The Lighthouse Witches

by C. J. Cooke

  “Am I what?” I said.

  He lifted a hand to his mouth, and for one unnerving moment I thought he was going to cry.

  “Sorry,” he said, seeming to right himself. “For a moment there, I thought you were someone else.”

  I stepped off the platform and busied myself by tidying away the cable. “It’s all right,” I said lightly, though my heart was racing. “It happens to the best of us.”

  “Does it?” he said. He was still standing on the platform, looking up over the mural. “I get so lonely. It can do things to you. Loneliness, I mean.”

  I rose to my feet, feeling slightly sorry for him now. “Do you have any friends or family here on the island?”

  “Not anymore.” He lifted his eyes to mine, and that weird moment was back, his stare boring through me. “You do look very . . . familiar,” he said.

  I didn’t know what else to tell him. “Shall we go back to the bothy?” I started to say, but he cut me off.

  “When you were painting the runes, did anything come to mind?”

  I looked at him, puzzled. “Like what?”

  “Maybe you remembered something?”

  “Remembered something?” I said. I was lost. What on earth did he mean?

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said after a long silence. He smiled, breaking the tension. “Forget it.”

  IX

  I was glad to get back outside into the cool air, where the seals were barking and the ocean was sweeping up the bay—both good distractions from what had transpired with Patrick inside the Longing.

  “I’ve left my jacket in the bothy,” Patrick said, striding to keep up with me as we walked across the rocks. “Would it be OK if . . . ?”

  “Of course,” I said brightly, glad to be ending the night. I made sure to leave the front door ajar as he came inside and plucked his denim jacket. But as he made to leave, Finn and Cassie appeared in the hallway.

  “Mr. McAllen,” Patrick said nervously. He looked a little surprised, then seemed to realize that Finn and Cassie were coming to see me.

  “Patrick,” Finn said. “Always a delight.”

  Patrick gave me a last nod good-bye as he brushed past Finn into the night.

  “Where are Clover and Luna?” Cassie asked loudly.

  “In their bedroom,” I said, closing the door. Through the glass I could see the blurred shape of Patrick outside, moving slowly toward the road.

  “I can see there’s no love lost between you two,” I told Finn.

  “Aye. You arranged for him to come over tonight?”

  I bristled. “He just called by. He wanted to chat about the mural.” Why was I having to explain myself?

  Finn wouldn’t make eye contact. Part of me felt his mood was unfair—this was Patrick’s bothy by right. It wasn’t my fault he called, and I was irritated by Finn’s question—or was it an assumption?—about whether or not I’d arranged for Patrick to come over. But then he produced something from a bag and told me it was a gift, and the mood shifted again.

  “What is it?” I said, pulling out a round glass vase half-filled with water and a web of orange roots, a thick green shoot winding upward.

  “This is a gift,” he said. “It’s an oak tree. Or a seedling, as you can see. But it’s not just any oak tree. It’s a seedling from the Birnam Oak on the River Tay.”

  “Birnam,” I said. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “You must know your Shakespeare, then. It’s from Birnam Wood in Macbeth. The Birnam Oak is the last survivor of that wood.”

  I set the glass container carefully on the windowsill behind the kitchen sink, watching the light play among the roots tangled in the glass. My chest was still tight from the standoff between Patrick and Finn.

  “I thought you could take it with you,” he said. “When you go back to . . . wherever it is in England you live.”

  “Ah, that is the question,” I said.

  “What do you mean?”

  I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure whether or not to say anything. If I told Finn I technically had nowhere to go, that the girls and I were without fixed address, I’d wind up mentioning that I was sick. It just seemed easier to keep it all locked away. But Finn could tell that I was doing precisely that, and I could see him attempt to gently coax my secrets from me.

  “You’re considering not going back?” he said lightly. “Well, I have to say, I’ll be only too glad to tempt you into staying on Lòn Haven. What we lack in the way of theater and art galleries we make up for in myth and murder . . .”

  “Thank you,” I said, laughing. “I don’t know what my plans are, to be honest. I’m somewhat adrift at the moment.”

  He stepped closer and moved a strand of hair from my face. “I’m pleased to hear you’re not rushing off in a few weeks’ time. There’s a lot more of this place to see, you know.”

  “Is there?”

  “Oh, aye. Hidden coves to explore, hidden treasures to discover. You might even find a handsome, red-bearded Scotsman with a fine set of abs who makes you want to stay longer than you thought.” He sucked in his gut. “Well, a red-bearded Scotsman. Forget the abs part.”

  I laughed. His face was close to mine, and he kissed me, lightly at first, then deeper. I pulled away, and he looked embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I want to stay,” I said. “I want this. But . . .”

  I couldn’t bring myself to say it. I think I have cancer. Every woman in my bloodline has died from it.

  “Och, it’s fine,” he said, and I realized I’d stood there, staring and silent, for a long time. I could see he was upset.

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s not you.”

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, stung. “Ah, OK,” he said. “It’s not me, it’s you. I get it.”

  “No,” I said, but I already knew I’d made the situation worse.

  He bit his lip, his eyes on the ground. I didn’t want to upset him, and it struck me then how much I really did care. No, he wasn’t my type. His dress sense was terrible, and his taste in music was beyond my comprehension. But he was gentle and bighearted, and I loved his eyes and his tattoos and he made me laugh. He could fix anything. Just not me.

  I’d expected him to turn and walk out at this point, but he was already talking, uncharacteristically tripping over his words. “Look, I haven’t . . . I haven’t meant to come on too strong,” he said. “If I have, I apologize.” He took a step back, as if to create a more neutral space between us. A distance that marked friendship instead of romance.

  “I wasn’t lying,” I said. “The thing is, I’m sick.”

  “Sick of what?” he said. “Me? Men in general? What?”

  I sighed and covered my face. The truth was, I didn’t even know how to begin to tell him. I hated being vulnerable, and I knew I’d start crying the minute I said it out loud.

  Just then, he said, “I thought we were honest with each other.”

  He sounded wounded and self-righteous, and I bristled. “I don’t think I’m the only one who isn’t honest.”

  “I’m honest,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Why did Cassie’s mother leave?”

  He looked down slowly, clasping his hands when he didn’t know what else to do with them. “We . . . drifted apart. And she struggled with it.”

  “Struggled with what?”

  He looked down. “Motherhood.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He glanced toward the girls’ bedroom, where laughs and chatter could be heard. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “I don’t . . . I don’t talk about it very much.”

  “I know.”

  He lifted his eyes to mine and sighed. He was reluctant to talk about it but did all the same. “Cassie was two. Jane just left. No note, no
warning. She’d taken a suitcase, so I knew she’d not been kidnapped or anything. We didn’t hear from her for about a year. And then I heard through the grapevine that she’d got married and was living in Brighton.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  He nodded and chewed his cheek, his eyes on the floor. “She had problems with depression. I didn’t realize how bad it was. When she found out she was pregnant, I was over the moon. It was an accident but I was thrilled. Looking back, I can see she was devastated.” He looked up, gave a sad smile. “I think she only went through with it because I was making such a big fuss. I should have given her space to . . . speak up about her feelings.”

  He spoke hesitantly, as though these were words he’d never said aloud, maybe not even permitted himself to think. I felt moved by how honest he was in sharing this with me, laying himself bare.

  “When Cassie was born, I tried not to work too much,” he said. “You know, to be supportive. Night feeds, and so on. But it was easier said than done. And I could see Jane was sliding back into that dark place she’d been in before. I just kept thinking she’d get through it.”

  I nodded. “And how is Cassie about it?”

  “For years she asked if I was leaving her. Every single day, I couldn’t leave her at nursery or school without her worrying that I’d not be coming back.”

  “Does she ask about her mother now?”

  “Now and then. I think it would have been a lot easier if Jane had left before Cassie was old enough to talk. If she’d left when Cassie was an infant, she’d likely have no memory of her mother. But she does. She remembers what Jane looks like, things they did together. It’s scary, actually, how much she remembers. I sometimes wish I could put a spell on her, take away her memories of Jane.” He looked up at me and cleared his throat, righting himself. “Anyway. It is what it is.”

  “Luna and Clover’s dad died five years ago,” I said. “He’d been a father to Saffy, too. They were all destroyed by it. So yes, I wish I could erase their memories, too. It would certainly take a lot of pain away, wouldn’t it?”

  “A lot of good, too, I suppose,” he said. “Cassie’s asked more than once if Mummy left because of something she did.” His voice shook, and I reached out to touch his arm.

  “It must be heartbreaking to hear a child ask if she made her mum abandon her.”

  He nodded, dabbing his eyes.

  “What about when Cassie got sick?” I said. “Didn’t her mother want to see her then?”

  “I passed on a message through Jane’s brother. We got a teddy bear through the post. I don’t even know if it was from her.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He cleared his throat loudly. “So, then,” he said, rallying. “Now that I’ve revealed that I’m really a big softie underneath my extremely muscular exterior, what do you think of all that?”

  “What do I think?”

  “Yeah. It put you off?”

  I sat down next to him. “When I said that I was sick, I meant that I’ve got an illness. And I’m not sure how bad it is.”

  I told him about the phone call and the diagnosis. How I didn’t want to hear it, couldn’t hear it, actually, on account of my three daughters who’d already been through so much.

  He clasped his hands to his face. “You already know what I’m going to say.”

  I nodded. “I need to speak to a doctor.”

  “Like, yesterday,” he said, his voice pierced with alarm. “No more procrastinating. I’ll come with you. I mean, only if you want me to . . .”

  I nodded. “Yes. I promise I’ll see someone.”

  X

  The day after Amy and I discovered the markings in the cave left by her mother, fate took another wrong turn for me. Her brother, Tavish, subjected me to another beating the day after. I was so tired from the night before, and quite honestly sick of his mindless brutality, that I stood up and threw the stones back at him, hitting him square between the eyes.

  “You’re a lunatic!” I shouted at him, or words to that effect. “You deserve to be stoned, not me!”

  He cowered on the ground, his hands up and his big blue eyes wide with terror. He’d forgotten that despite how skinny and small I was, I was fit as a butcher’s dog, what with spending twelve hours a day hauling rocks for his father and tending the fields. Once I knocked him down, I couldn’t stop kicking. I was yelling and shouting, Tavish was unconscious, blood splattered across his pale face. I hefted a huge rock from my pile of boulders and was about to bring it down on his head when someone grabbed me.

  “Patrick, stop!”

  I dropped the boulder and clamped my hand around the gullet of whoever had intervened, only to find that I was squeezing the life out of Amy. Her face was all crumpled and her skinny hands clawed at the one I was digging into her windpipe. I let go, as startled as though I’d been hit by lightning. I couldn’t speak; neither could Amy. She collapsed against a tree, coughing and hacking. I looked from Tavish to his sister, my awareness coming back in heavy, terrible increments. It was as if I’d somehow been lifted out of my body for a few minutes, my skin inhabited by a bear, while I drifted off in a dream.

  “Amy,” I mumbled. “Amy.” I placed a hand on her shoulder and she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and then I didn’t say anything more because Tavish had regained his strength and clouted me over the head with a rock.

  When I woke up I was in the barn with a terrible headache, surrounded by hens and sheep. I could sense someone nearby, but my vision took a while to catch up with my other senses.

  “Amy,” I called out. “Is that you?”

  “Here,” I heard her say. “Lean forward.”

  Now it was my turn to hack and cough, only I was spitting up blood and bits of teeth. She’d brought me a drink of water. I didn’t realize how weak I was with thirst until I started drinking.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” I heard her say.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I told her. “I love you.”

  She said nothing, and when she moved away I saw the reason why. Her father was behind her and in earshot.

  “On your feet,” he said, casting a grim look over me. I got up stiffly and kept my eyes on my toes, expecting another beating for what I’d done to Tavish. He took three heavy steps forward, his boots squelching in the mud and his breath clouding in the cool damp air. He looked me over, cursing at the smell.

  “It’s a crying shame,” he muttered. “You’d become a good farmhand. You’re to get your things. Lockie’ll take you to the boat.”

  Not long after, I was aboard a huge ship set for Ireland, wedged inside a filthy, lice-ridden cabin with fifty other men and boys, about half of whom were puking their guts out with seasickness. The smell was almost as bad as the noise, and I don’t think I’ve ever been as miserable in my life as I was then. The boat rocked so violently I didn’t expect to survive the night, but that wasn’t the worst of it. No, the worst was knowing that I’d drown not in seawater but in the pool of bile sloshing up and down the deck beneath my hammock.

  But that night, as I opened my small bag of belongings, I found a flat stone tucked in between the pages of my Bible. It was from Amy. In blood, she’d painted a rune on the back, one that I recognized.

  It was a love charm from a woman toward a man, and it offered protection. With my knife, I skewered a hole through the top and fed a piece of string through it, tying it around my neck. I might otherwise have supposed that I’d never see Amy again, not with an ocean between us and her father’s will against me.

  But like I said, Amy had a gift.

  The rune would bring us together again when the stars were in our favor.

  I was gone for five years and put to work in a butchery. I acquired an extensive knowledge about anatomy, which came in useful toward the end of my tenure.

 
; My mind continued to loosen. I would wake up sometimes completely naked and drenched in blood, clasping an ax, without knowledge of why I was thus nor in whose blood I was soaked. I was no longer certain that I would ever see Amy again. Or, if I did, that she would want me. I was not who I was.

  I had just turned seventeen when the guild took action against my employer. There were thirty reports of him selling rotten meat. After a brief trial, it was William O’Daly alone who was dragged through the streets and smeared in horseshit by the peasants before being hauled into the stocks. His business finished, I was sent back to Scotland with a bag of coins for five years’ work and no plan for my life at all, except finding Amy.

  And find her I did, or at least a version of her, for she was forever changed. And it was entirely due to Witches Hide.

  LUNA, 2021

  I

  The smell wakes Luna up. The bitter smell of smoke hits the back of her nose. She bolts upright in bed and calls out.

  “Are you OK, Clover?”

  No answer. Luna scrambles out of bed and tears downstairs, where a thick plume of black smoke is trailing from Clover’s bedroom.

  Clover is standing beside her pile of new clothes, but they’re on fire. Bright orange flames dance above the dresses, sparking on the lace fabric. Clover looks up at her, the blaze revealing menace on her face.

  Luna darts into the bathroom, where it seems to take an eternity to find something to fill with water. All the pans are downstairs collecting the drips from the ceiling that Luna drenched with bathwater. The room is thickening with smoke, stinging her eyes and the back of her throat. She spies a small bin beside the toilet and grabs it, filling it quickly with water. Then she runs into the bedroom and throws the water over the pile, but it’s not enough to damp out the flames completely. They curl dangerously toward the bed, and Luna has to pull Clover out of the room and order her out of the cottage while she races back into the bathroom for more water.

  Mercifully, the fire dies down, though thick black smoke clings to the air. Luna covers her mouth with her hand as she rushes outside, gasping. Clover is in the garden of the cottage wearing only her nightie and a scowl. Luna sits down on an old garden bench, utterly spent.