Keeping’ the stick in the wud man’s e’e.
(Keeping an argument going too long.)
It was late before Sorcha was finally able to go home. The sun had long since set and the wind had picked up, bringing with it a touch of frost as well as the melancholy sigh of the ocean and the smell of peat, fish and other reminders of comfort. An argument erupted from within a house, a lone bird shrilled. Smoke obscured the stars, but Sorcha knew they were there. It was the first night in ages there were no clouds. If she was up to it, she would try and see the starlight later, offer a few prayers for her family and the poor lad who lay stricken.
Sorcha had raised the doctor, but returned to the Mortons only to be denied entry. Joining the curious throng waiting outside for news, she was there when the reverend forced his way through and was admitted immediately. To her dismay, the bucket had been removed — to where, she dared not ask. Gossip was rife already. Talk of a wicked charm spread. Some of the folk had been inside and seen Peter laid on his bed. Sorcha didn’t need to ask how he fared, it was on everyone’s lips.
‘His face was unrecognisable,’ said Hetty Collins, the butcher’s wife, rubbing her gnarled hands together. ‘All twisted and ferocious.’ She pulled her mouth and widened her eyes to demonstrate.
‘Aye, and his chest was like a barrel, fit to burst.’
Sorcha couldn’t see who was speaking, only hear the glee.
‘It isn’t natural,’ said Hetty, shaking her head, clutching her little girl to her skirts.
‘Soon as the reverend heard,’ said young Rachel Johnson, a friend of Cowper’s eldest lass, ‘he declared it the result of malice, as God is his witness, he said.’
‘Maliss?’ asked Hetty’s daughter. Sorcha tried to remember her name. ‘What’s that mean, ma?’
‘Witchcraft, Mary,’ whispered Hetty, the colour draining from her face just as excitement filled her eyes. ‘Witchcraft.’
The mutterings and murmurs became a solid roar. Sorcha refused to listen. Instead, she waited for news of Peter, anything that might reassure her he was going to be all right. But as evening fell, the word spread and more people gathered, many clutching candles and lanterns. The chatter about witchcraft grew, until Sorcha could bear it no more. When Hetty and Mary went home, she departed as well, quietly, keeping to the shadows.
Exhausted, she hooked her creel over her shoulders. Grateful no one had seen fit to steal the catch as it lay on the street for a couple of hours, she no longer cared it wasn’t fresh and bore traces of dirt. She was famished and heartsore. None of this boded well.
For the first time that day she wished Nettie was staying the night so she might discuss what had happened. What she knew she must do before the sun rose, no matter what, was warn Beatrix. The charm the woman must have placed at the smithy to frighten Peter Morton had done more than intended. If it was discovered Beatrix was responsible, there’d be hell to pay.
Malice, the reverend called it. Nae, it wasn’t malice, nor the witchcraft Hetty and others believed it denoted. Just a foolish prank played by an old woman designed to teach a lad civility.
She’d only just reached her road when a voice came out of the shadows.
‘I thought I told you, it’s not safe to wander the streets at night.’
Startled at first, Sorcha was relieved when she saw Captain Ross approaching. Her hand dropped from her breast. ‘You’re making a habit of alarming me, captain.’
‘Not half as much as you scared me the last time we spoke. I swear there were lightning bolts shooting from those eyes of yours.’ He reached her side. ‘Once again, I’m sorry if I unnerved you, it wasn’t my intention.’
‘Nor was it mine to frighten you,’ said Sorcha quickly, before she could change her mind. ‘I apologise for what I said the other day. I was just so angry — not at you, but at the corporal, at the situation. I forced my way into where you’re staying and… and…’ She searched for words. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d already seen to it that Bel and the bairn would be taken care of. I should have known you’d do something like that. Please forgive me.’
Captain Ross smiled at her. ‘You were forgiven before you’d even finished, lass. You were right to be mad — at me. Corporal Varner was my responsibility and I should have watched him more closely.’
‘Aye, well, Bel Courie should have thought twice before bedding an incomer, a soldier as well.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s the bairn I really feel for… And now there’s this —’ She nodded in the direction of Routine Row.
They both stared up the street. The glow from the candlelight vigil outside the Morton house could just be seen, a faint aura above the rooftops.
‘I saw you coming away from there and wondered if you knew what was going on,’ said the captain. ‘The villagers in the tavern are full of talk. Something about the Morton lad and an evil charm.’
Sorcha sighed. ‘Aye, well, I think it’s a bit more complicated than that.’
‘It usually is. Here,’ said the captain. ‘Let me take that.’
Before she could protest, he lifted the creel, helping her with the straps that sat across her shoulders. Free of the weight, Sorcha rolled her neck. ‘Thank you. It’s heavier now than it was a few hours ago, but I think that’s because there’s now a greater weight in here.’ She touched her heart.
Captain Ross followed the direction of her hand then quickly looked away.
Embarrassed lest he think she tried to draw his gaze deliberately, Sorcha began to walk again. The captain fell into step beside her. Whereas Peter Morton had been of a height, the captain was much taller. She was aware of his broad form, a wall between her and the darkness beyond. When she didn’t immediately talk, he touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘You know, Mrs McIntyre, I find a burden shared is one halved. I’d be honoured to help lighten what you evidently carry.’ When she didn’t reply, he bent his head. ‘A complication can oft be made simple once described.’
Wanting to explain what had happened, even if only to herself, she quickly filled him in on Peter’s fit, omitting the part about what she knew the bucket contained and who she strongly suspected had put it there. She told him what the villagers were already saying, the conclusions they were leaping to. He listened without interrupting.
When she finished, he nodded gravely. ‘And do you think there is a charm involved?’ he asked.
Sorcha forced a smile. ‘I don’t really believe in such things.’
‘If that’s so, then why are you so worried? Why do you fear a complication? Surely there’ll be others see it as you do?’
They’d reached her door. Already dreading being alone, she was tempted to invite him in so she might pour out her heart, share her qualms; but she couldn’t afford to attract more gossip and innuendo, not now. She needed to think about what to do about Beatrix and the charm; think about how she, Nettie and the others could counter any accusations against her.
‘I hope so, captain, but the Weem be a place where superstition is sown, not just into the soil, but flows in the veins.’ Shaking herself, she remembered where she was and to whom she was talking. ‘I thank you for your kindness, for listening to me. I’m simply worried about Peter; he’s clearly very ill. He hurt himself badly when he fell. As for talk of a charm…’ She looked towards the kirk, then in the direction of the Mortons’ house. ‘It’s a nonsense. The boy was beset with apoplexy or some such thing. There is no malfeasance involved.’
‘I never credited it for a moment,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve been here long enough to know that while malice may not have been intended, it’s often how others read these things. The folk here seem to have a fascination for bewitchment and such — as you say, it’s in the blood. There’s a history of it in Pittenweem.’
‘Aye, there is — of accusations and burnings, though not for a number of years, thank the Lord. Nevertheless, some make a habit of seeing malevolence where none is intended. It suits their purpose, whatever it might be.’ She glanced towards the kirk once more before averting her eyes, fearing she’d already said too much.
They stood outside her house. Light from the neighbours’ windows allowed her to see the crags and planes of the captain’s face. He was a foreign country, a mystery part of her wished she could unravel. Gazing up at him, she exhaled quietly. Dear God, but the man invited peculiar thoughts into her head. Next, she’d be writing poetry or singing songs to dead lovers.
Dead lovers. Aye, well, she had one of those, only — was Andy really a lover? Loved, well, she’d loved him as much as she could. But he was not what she ever imagined a lover could be.
She shook herself out of her thoughts, wishing the heat that rose inside her would dissipate, and recalled what the captain just said. He was right. It was how Reverend Cowper and the rest of the Weem would read the bucket and coal that would dictate the fate of the person who put it there — they and Peter Morton, who, as they stood talking, lay in his bed, sickened.
Or, as others believed, bewitched; the victim of malfeasance…
‘Thank you for seeing me home, captain. And thank you for your kind offer. If ever I need to share another burden, I won’t forget it.’ What he didn’t know was she’d no intention of telling him anything more. He was an incomer and, as her da always said, fisherfolk stuck together — through good times and bad. Only, she couldn’t recall the last time things were good.
‘Be sure you don’t,’ said the captain.
She wished she could think of something else to say, a reason not to go inside. While she didn’t want to share her fears for Beatrix, she was enjoying his company and would keep him there. But there was no reason. With a small curtsey, she went to the door.
‘Mrs McIntyre,’ said the captain.
Sorcha turned. ‘Aye?’ He was right behind her.
‘I can say something to Mrs Laing if you wish — tell her what’s happened.’ He jerked his chin towards the dim light.
‘Mrs Laing?’ Dear God, why did he raise Beatrix’s name? She hadn’t mentioned her, had she? If the captain knew she’d placed the bucket and coal outside the smithy, then so must half the village. ‘Why would you wish to tell Mrs Laing anything?’ She hoped her dread wasn’t apparent in the question.
Captain Ross stood so near, she could smell him. A hint of whisky, sweat and a musky odour that made her think of bathing in the ocean, drying before firelight and hazy summer days.
He lowered his face towards hers and for one mad moment, she thought he might kiss her. Her heart beat frantically against her ribs. Her cheeks burned. ‘Because,’ his breath was hot against her ear, ‘I saw her talking to the Morton lad only yesterday and she didn’t seem very happy.’ He drew his face away slowly and gazed at her intently. ‘I wasn’t the only one. I thought it might be good for her to know what’s happened, lest people read something they should not into their conversation.’
‘I see.’ Sorcha’s mind whirled. The sooner Beatrix found out what had occurred, how Peter reacted to her charm, the better. It might be too late by morning. God knows what the reverend might do. Might make others do. And, if Sorcha was seen talking to Beatrix, what conclusions would then be drawn? Before she could change her mind, she gripped his hand. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Aye. It would be grand if you could tell her. Now, if that’s possible.’
‘Consider it done,’ said the captain.
‘But please,’ said Sorcha, her grip tightening, ‘don’t let anyone see you.’
‘If I don’t want them to, they won’t.’ He made no effort to leave.
She felt he’d more to say. She waited. The evening enveloped and protected them; the ocean whispered. The stars she’d longed to see sparkled above; the moon floated into view, casting its radiance over everything. Would that they could remain there forever, locked in moonlight and shadows, caressed by the salty breeze from the sea while the world outside passed them by.
Before she could think of a reason to detain him, he stepped away, forcing her fingers to drop, bringing her to her senses. He bowed and turned, swallowed swiftly by the darkness.
It was just as he promised. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see him.