He be a muckle sumph.
(He is a stupid person.)
Alexander McGregor was a simple man. A fisherman for as many years as he’d been alive on God’s good earth, he did his job, went to the kirk regularly and, if he enjoyed more than a dram or two each night in the tavern and within his own four walls, God would forgive him.
All the same, he couldn’t help but think on Reverend Cowper’s words that Sunday. For months now, the reverend had spoken of witchcraft and witches as if they were striding the streets of the village day and night. As if it was just a matter of time before the likes of Janet Cornfoot or those others who’d been accused ran amok and they were all killed in their beds — or worse, recruited into Satan’s dark army to wreak havoc. The very notion made Alexander shiver and pull the thin blanket tighter across his shoulders.
Still, what the reverend said that day made sense. Alexander couldn’t remember the drave ever being so poor. Admittedly, in years gone by the catch had been so bad they’d been forced to take the boats into the deeper waters, risking storms and high seas. But doing that made little difference any more. Inshore or out past the Isle of May, the silver darlings, cod and other fish were scarce. No wonder some of the fishwives had taken it upon themselves to wander the coast, seeking work where they could find it. They had to make a living too, didn’t they? There was barely enough work to sustain those who remained — those fishwives who’d no choice but to gut, sort and mend the nets beside the suspect witches. He shuddered at the thought of the danger those women were in.
His stomach growled. It did no good thinking about fish, about food. It reminded him of how empty his larder, his belly. Pouring himself another dram, he poked the fire, the peat crumbling and sending sparks and smoke into the room. At least he was warm, which was more than could be said for some. And there was the reverend, asking for donations to repair the pier again. What they’d managed to fix with the money gained from Thomas Brown’s seized property and the incomers gawking at the witches barely made a difference. And now that had dried up. Christ, folk could barely put food in their pots let alone part with coin to save rotting wood and crumbling stone, much as the village might need the damn pier fixed.
What if the reverend was right and all this ill-fortune wasn’t God’s will but Satan’s? What if witches were causing it, all while living and working beside them, pretending to be affable and godly while undermining everything with their charms and evil spells? Taking another swig of his drink, he thought about the women who’d been imprisoned in the Tolbooth. Some said they’d suffered greatly. He recalled how Beatrix Laing looked when she emerged from St Fillan’s Cave. He didn’t recognise her, so shrunken and pale had she become. Hard to believe it was the same carline who’d bark at you if you dared look at her twice. Nicolas Lawson had been carried out of the Tolbooth, the damage to her legs so great, some said she’d never walk again. Yet she did. How did she recover so well when he knew fishermen who’d been bitten from the frost to lose their limbs?
Filling his cracked quaich again, Alexander dwelled on the women. Why, that Sorcha McIntyre, for all she came out a bag of bones with her hair shorn, in a matter of weeks she looked bonnie again, bonnie enough that the captain bedded her — or so rumour had it. Same with Nettie Horseburgh. Nor had a spell in gaol softened that woman’s sharp tongue. According to Camron MacGille, it hadn’t blunted Janet Cornfoot’s either. She’d harangue and abuse whoever came to the cave to bring her sustenance. Mind you, if she was eating like him, kale and neep soup day in day out without the comfort of a fire, bed or whisky, no wonder she gave the guards a tongue-lashing.
He’d heard from the eldest Cowper lad that Margaret Jack and Lillie Wallace had left the Weem. Gordon Jack had gone with his wife and taken his long lines with him — a loss that would be hard to bear. Was that the witches’ intention, to make everyone in the Weem suffer? To make everyone blame God and each other before turning to their Dark Master? That’s what the reverend believed.
There was a shout outside followed by a short sharp scream. One of the Browning girls by the sound of it. She was always crying now she was wed to Gavan Wright. Fond of his ale and using his fists was the story. Another wail pierced the walls. He wished he could stopper up his ears. Maybe another dram would help.
Downing it quickly and refilling his cup, he stared at the amber fluid, aware of the fire burning on the periphery of his vision. A movement outside his window forced his head up. There were hushed voices. They reminded him of something…
Rain began to fall, gently at first, then it hammered the window, turning the sky dark, blocking out the light shining from the house across the way. The fire guttered briefly and shadows loomed. Not long until Hogmanay again. The last one had been bitter as well. And there’d been showers — right plouts as he recalled. What he didn’t remember was being quite so hungry, so cold and maudlin…
He’d invited Isobel Adam to come to his house last Hogmanay to mend some of his shirts. Difficult to credit she was one of the witches, pretty little golden-haired thing. She’d been in the kirk today and all. He’d caught her staring at Peter Morton, a peculiar expression on her face. An expression that plucked at his memory…
Alexander sat up suddenly, whisky spilling over the lip of his cup. He sucked it off his hand. Try as hard as he could, he never remembered opening his door to Isobel. First he recalled was waking to find her standing over him. He’d grabbed her. She’d screamed and run out before he could reassure her he meant no harm. She’d just frightened him, that’s all.
But what if it was more than that?
Isobel had been holding a needle and a piece of fabric. Screwing his eyes shut, he was sure what she’d actually been holding was a doll, a doll bearing his likeness that she was about to prick with that long needle.
His eyes opened.
She hadn’t just screamed, had she? Words had spilled out of her mouth. Frantic, hurried words that, try as he might, he couldn’t follow nor understand. Gibberish, it was. With a thundering heart, he remembered… there were coal-black figures cavorting behind her. He’d assumed it was the fire throwing shapes against the wall, but what if there was another explanation?
He became ice-cold before a raging heat filled his veins. She’d been casting a spell on him. That was why nothing had gone right for him all year, or for the rest of the crew on the boat that employed him. If he thought about it, he wagered he could pinpoint all the bad in his life to that night — Hogmanay.
Hogmanay and Isobel Adam.
Alexander leaned forward and stared at the smouldering peat, trying his hardest to recollect everything. Reverend Cowper’s words from a Sunday a few weeks ago overlaid the images that were dancing about his head; they mingled with the warnings the reverend had repeated that very morning. ‘Nae person shall seek any help from or consult with any users of witchcraft… on pain of death.’
Leaping to his feet, Alexander finished his drink and reached for his coat. He had to tell someone what he now knew to be true. His ill-fortune and that of the Weem was because of witches. It was because of Isobel Adam and all those she consorted with. She’d ensorcelled him in an attempt to lure him into her demonic ways. He’d woken in time and thus broken the spell and saved himself.
It was time to save others. To save the Weem. Just as young Peter Morton had tried to do. As Patrick Cowper tried even now. God bless them.
As he wrenched open the door, he heard the sobs of young Joanna Browning. Folk were peering through their windows and standing on their stoops despite the cold, not knowing whether to go to her aid but hoping to prevent worse happening. He ignored them all and strode down the wynd towards the manse. He had to tell the reverend. If he didn’t, then just like Cowper said, he was the same as those who aided and abetted the witches — he would be seen as one of them. A conspirator.
If he didn’t reveal what he now remembered as clearly as if it were yesterday, then he would be punished just as Reverend Cowper said — as a witch.
Punished unto death.