He pulled his catapult out of a pocket and stretched the string, letting it snap. “Sarah has to do as I say. You have to tell her I’m in charge.”
“You are not!” said Sarah.
“I am too.”
“Not.”
“Am.”
“Not long now afore the elders pitch up an’ start prayin’,” said Peggy.
I took the hint, and bundled the pair into their cloaks and stout shoes, along with a pot of blackberry jam for their hostess, and instructions to mind their clothes on the brambles.
When Mistress Haltridge, my master’s mother, was in the whole of her health, there used to be a dose of praying in Knowehead House. Hail, rain or shine, she called us all together for household prayers at eight o’clock every night. Half an hour, and sometimes longer, we were on our knees. We let that habit slip when she wasn’t herself any more. The young mistress was never as anxious about her servants’ immortal souls. I daresay she thought our wages and victuals were enough – and as regards eternity, we could fend for ourselves.
* * *
“Let us, with a gladsome mind,
Praise the Lord, for He is kind.
For His mercies aye endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
Let us blaze His name abroad,
For of gods he is the God.
For His mercies aye endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.”
The hymn-singing lifted the cloud inside the house, and I hummed along as I went about my work, changing the rushes on the floors. They freshened up the place and kept the stoor down. I was making good progress, until a round of screams brought me up short. I raced to the parlour. It was a good job I always made sure we had plenty of rushes on the floors – with the amount of running I was doing lately, I was at risk of slip-sliding all over the place.
Mary Dunbar’s face was cherry-red, her limbs jerking like a puppet’s. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”
“Keep singing, friends,” said Master Sinclair. “All together now: ‘Let us, with a gladsome mind –’”
The squawking broke out again. It was an appalling sound, and I had to put my hands over my ears to block it out. The elders were all ruddy men, from spending their days on the land, but that caterwauling stole some of their healthy colour.
I saw Randall Leaths there, along with Joseph Esler, Hugh Donaldson and Bob Holmes. They were sober men, married with families, except for Holmes, who was too set in his ways to tolerate a wife. Donaldson was a Samson who could do the work of three or four and, though he was an overfed, snorting bull, it was a comfort to have him in the house. As for Leaths and Esler, they had been good neighbours to us during old Mistress Haltridge’s illness. All four of them looked at Mister Sinclair now, waiting for his lead.
The minister scratched under his wig. “Lord, keep us steadfast in your work.” He was stuck for words after that, scrabbing away at himself. “We must pray for deliverance for this poor soul,” he came out with at last. Everyone fell to their knees, while he remained standing. “Mistress Dunbar, you must renounce your sins, which give the Evil One authority over you.”
Mary Dunbar neither moved nor answered, which must have lent him courage. He approached her and placed a hand on her head. “Bear witness before this congregation –”
At that, she was overcome by a monstrous coughing fit. Her eyes watered, her hand clawed at her throat, and it seemed as if she would hack up her insides. Finally, she had some respite and fell back, panting.
Mister Sinclair set off preachifying again. “Some say there be no witches at all but only aged and ignorant crones, deluded in their imagination. I say this is another of Lucifer’s snares, to put us off guard. We must be ever vigilant against witchcraft, which is a sin against God.”
“Amen!” said the company.
“By nature, a woman is more likely to enlist in the Devil’s service than a man, for women are more lustful and easier led.”
Mary leaned forward and boked up a flow of egg-yolk-yellow pus on his coat. Everyone jumped off their knees and leaped back, although one or two could not avoid being splashed. The minister stood where he was, his gob hanging open like a fish on a slab. If it wasn’t so serious, I’d have laughed at the visog on him. A clink sounded as some objects, caught up in the stream of vomit, bounced off his coat and onto the floor. The lumpy liquid splashed across Mary’s clothes, and still she retched on. When she was finished spewing, the mistress propped her head on her lap and fanned her, whiles I took off my apron and mopped at Mister Sinclair.
“Sir, if you gi’e me the coat I can take it to the kitchen and work at it,” I offered, and he pulled it off right willing.
Hugh Donaldson took up the poker and separated out the bits and bobs brought up by Mary: a large ball of hair with chicken feathers through it, two waistcoat buttons and a candle stub.
“Did my poor cousin bring up those buttons?” asked Mistress Haltridge.
Donaldson nodded.
I would not have believed it, if I had not seen it with my own eyes.
The candle looked like an ordinary wax stump to me. But Randall Leaths said, “Thon’s left over from a Black Sabbath ritual, so it is.”
There was silence.
“We wrestle not against flesh and blood but against demons,” announced the minister. “Mister Donaldson, give me those objects for safekeeping. I will pray over them later, for fear they may be tainted. We will need them for evidence of witchcraft.”
Mary Dunbar opened her eyes. They swam with appeal. “Help me, sir. I throw myself upon your mercy. My tormentors plague me beyond endurance.”
He kept a safe distance, but answered with civility. “Rest assured I will do everything in my power to return you to the grace of our Redeemer. You will not be left to fight them alone. Can you tell me, are they here now? Do you see them in this room?”
All of us cast nervous looks left and right.
“No, sir, but two of them were here a short time ago.”
“Can you identify them?”
“One had a face that was whole on one side, but puckered red flesh on the other. The eyebrow and eyelashes were singed off.”
“I know an aul’ biddy has a face like that,” said Randall Leaths. “She lives hard-by the burn at the bottom of Charlie Lennon’s field. One look from her would frighten a horse without blinkers.”
“Fetch her here,” ordered Mister Sinclair. “Let’s see what she has to say for herself.”
Randall Leaths rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure I like to go next nor near her if she be a witch. She might put a hex on me.”
“Take Joseph Esler with you, and remember you are both godly men. Your faith will protect you.”
“I know the one you’re talkin’ about,” said Esler. “Becky Carson, she’s called. There’s no harm in her. She was married to a shepherd, but he’s a long time dead. None of their childer made it past birthin’. She’s none too steady on her feet. I mind she got thon injury to her face from noddin’ off into the fire one night. Granted, it har’ly looks pretty. But we cannae hould that agin her.”
“If she is blameless, she has nothing to fear. But she must be brought in to stand before Mistress Dunbar. The guilty cannot look upon those they have wronged without giving themselves away. Fetch her here. We’ll see how she conducts herself, and judge her on it.”
The two elders lifted their hats and went out to where Randall Leaths’ skinny old horse was standing, still in the cart shafts. It would have been Christian to unhook the mare, but Leaths was never one for applying Christianity to beasts. I followed them to draw water from the well, for steeping Mister Sinclair’s coat, and it was clear from the way they dragged their feet that neither man had much liking for the errand.
“I daresay there’s no harm in hearin’ what she has to say for herself,” said Joseph Esler. “We may as well bring her in.”
“May as well,” agreed Leaths. “Like the minister says, if she be innocent she has nothin’ to fear.
”
Just then, Frazer Bell clattered into the yard on his high-stepping bay. He had a weakness for a thoroughbred horse, and his stallion was his pride and joy. He called it Lordship, and liked to say it was better bred than half the folk on the island. I thought the elders would have tarried to speak with him, but they were anxious to get their errand over and done with. Leaths flicked the reins and grunted “Hup now!” at his mare, both men nodding at Frazer in passing.
He called after them, “I hear a search party was got up for one of the caves at the Gobbins!”
Leath pulled the mare to a halt, and twisted round in his seat. “Aye, a boatful of men went round at first light.”
“Did they find what they were looking for?”
“They found the remains of a bonfire and some candle stubs in Lock’s Cave.”
“That’s all?”
“So far. But a watch is bein’ kept on the cave now.”
Frazer Bell dismounted and threw his reins at a post. “I should never have offered to take her to those caves,” he muttered to himself. “Why did I ever mention them?” He made haste indoors without giving me the time of day, a lack of civility which was unlike him. The stallion rolled his eyes, and I kept clear of them hooves as I skited round for a bucket by the turf stack. I pumped water into it, and threw the jacket in to soak, without taking time to pound at the stain. Then I shot back indoors to see what was happening.
Frazer Bell and Mister Sinclair were having a difference of opinion. Frazer wanted Mary Dunbar taken to her bedchamber to rest, whiles the minister preferred her to stay in the parlour where he could watch her. As for our guest, her trials had exhausted her, and she sat like one of the painted statues in a papish chapel.
“In the name of humanity, Mister Sinclair, she must be allowed to rest. The young lady can barely keep her eyes open. Making a peepshow of her in this fashion is unseemly, and taxes her strength.”
“How is she a peepshow? The only folk here are elders or members of the Haltridge household.”
“She’s about to keel over. Let her go to her bedchamber and close her eyes in peace for an hour, before you start parading every woman in Islandmagee who’s suspected of brewing up a few potions.”
“You’re taking this uncommon lightly, Frazer Bell. Witches are tools of the Devil, and witchcraft is a heinous transgression against God’s holy laws. Besides, you forget the evidence found at Lock’s Cave.”
“You call that evidence? Anybody can build a fire and light a candle. It signifies nothing.”
“I cannot agree with you, Bell. My primary concern is –”
Frazer cut in, “My primary concern is Mistress Dunbar. She’s on the brink of nervous exhaustion – the strain is too much for her health.” He spoke quietly, but his words carried force.
The minister reddened, his pockmarks standing out against the skin. “I have to consider the welfare of more than just one person – I have my parishioners to think about. Mistress Dunbar has named Hamilton Lock among her tormenters. That means something supernatural is afoot. And it’s my duty to do battle with it. But I daresay there’s no harm in her resting herself for a wee space of time. Mistress Haltridge, maybe you’d be good enough to assist your young relative to her bedchamber.”
I went forward to help: Mary Dunbar was weak, and needed one of us either side to arm her along. But as we came near the parlour threshold, she started clawing for air, thrappling and choking. I hammered on her back, and still she wheezed, the tears streaming. Finally we sat her back down, and she caught her breath, managing to spit out that she could not pass through the door. The witches forbade it. Why, she could not tell. Out of spite, like as not.
“When I try to get by, I feel a thumb pressed here, pushing the life out of me.”
“That’s your windpipe,” said Mister Sinclair. “Your air supply is being tampered with.” He raised his eyebrows at Frazer Bell, as much as to ask how he could doubt this was anything but witchcraft. “Friends, let us pass the time while we wait with another prayer.”
“No better way to spend an hour,” said Hugh Donaldson. “On the other hand, it might be no harm to take up the threshold. There could be a witch’s charm under it.”
Waiting goes hard on menfolk, who always like to be doing things. Even the minister brightened. Off went a couple of them to an outhouse to hoak round for some tools. The greyhounds were upset by them walking about the yard, making free with the place, and barked up a storm. But the men aimed a few kicks at the animals, fetched in what was needed, and set to work. After heaving and wrestling, with the minister giving orders and the other three men ignoring them (because he knowed nothing of hard work, though they’d never tell him so to his face) up came the threshold. And with it a smell of rotten eggs that would make your stomach heave. But there was no witch’s charm.
“It’s brimstone we’re smelling,” said Donaldson.
“Hell reeks like this,” said the minister. “Only a thousand times worse.”
I must have made a sound, because he fastened his eyes on me.
“Oh aye, not just brimstone,” he went on, “but the stench of singeing flesh fills the air in the Devil’s lair. The pain is excruciating, because miscreants know there can never, ever be any release from their torments.”
The thought of eternal damnation left me feeling queasy, so it did. Messy though it was, I had to hop out over the ripped-up threshold, to have a sup of water from the pump in the yard. I’d heard similar talk before. But the smell of brimstone in the parlour brought home the consequences of sin – and the fate in store for sinners – in a way no finger-pointing in a meeting-house could match.
As I was collecting myself, Jamesey and Sarah came striddling back from the Widow Patterson’s. I brought them into the parlour to their mama, where they grew big-eyed at the mess round the doorway.
“It must be nearly bedtime,” said the mistress.
“Mama, we haven’t had our supper yet,” protested Jamesey.
She sighed, and sent him and his sister to Peggy in the kitchen, with instructions to eat there. Frazer Bell went down, too, for a time – and from what I saw, running in and out, he managed to tease them out of their fears.
Still, the rattle of Joseph Esler’s cart in the yard perked everybody up, as a relief from the waiting. In came the elders with a scrawny, dark woman, well past middle years, mucky as a ploughed field after a week of downpours. Her greasy grey-brown hair was hanging loose, under a cap. After one panicky look at the assembled company, she dropped her eyes to the floor and folded her hands in under her armpits.
Mister Sinclair spoke slowly, in a loud voice. “Look up, woman. Let us see your face.” She did as she was bid, but her hair covered her cheeks. “Move your hair out of the way. It should be pinned up, not left to flap, inveigling men into sinful thoughts.”
Reluctantly, she pushed her hair aside with her left hand. A gasp went up from the onlookers. She was exactly as Mary Dunbar had said: one side of her face was melted by the fire from forehead to neck.
Mister Sinclair turned towards the young lady, who was shrinking back into her seat. “Is this one of your oppressors?”
“Yes, she’s a witch. One of the women who meet in the cave. Keep her away from me. Hold her back, I implore you!”
“What have you to say for yourself, woman?”
The accused peered at him, confused. “Please, your honour, I dinna ken why I be here. The gentlemen on’y said you wanted for to see me.”
“It’s this young lady wants to see you. And she has seen all she needs. You have been found out, you devil’s handmaiden. You have been dabbling in witchcraft, which is an outrage against God and makes spittle of the dew of His Grace.” He nodded at the elders standing either side of her. “The kirk has exposed her wickedness. She must be punished.”
The woman stretched out her hands towards Mister Sinclair, clawing at the air in front of his chest. “I ken nothin’ of witchcraft, your honour. As true as God I dinna. Beck
y Carson is me name. I come from a decent family. We was never in no trouble.”
The minister narrowed his eyes. “Enough of these false protests. You must confess your misdeeds publicly or divine punishment will be fearful. ’Tis your only hope.”
“Your honour, I says me prayers mornin’ and night. I bain’t a witch. God knows I bain’t.”
“Mary Dunbar has denounced you for your abomination. Now it’s up to the civil authorities to deal with you. You’ll be handed over to the Constable.”
She fell to her knees at this. “Dinna turn me over to the Constable, I beg you. He’ll put me in gaol and I’ll never set foot in me own wee cottage again. Please, your honour, I done nothin’ wrong.”
It was a pitiful sight.
Bob Holmes cleared his throat. “She’s on’y a poor aul’ woman.”
“Slothfulness begets poverty,” said the minister.
“So does old age, an’ bein’ left on your own.”
“She was the cruellest of them all,” whimpered Mary Dunbar. “She has a dirk – she sharpens the blade every day. She stuck it in my leg up to the hilt, and laughed at my screams. Don’t let her hurt me again. She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But she’s vicious.”
The House Where It Happened Page 12
