The proof o’ the pudding’s the preein’ o’t.
(Don’t form judgements without some knowledge.)
Sorcha was dreaming of her mor. Her long barley-coloured hair was unbound and she was standing at the water’s edge, arms outstretched, laughing, facing the Forth. Her smile was wide, her pale blue eyes sparkled, making her look like one of her Nordic goddesses descended from the sky. She was calling to her, but the gentle murmurs of the ocean and the wind stole the words from her mouth and transformed them into cloudy wisps. Sorcha wanted to share her mother’s unexpected joy, fly into those arms, feel the loving embrace she’d always imagined. But as she tried to make her way forwards, her mor’s face changed. Those eyes the colour of a summer morning widened in terror. Her beautiful mouth pulled back in a grimace of sheer horror. The sea, so hushed before, transformed into a mighty swell. A giant wave, starting beyond the Isle of May, became a solid wall that raced towards the Weem, towards her mor. She shouted a warning, screamed as, instead of fleeing, her mother lowered her arms, raised her chin and shut her eyes. The wave, a tower of deadly might, soared up and up before it folded, down, down, down, crashing upon the sand, the darkening shore, upon her mor, and in great, greedy gulps took all of Pittenweem with it…
‘Sorcha, for God’s sake, wake up.’
It took her a moment to cease flailing, before she understood her mother wasn’t being swept up and drowned, the village wasn’t being destroyed. She was in her bedroom.
‘Nettie.’ Sorcha sat up, untangling herself from the covers, looking around blinking. ‘I was having a dream…’
‘Dream?’ said Nettie, propped on the edge of the bed. ‘Was a nightmare if you ask me.’ She appraised her friend. ‘What are you doing asleep at this time of day?’
Sorcha rubbed her eyes. ‘I didn’t sleep much after yesterday, what with Beatrix and all. And we were up so early this morning and then the catch…’ Her voice trailed away. Intending to simply rest her head when she came home, she could scarce believe she’d fallen into such a deep sleep.
‘Aye, it was a sorry showing,’ said Nettie, standing and throwing Sorcha’s skirt at her. ‘Now, get dressed, you sloven.’ Nettie went into the main room.
Sorcha heard her rummaging around with the pots.
‘Come on. I’ve news,’ she called.
Sorcha ran her hands through her hair and plucked her shift away from her body. She was sweaty and her heart was still racing. Aye, it was no dream she had. Dreams were what you held close to keep away the sorrows of the day; they were not meant to make the reality of living worse. Try as she might, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of the destructive wave, how it took out the whole town…
Throwing back the covers, she went to the dresser and plunged her hands in the icy water, splashing her face. Whipping off her shift, she dragged a wet cloth over her body, her skin goosing, her nipples hardening.
‘Can you stoke the fire?’ asked Sorcha, drying herself and searching for a clean shift and the clothes she’d been wearing. Still shivering, she pulled her skirt off the bed and climbed into it, fastening the button at the back.
‘Already done,’ answered Nettie. ‘I’m heating some milk for you.’
Sorcha bundled her hair and pinned it back into place. Gazing at herself in the mirror, she noted the haunted look she’d borne when she first arrived had all but gone. Even if she didn’t feel like it, she was looking more like her old self — not the self Andy wed or the one who lost Davan, but before her da, Erik and ma died. Before Robbie went as well. Older, aye, but hopefully wiser, and able to weather the storms that came with living in the Weem.
She sensed one brewing now. That was the message her mor was giving her. The purple crescents under her own eyes and the glint of uncertainty behind them told her the same.
‘What news do you have?’ she asked as she left the bedroom. There was a soft afternoon light. She’d slept for longer than she thought. At least the drizzle had ceased.
Passing her a warm cup of milk, Nettie indicated a stool by the hearth. ‘You need to sit down.’
Sorcha’s ribs grew tight. ‘What is it? Beatrix?’
Nettie sat opposite her and gave a terse nod. ‘Aye. We need to be prepared.’
‘What for?’ asked Sorcha, her mouth growing dry but unable to drink. The lone cry of a shearwater broke the stillness.
‘The worst,’ said Nettie bluntly. ‘Katherine’s spoken to the bailies.’
A lance of dread pierced Sorcha’s chest as she held the quaich of warm milk Nettie had poured her. ‘The bailies? What for?’
Nettie shrugged. ‘To report what Beatrix told us yesterday.’
‘What? Why?’ Sorcha’s mind galloped. A shadow passed the window, there were voices. Did folk know what Beatrix had done? Was her name on everyone’s tongue?
Nettie let out a long sigh. ‘There was nothing Beatrix said while I was there that was worth reporting to anyone, let alone the authorities. But, Sorcha, Katherine Marshal went to Cowper, who summoned the bailies and made her repeat what she’d told him.’
‘What did she tell him?’ asked Sorcha quietly.
Nettie’s eyes locked on her. ‘That’s why I’m here. What exactly did Beatrix say to you about Peter Morton after I left that made Katherine run to Cowper?’
She tried to recall what was said. ‘She… she said that Peter brought his sickness upon himself — that it was his ill-tongue that attracted… Dear God.’ Sorcha gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She stared at Nettie in despair, then slowly lowered her fingers so she could finish. ‘That attracted an evil spirit.’
Nettie’s head fell into her hands. After a moment, she raised her face. ‘You ken what this means?’
Beatrix had admitted that Peter Morton was bewitched; that a malevolent spirit possessed him. And now Cowper and the bailies knew.
‘Aye.’ Suddenly, Sorcha saw her dream for what it was, a premonition of the worst kind. ‘Will they arrest her again?’ she asked.
‘If they haven’t already. It’s only a matter of time.’ Nettie reached over, scrambling for Sorcha’s hand. She didn’t need to say more. Sorcha heard her as clearly as if she’d said it out loud. It was only a matter of time for them all.
‘Why’d she do it?’ asked Nettie.
For a moment, Sorcha was uncertain whether she meant Beatrix or Katherine. Sorcha shrugged. ‘Maybe she thinks it will help Beatrix?’ Nettie shot her a look of disbelief. ‘Maybe she thinks it will remove any suspicion from her. I don’t know. I don’t have the answer.’
Snatches of conversations, images of Beatrix, her anger when Peter wouldn’t sell nails to her, the bucket, the coal, Peter collapsing, and Reverend Cowper paraded through Sorcha’s mind. Then they were replaced by one of a tall man on a grey horse, with dark eyes and a captivating grin. It was Nettie who once told her the captain was there to protect the women of Pittenweem — not from rogue waves rising out of dark depths, but from the men. She’d meant the incomers, the billeted soldiers. And he’d done that. But what was to stop the captain from protecting them from their own? Had he not invited her to share the burden she was carrying when he found her after the Morton lad was struck down?
As much as she was loath to do so, perhaps it was time to take him at his word and ask him for help again.
‘Nettie,’ she said, standing. She finished her milk and left the cup by the hearth. ‘We have to find Captain Ross.’
‘Why? What can he do?’ said Nettie. Her shoulders were slumped, her face pinched.
‘What he’s sworn to do — protect us.’
Nettie began to laugh, but there was no humour in it. ‘No one can protect us from Cowper. Not even God. As the reverend reminds us every kirk session — God is on his side.’
Sorcha swung her shawl around her shoulders, checked the pins in her hair and gave a grim smile. ‘Maybe he can’t protect us from Cowper’s God, but perhaps he can protect us from the man himself. But we won’t know if we don’t try. Haven’t you always said as much?’
She stood before Nettie and held out her hands.
Reluctantly, Nettie placed hers in them and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. ‘I have. I do. I just pray I’m not made to eat my words.’
As they left the house in search of Captain Ross, Sorcha prayed for that too.