I hurried through the maze of tree trunks, the sound of wild cockerel squawking in my ears. It was dark, with only shards of silver light filtering down through the outstretched arms of canopy. It was cold and the skin on my face prickled with the chill. My boots stumbled over roots and small saplings. I could feel the rumble of horse hooves coming through the earth beneath me like a mild tremble. They would not know where to start looking. The meadow was surrounded by wooded forest on three sides. My mind was rolling like a cloud formation ahead of me, waiting for me to catch up.
My father’s letter had completely renounced his confession to the charge of witchcraft, explaining the hand that the torture had played in his admission, and he had told me to flee. The letter would condemn me as an accomplice in the eyes of the law. It had been smuggled out of the prison house, a crime in itself. The Hexenbischof would see it as solid grounds for my detainment and questioning. His Suffragan, Bishop Freidrich Forner, was close on our heels and he was infamous for his cruelty and vigour in hunting down alleged witches.
We ran, stumbling over ourselves, deeper and deeper into the thick of the vast forest. I could hear the whisper and hum of life in the woods around us and felt that we were burrowing into a living creature. I wasn’t altogether sure whether it was friendly or not.
KATHERINE
RENFREWSHIRE, SCOTLAND, 1696
Aye, I was jittery something fierce. In the kitchen the other two maids were sharing summery gossip. I tried to ignore them but was distracted from the accounts, receipts and expenses of the household that had fallen to me as soon as the laird of the house discovered I could read and work simple numbers. I was paid an extra few shillings a month for the responsibility. Nay, I was distracted because outside the window in the cobbled courtyard, the girl, Christian Shaw, played and sang a repetitive nursery rhyme. I told myself to think nothing of it but it sounded, with the smug, high-pitched wail, like it was directed straight at me and the girl kept looking up to the window where I worked, making sure that I was listening.
Last night there was a murder in a fish shop
A wee dog stole a haddie bone
A big dog tried to take it off her
So I hit it with a tattie scone.
It was a harmless enough ditty and one that I had heard sung as far away as Argyll, so I banished it from my head and went back to my sums. But it was the niggling idea of the ditty and the reference to last night and a murder. It was a wee bit sinister. I took some comfort in the knowledge that I had sneaked some honeyed candies to Christian after her morning repast so, to my mind, our score was even.
‘M’Lady,’ Isabel said, bobbing into a neat curtsey, showing the top of her bonnet, as the laird’s wife, the Lady Shaw, waltzed into the room wearing a dove-grey bodice over scarlet-red skirts, showing off her new leaner lines after birthing her last bairn, not more than two months earlier. I looked up at her.
She would have been a beauty in her day and still carried herself so, although her clean fierce profile had softened into a sag around the jawline and her eyes had the beginning of cobwebbed lines in their corners.
‘Isabel, dear,’ she said in her fine polished voice, so smooth compared to us rugged sisters from the Highlands with our thick brogue and tail of the old tongue. ‘Tonight we will sup on lamb with ginger sauce. Have one of the boys slaughter two of the lambs in the second paddock. The good Reverend Brisbane is coming down from Kilmacolm to dine with us.’
I looked up sharply from my inkpot at the familiarity of the name just in time to catch the woman’s turning eye and pointed glare.
‘And you, Katherine,’ she said sternly. ‘Christian tells me she came across you during one of her frightful night wanderings and caught you stealing milk, and not for the first time.’
I began to stammer out a protestation of innocence but caught it fast. It was best, I decided, to confess such a slight misdemeanour. ‘I am sorry, M’Lady,’ I whispered, sounding most contrite. ‘I woke with a terrible thirst and felt a mild fever coming on, so I just drank the first thing I found in the dark.’
‘I will have the laird dock your pay this week and should it happen again he will take a whip to you.’
Later in the day, Agnes Naismith came to the back gate behind the laundry outhouse. She asked for entry and limped her arthritic frame across the courtyard, stopping to have words with the two little girls playing jumprope there. I looked up from my papers and, worried that the woman would unfold some evidence of the night before, I stood up fast and quickly asked my sister for a small offering for the old beggar.
‘She was here not two days ago and I gave her some fish and bread,’ Isabel grumbled. ‘With the harvests as bad as they have been and the outbreak of footrot in the cattle, the laird is hard-pressed to be handing out charity so regular. Tell her she’s not the only one struggling. Tell her to begone.’
I sighed, nodded and wiped my ink-stained fingers on my outer work-skirt before skipping down the stairs, making my way to the crone and the children.
‘Are you here for charity, good woman?’ I asked hurriedly, shooing away Christian and her younger sister who both ignored me and stood firm, the skipping rope dropped between them to the ground.
‘No,’ the old woman replied dryly from a sunken mouth devoid of half her teeth. ‘They gave me the tiniest morsel of fish the other day. I was right offended. How’s that to feed me and my good husband? It was no more than a few scales each.’
‘You and your old Tom have arms and hands, don’t you?’ Christian stated boldly, her little petals of hands on her hips, her blue eyes blazing in the sunlight. ‘What’s stopping you from catching your own fish? You live on the river after all.’
‘The impertinence of the child,’ Agnes sang in a voice that mimicked a whistle. ‘I just came to pay my respects to the household and enquire after the new bairn. What is she now, three months of age?’
‘Two!’ Christian quickly corrected her.
‘Quiet, child,’ I spoke harshly, my temper flaring in the midday sun, tacked on to my sensitivity and repressed guilt at the appearance of the old Agnes Naismith, who might so easily say the wrong thing and dump me in a bog of trouble. ‘I’ve not forgiven you yet for clyping to your mother over the milk, lassie.’
‘Stealing is a sin.’ The little girl smiled a buttery smile that made me want to whip her. ‘It’s the eighth commandment. Thou shalt not steal.’
That was it. My nerve snapped and I shot a hard stare at the girl.
‘You are not my judge, child,’ I hissed. ‘And if you clype on me again to your mammy, then may the devil haul your soul to Hell.’
The two little girls laughed behind their hands, wilfully, precociously. There was nothing else to do that might pull them to heel, so I gave a useless sigh and turned my attention back to the beggar woman.
‘That is well of you to come and pay your good wishes,’ I said, shepherding the old woman back toward the gate.
As we walked the old woman spoke low. ‘Be warned, girlie,’ Agnes said. ‘Ambition is sin also and that young man you court is above you in station. Young John is not the tailor that he pretends. And not a Campbell, either.’
‘Hush, woman,’ I cautioned, throwing a look over my shoulder toward the girls. ‘You endanger us all by coming here.’
‘I come here as often as most others,’ she said.
‘And I know he is not a real Campbell. He has told me …’
‘But you endanger your own heart if you fall in with him. He cannot ever marry the likes of you, lassie. He doesn’t speak that way, like a toff, for no reason. The lad’s the son of an earl, he is, and risks his title and his head for mixing with the upstarts. He’s got more to lose than you and will not be able to dally with you until the rightful Crown is restored. That may take many years – more than I have left in me.’
I stopped, bristling at the words and wonder
ing. My John Campbell, an earl? I could scarcely believe it and it frightened me that I had let myself be drawn to him without such knowledge. It would indeed be folly to chase the heart of a nobleman, me, an underling from the wild and craggy Highlands. I could feel my face contorting in on itself like a child resisting its medicine, but I fought the urge to cry in front of the old woman. I had thrown all my hopes into one basket.
‘You needed to be forewarned,’ the old woman hissed. ‘But still he asks to see you this Friday in the Kings Arms in High Street just after midday.’ Then Agnes slipped through the gate. She ambled and shuffled back down the pathway covered with trellises and blanketed with jasmine, her hand on her hip as she walked the walk of a half-cripple.
The Kings Arms was an alehouse of ill repute and I had heard tell of it. Fights broke out there often and it was not the sort of place in which a young lass ought to be seen. In the midst of my disappointment I was already imagining cloaking myself well before slipping anonymously into the salubrious den of iniquity. I was still not well-known enough in these parts to warrant too much concern. Friday was my regular day off and six full days away but, despite my disappointment that the handsome John was no long-term match for me, I still prickled with a smile that he was seeking out my company. We had spent most of my free days up on Fir Park Hill. It had become a place that was special to both of us and I hoped we would continue to share those moments of laughter and knowing smiles even if there was no future for us.
But it was not to be. I was never to make that meeting because, that Tuesday, Christian Shaw began her fits and hallucinations and no one in the house was allowed to go to town for fear that it was contagious. The child shook and convulsed and spoke in tongues, her eyes bulging and her tongue out almost over her nose. Then she would go limp. She spoke of demons and acted as if imps were pinching her. No one had seen anything quite like it. It put the chills through my bones; I did not like it at all.
You see, just as I had known in my intuitive belly that John Campbell would change the direction of my life, I began to suffer the terror that the compass-arrow of fate was now pointing toward an altogether unthinkable outcome. I had heard things. Disturbing things. I had heard the Reverend Brisbane read a book to the child some time back and it seemed the fits were an awful lot like those suffered by little girls in the terrible tale he told.
PAISLEY
BUNDANOON, AUSTRALIA, PRESENT DAY
No part of me wanted to go to school this morning. Mum had stayed in bed and wasn’t opening the shop. She had offered me a day off as well, but I had decided that sometimes facing a problem head-on was preferable to hiding away to let the thing fester. I had suggested to Mum that she dry her tears, put some cucumber on her swollen eyes, open shop and go about business as normal to show the world that the accusations were groundless. But she decided to stay shut and work on her job as organiser of the inaugural Winter Solstice Festival. There were only a few months to go and still so much to do.
‘No one is answering the phone,’ she had grumbled from the plumped up cushions on her bed. ‘And they’re not returning my calls.’
I’d thrown on my uniform, grabbed my bag and set off to the busy little hive at the railway gates, where the Moss Vale bus collected us every morning at five past eight. I’d set my jaw, kept my expression blank and walked calmly toward the bus, ignoring the intense nods of acknowledgement from shop owners and local joggers who passed me as I walked down the main street. I could see the questioning, the sympathy and the disgust in every eye. Overnight I had gone from mildly boring Paisley Muller-McLeod, to the local trending topic of the day. The news of the awful accusation against my mother had clearly spread to every hidden corner of the tiny township. It was malicious and scandalous and untrue. But it was golden currency in the world of gossip.
A couple of hours later I am sitting in the quad eating my lunch, avoiding the stares from other students because now the thing has done the rounds of the school as well. My best friend Emily is away. She texted me this morning to say she had a sore throat. I had tossed up whether to tell her what was going on or not and had decided to wait until we could talk face to face. I’ll talk to her tomorrow. By then she will probably have heard it from someone else.
‘Hey there,’ says a voice from above and behind me.
I turn and nearly choke on my falafel and hummus wrap. Ben Digby is standing beside me, casting a shadow over me from his tall body. I nod but cannot speak through the mouthful of my wrap lodged in my throat. He wasn’t on the bus this morning and I didn’t even realise he was at school today.
‘Can I sit down?’ he asks, and I nod, eyes watering as I gulp and force the soggy wad of food down my throat. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay. I had a dentist appointment before school. That’s why I wasn’t on the bus.’
I nod again and take a deep breath while he continues to talk. ‘I know you know that everyone’s talking about this thing with your mother,’ he says, cutting straight to it, not stopping for some general chitchat.
‘L-look,’ I stammer. ‘It’s a mistake. It’s that Hooper family. They’ve got it in for my mother …’
‘So it didn’t happen?’ he asks, looking surprised. ‘She didn’t put a spell on him? Didn’t turn him into a jabbering toad?’ He laughs and I immediately relax.
‘She really isn’t that sort of witch.’ I smile back. ‘She’s a psychic healer. There’s a difference.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says and touches my hand. He actually touches my hand! ‘I’m sure the kid was confused. They call your mother the white witch of Bundanoon, but I’m not stupid. I know there’s no such thing as witches.’
‘I really don’t want to be talking about this, you know?’ I say, putting my head down, staring at his hand on my hand, feeling the burn, the thrill and the tingle. ‘It’s not easy for me that everyone is talking about it. I hate all this attention. I’m … I’m …’
‘Shy?’ he ventures.
‘Something like that, I guess.’ I shrug. ‘I just don’t like being the centre of attention. It feels creepy and awkward.’
I watch as three girls cross the quad and giggle, looking our way, and I wonder if I am just being paranoid or whether they know.
‘Well, I just hope no one’s giving you a hard time about it,’ Ben says, and I nod without meeting his eyes. ‘Do you maybe want to come to a thing I’m having on Saturday night? It’s just the usual suspects. You know, the locals. Nothing special. Just some music and pizza.’
I look up at him, now, curious to see the expression on his face. Is he asking me along because he feels sorry for me or because he’s interested in me in a romantic way? I’ve never been to Ben’s place. He looks nervous. I give him an awkward smile. ‘Sure, I mean, I don’t think I’ve got plans,’ I say, my voice coming out a few notes higher than usual. ‘What time?’
‘’Bout seven?’ he says with a shrug. ‘Cool. Well, I’ll see you on the bus this afternoon, okay?’
I feel a buzz of insects in my belly. He is ridiculously handsome. Tall, broad and with a perfectly symmetrical face, dark eyes and dark hair with a cowlick. When he smiles, two dimples punctuate his cheeks. I melt a little. And then he is gone, just a uniformed figure moving away, dissolving into a herd of shapes.
Later in English I’m sitting, head down trying to ignore the strange looks I’m getting and the feeling that every furtive whisper is about the drama. It’s no surprise that Isaiah Hooper is not at school today. I’m not sure how I would have reacted if he had been. I really feel a lot of anger toward him for letting his parents use him like this. I’m sure, one hundred per cent sure, that my mother is completely innocent and that his mother has put him up to it. Or maybe he’s just putting on an act to get out of school. It is exam time.
I haven’t bothered seeking out any company from anyone today. Usually, Emily and I just talk about stuff or we’ll go and sit wit
h Sophie and Bec, the Bundaloonies as we like to call ourselves. Today, though, it all feels rather awkward and embarrassing, as if I’m walking around with my dress tucked into my undies or something.
There’s one guy at school who everyone hates: Liam Chandling. Actually, that’s not completely accurate. There are a handful of kids who like him, though I can’t imagine why. He’s dating Ben Digby’s ex, Lara McDermont, the wannabe princess, this week. Liam is brash, arrogant and the sort of boy who would torture small animals as a hobby. A bully. So I am hardly surprised when he stops at my desk in the last class before Mr Funder calls for silence.
‘Heard your mum’s a witch. Can’t she do a spell or something to fix that head of yours?’ he hisses down at me.
I look up at him. I want so desperately to push the desk at him, hard, taking him by surprise and knocking him back, but I just glare, daring him to continue, praying that he won’t.
‘What’s she done to poor Isaiah Hooper? Turned him into a parrot, I’ve heard. She must have some strong powers,’ he goes on. I feel my face getting hot. ‘Hey, I might make an appointment to see if she can give me a potion to make me irresistible to women! Oh … that’s right. I already am.’
I keep it together. I feel like I am about to erupt into tears. I want to run from the room, bawling like a baby, but then he would win. I will not let Liam Chandling do that to me. I give him exactly what he deserves, which is nothing. I stay silent. My eyes are stinging and my cheeks prickle but I continue to glare at him from the burn of my face. I count silently to distract me from the hatred in his eyes.
I think of Mum. She drives me mad most of the time with her frivolous fluff. Her head is in the clouds. She lives in a fairyland and it is more than frustrating. All my life I have been surrounded by incense and crystals. I have been raised in some kind of a shrine to the Great Goddess and the background soundtrack of my short life has been a nonstop chant of Om. When I was little I loved my mother’s tales of fairies and magic. I really believed that we were powerful creatures, separate from everyone else and somehow special. She talks about the mitochondria, the female bloodline, as if we are descended from royalty.
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