixt and between them.”

  Mistress Haltridge gasped.

  “And Isabel Haltridge is a peacock who’d turn slut for sixpence, while that maid of hers is a horse-face who’d never get the chance.”

  “It’s not the lass speaking, but some fiend using her tongue for its own ends.” The minister rose to his feet and stretched out a hand, finger pointing. “Get thee hence, witch or devil, whatever you be. You have no power in this God-fearing house.”

  Tick-tock, went the tall clock in the hall. Tick-tock.

  She burst into a cackle I never would have believed could come from her mouth, if I had not heard it with my own ears. Her body jerked, as though seized by the middle and thrown back with great violence, and spittle dribbled from both corners of her mouth.

  The minister couldn’t help himself – he jumped back. But then he gathered himself to do battle, lifting his Bible above his head with both hands. “You besoms using this poor maid can defy me, but you cannot defy the Good Book. ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.’ Jesus Christ has given His promise on it.”

  I noticed the mistress do something with her right hand. Something those governed by popery do. She made the sign with fingers they call blessing themselves. I was surprised, but let on to see nothing.

  The minister went forward a pace to make up the ground lost. “In the name of our Redeemer, I order you to speak. Who are you?”

  Mary Dunbar panted like a dog, tongue out.

  “Who sent you?”

  She thrashed about, giving him no answer.

  “Why have you come here?”

  At that, she looked him full in the face, sneering. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.”

  “How dare you quote Holy Scripture! By the power of this Precious Book, I command you to leave this girl in peace. Her soul belongs to the Lord. She has been washed by the blood of Christ. Let her loose – I cast you out into the place from whence you came. Go, you servant of Satan. Go, in our Saviour’s name. Begone!”

  Mary Dunbar’s writhing halted. As sudden as a thunderclap, the casement shutters banged and the candles guttered. Peace floated over the room.

  “Look at Mary’s face,” whispered the mistress.

  Where before it had been twisted into ugly shapes, now it was gentle. Her eyes had been clouded, now they were clear. You never saw such innocence in a face. She stood up, wobbled, and sat back down.

 
“I’m thirsty.”

  I poured her a glass of water, and she drank it in a single swallow.

  “How do you feel, Mary?”

  “My throat hurts, Isabel, and – oh, who tore the seam of my gown? Here at the waist? It’s coming apart.”

  The minister held out both hands to Mary and took hers between them. “I am Robert Sinclair, Presbyterian minister here on Islandmagee. You have been unwell, but I hope we have cured you of what ails you.”

  She freed one of her hands to smooth back her hair. Her voice was husky as she said how honoured she was to meet him, and how much her cousin admired his speaking voice. He preened, despite his scolding about vanity in others.

  “Peggy, help Mistress Mary to prepare for bed and then slip off yourself,” said the mistress. “Ellen, we should offer Mister Sinclair some refreshment after his efforts. Fetch food and wine.”

  “No wine, thank you, mistress. Sobriety is my horse and sobriety is my nature.”

  “Forgive me, how could I forget your sermons on the monstrosity of drunkenness? You are an abstemious man, Mister Sinclair, a credit to your calling. But you must have something to eat before you set out for home.”

  She led him into the dining room, while I trotted off to the kitchen for a fruit tart on the larder shelf. He was known to have a sweet tooth. I added some cheese and a brace of apples to the tray, along with a pitcher of milk, and carried his supper through to the dining room.