‘A compelling tale of two young people whose destinies are intertwined, a witch-hunter and a witch. But is she really a witch? This meticulously researched account of a bigoted man’s inhumanity to women in the seventeenth century will make the modern reader grateful to have been born in an enlightened age.’
Mari Griffith, author of The Witch of Eye
‘Widdershins gives a compelling and nuanced account of the clash of cultures that claimed so many lives. Steadman’s carefully interwoven narrative conjures a world of herbal lore, folk practice and belief and convincingly portrays the psychological and ideological forces that form a perpetrator, and the social structures that sustain him.’
Helen Lynch, author of The Elephant and the Polish Question
‘Her writing reminds me of Hannah Kent’s bestselling novel, Burial Rites, which follows the final days of a young woman accused of murder in Iceland in 1829. Helen’s writing has a similar persuasive and empathetic force, weaving together historical fact with modern concerns about the treatment of women.’
Helen Marshall, award-winning author
‘Widdershins is a dark and wonderful novel, rich in historical details, herbal lore, traditions and superstitions. Steadman’s cleareyed storytelling and colourful period voice give life to a vibrant cast of characters drawn against the backdrop of tragic historical events. A compelling and memorable tale!’
Louisa Morgan, author of A Secret History of Witches
‘Infused as it is with aromas of rosemary, fennel and lavender, even the healers’ herbs do not mask the reek of the injustice that sits at the heart of Widdershins. Powerful and shocking.’
Wyl Menmuir, author of The Many (longlisted for
The Man Booker Prize 2016)
WIDDERSHINS
Helen Steadman
For Oliver and Leon
‘Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,
To signify thou camest to bite the world’
Henry VI, Part 3, William Shakespeare
Widdershins: ‘Moving in an anticlockwise direction, contrary to the apparent course of the sun (considered as unlucky or sinister); unlucky, ill-fated, relating to the occult.’
Oxford English Dictionary
CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgements
Part One
1 The Afflicted Messenger
2 Infernal Creature
3 Stranger Beasts
4 It Heals Most Ills
5 The Devil Himself
6 Sleeping Flowers
7 The Hellish Circle
8 A Terrible Question
9 Under Oath
Part Two
10 Time of the Moon
11 Foul Temptress
12 No Smoke
13 Troubles of the Marriage Bed
14 Ten Moons
15 Flux
16 Chasing Cloud Shadows
17 In God’s Hands
18 The Brief Candle
19 Satanic Kisses
20 Thirty Shillings
21 God’s Work
22 A Fallen Woman
23 Purge
24 A Taste of Poppy Milk
Part Three
25 Infestation
26 Elder Linctus
27 The Dry Wound
28 A Welcome Weight
29 It Is a Tricky Implement
30 A Message
Afterword
About the Author
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the experts who generously shared their knowledge with me: Ross Menzies, BSc, DBTH, MIRCH Registered Medical Herbalist, for teaching me to make medicine from trees at Dilston Physic Garden, which is an amazing source of information about the healing power of plants, curated by Emeritus Professor Elaine Perry; Mark Constable, FWCB, master blacksmith, for helping me to forge a fire steel and teaching me how to make fire with it; Arthur Harkness from Consett and District Heritage Initiative for information on local witches; the staff from the Tyne & Wear Archives for helpful assistance with old documents and microfiche; the staff from Newcastle Castle for information on where the prisoners were kept; and John North, City Guide, for talking to me about Newcastle’s quayside and bridges. Thanks must also go to: Florence Welch, who made me want to write about witches when ‘Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)’ jumped into my head one day; Ralph Gardiner, without whose grievances I might not have been inspired to write this particular story; and William Brockie, whose report of a woman possessed inspired the chapter, ‘The Devil Himself’. I am grateful to everyone from the Manchester Writing School who offered gentle criticism: tutors, Sherry Ashworth, Helen Marshall, Livi Michael and Nicholas Royle; classmates, Susana Aikin, Cynnamon Conway, Anj Karakus, Eleanor Moore, Marita Karin Over, Julie Taylor, Chris Thomas and Cate West; and the DIY group, Jodie Baptie, Dot Devey Smith, Zöe Feeney, Fin Gray, Nicola Ní Leannáin, Bee Lewis, Jane Masumy and Sue Smith for hand-holding and much-needed, not-so-gentle criticism. I am very grateful to everyone at Impress Books, but particular thanks must go to Laura Christopher, Julian Webb and Megan Symons for their painstaking efforts and care in editing, proofreading and publishing this book, and also to Natalie Clark for so creatively letting the world know about Widdershins. Thanks also to Toucan Design for the beautiful cover and to Chess Heward for her lovely part illustrations. Finally, special thanks to: Neil, Oliver and Leon Steadman for suffering neglect and the herbal remedies that took over the house, garden and medicine cabinet while I wrote this book; and to the late, great Archie Scottie Dog for accompanying me on woodland walks where I did most of the ‘freethinking’ that became this book. Any errors and omissions are my own, and I apologise sincerely for them in advance.
Part One
1
John
The Afflicted Messenger
Dora Shaw was my midwife, and I’d lived with her since the day I was born. I never tired of hearing the tale of my birth, often making Dora repeat it to me. Her story never altered once, and it was always fresh in my mind. But now I was old enough to labour on the farm, my father wanted me back. So, before returning to the father I’d rarely met, I made Dora tell the story to me one more time, so that I might keep the story in my mind in case I never saw her again.
For the three days before I was born, Dora had watched Mercury chase Mars across the Scottish sky, when he suddenly turned tail and began to move backward. My midwife worried what missive the afflicted messenger might bring. By dint of her monstrous scrying, she concluded that the omens were unhappy ones, and she hoped I’d bide my time for a few more days. This celestial reversal did not bode well. Not for my mother at the time. And not for me in the future. By the time Dora gained entry to our dwelling, my mother was running with sweat. Her shift was stretched across her swollen belly and her greying locks clung to her face. Dora looked at my father and then she glanced at my suffering mother.
‘Shame on you, Sharpe, fancy getting a bairn on the lass at her age.’
‘Mind your tongue, hag. It’s God’s work.’
Ignoring him, Dora touched my mother’s upper arm. ‘Bertha, you’re very wet. How long have you been this way?’
My mother’s voice was no more than a whisper. ‘Morning before last. Dora, please, save my child.’
‘I’ll do everything I can, Bertha. You can be sure of that.’ Dora inhaled near my mother’s face and shook her head at my father. ‘Listen, Sharpe, you should have had the physic here long since.’
‘Aye, but physics cost coin I don’t have.’
Dora turned her back on him. ‘Set water to boil and fetch clean rags. Bertha will have set some aside.’ She waited a heartbeat. ‘Do it now, Sharpe, for there’s none other t
o do it.’ She examined my mother to see how near I was to birthing. ‘The bairn’s crowning, Bertha, but you’re very narrow-hipped. And bless you, but your advanced years are against us. Sharpe, bring that water and mop your wife’s brow to bring out the fever. Quickly, the boiling water.’
Dora untied a bundle of silver-green fronds and added them to the water, where they wilted and gave off their bitter aroma. Then she opened a pouch at her belt, took out some red berries crowned with five-pointed stars and added these too.
My father glared at her. ‘What’s that? I won’t pay for any witch nonsense.’
‘Just mugwort leaves and hawthorn berries. Bertha needs to keep strength in her heart for the heaving. They’ll calm her boiling blood.’ She held a bottle to my mother’s lips. ‘Take a sip, Bertha. This tincture will cool your blood.’
‘You’re giving her berries from the bread-and-butter tree and a few sticks of muggins? Aye, well, plenty of both growing hereabouts, so you won’t have the neck to expect any coin. Bertha’s had no bother with her heart before.’
‘Carrying a bairn at her age can weaken the strongest of hearts, especially when the blood heats up like this. Just mop her brow, Sharpe, and speak in a soothing voice. She looks set for birthing convulsions and may not be sensible enough to take your words in, but a soft tone may bring her comfort.’
It was beyond my father to utter soft words, and so Dora could hardly be taken aback when he uttered none at all. But he did try to mop my mother’s brow, all the while keeping a sharp eye on Dora, who was crouched between my mother’s knees. My mother began a high keening, purple in the face, and then she screamed. With a nimble turn of her arm, Dora eased me into the world on a gush of blood, followed by a rattling breath from my mother.
Dora looked at my mother and closed her eyes for a second. ‘You have a laddie, Sharpe, see.’ She nipped the cord and scrubbed me until I lost my waxen coating, then passed me, wailing, to my father.
A look of outrage crossed his face. ‘Why give him to me? He’s after his mother’s tit.’
Dora shook her head and pressed me to him. ‘Bertha’s beyond giving milk, God rest her. Take the laddie while I bless Bertha and see to her.’
My father’s eyes bulged, and I began to bawl.
‘You’ve saved the wrong one, you stupid hag. What use is a babe with no tit to suckle him?’ My father was shouting. All the bones in his face were apparent through the tautening skin.
‘See, witch, what you’ve done to her? It was washing her down with that devil’s muck. Well, I’ll pay no coin for this, and by God, you’ll burn for it. My woman dying unshriven at your hand. Her brother will have something to say about this.’
Dora began to wash and bind my mother. ‘Never mind her brother. You’ll need a wet nurse for the bairn. I know of one nearby. Once I’ve seen to Bertha, I’ll give your laddie a quick feed myself and then I’ll fetch the nurse.’
She rinsed her hands in the herb water, reached for me, and in one practised movement, she swaddled my squalling self within her clothes. When I latched on, she cringed as my tiny teeth caught her teat. My father stared, mouthing air until his words found him again.
‘And what demonic capering is this? A crone with no issue from her belly in decades. You were born for the fire, woman, make no mistake.’
Dora rocked me as I suckled, and she spoke to my father in a low voice. ‘It’s no trick, Sharpe, many midwives keep their milk flowing to help out a little, when …’ She nodded at my mother, who’d taken on a waxen sheen.
My father scowled. ‘Well, you can bide here and feed the babe till he’s weaned. I’ll pay for no wet nurse. You killed Bertha, so you can take her place.’
Replete, I unlatched and yawned, revealing my milk teeth. Dora raised me to her shoulder to relieve my wind.
‘An easy lad you have there, Sharpe. He’ll sleep while I go for the wet nurse and a woman to tend Bertha.’ She placed me into my dry-eyed father’s arms.
‘My wife dead and an infant born with teeth? Oh, what imps have been at work here this night?’
Dora eyed him and took me back. She reckoned it was better if the man cried. When he didn’t, it was better to take the baby.
* * *
So that was how I came to be raised at the teat of my midwife, the only woman who ever cared for me. But she was often busy gathering herbs, pinching other children’s cheeks, or giving advice to women in the family way. I rarely saw my father, apart from his yearly visit to size me up, when he would tell me that Dora Shaw’s wickedness had caused me to grow up motherless. That’s when he wasn’t blaming me for killing my own mother.
It struck me as odd that Father would leave me with a woman he knew to be wicked, and I worried for my soul. Uncle James – my mother’s brother and a pastor – would also warn me about Dora. But it was hard to believe badly of Dora when she was nothing but kind to me. Her greatest sin was looking for signs in the sky, which was an abomination against God, according to Uncle James. But the moving celestial bodies were pushed by angels, so how wicked could her sky-watching really be? When asked why I could not live with him or my father, Uncle James told me small boys were too much trouble, and best minded by women, even wicked ones.
Still, he let me visit him now and then. His kirk was filled with families, complete with mothers, who were always clucking over wee ones, picking them up and kissing away their tears. I envied these children. Their mothers fascinated me, yet they were not warm and soft with me. Instead, they were silent, and wouldn’t even drop a kind word in my ear. Sometimes, though, when the wind was right, their singing carried to my ears from the kirk. I’d hide in the bole of the old oak tree, hug my little dog, Jinny, and rock myself, imagining my own mother singing to me.
But now, Father had deemed me big enough to earn my keep and he’d taken me and Jinny under his roof. I’d not been home a week when Dora found me one morning, weeping and rocking in the bole of my old oak, with Jinny tucked under my arm.
‘John Sharpe? What on earth is the matter? Come out of that old tree, and when you’ve told me what the matter is, you can have this apple.’
Once I’d been lured from the tree with the promise of the rosy apple, we sat at the foot of the oak, leaning against its rough trunk.
‘Come on, laddie, tell me what’s wrong.’
Through hiccups and tears, I confessed my dreadful secret. ‘Last night, Father was on the drink.’
‘How did you know he’d been on the drink, John?’
‘Well, his eyes were glassy, and he smelt sour.’
Dora clicked her tongue. ‘Shouting, was he?’
‘Aye. I kept me and Jinny out of his way, because Father thinks dogs and lads are just for kicking …’
Dora patted my knee. ‘Go on, son, get it all out of you.’
‘When he woke up, Father was sore-headed, and started to curse me. I put the dog under the table, crawled after her and covered my head.’
‘Was he on about you killing your mother again?’
I nodded and my chin quivered as I repeated his words to myself. ‘It’s your fault she’s dead. You were too greedy by half. Eating away at your own mother from the inside. Not content with listening to her heartbeat – being so greedy, you had to have a bite of her soft heart. You weakened her heart and made yourself even bigger. The blessed woman was too slight to pass such a big, greedy boy. You killed your mother with your greed and your demon teeth.’
At the memory of my father’s speech, I collapsed into Dora’s arms. ‘I swear not to be greedy again, Dora, if it would bring back my mother. Every night, I say sorry to Father and to God for that bite I took from my mother’s heart.’
‘Oh, John, lad, that’s not how your mother’s passing came about. Your father … well, he’s still grief-stricken, and he’s not been able to accept that sometimes God just calls His own back to Him. But you mustn’t go without food. No amount of going without can bring her back, you know.’
‘But Father swears I
ate my mother’s heart from the inside with my demon teeth and that killed her.’
Dora shook her head. ‘That’s simply not true. Plenty of babies are born with teeth and their mothers live. Your mother was very sick and she already had fever in her blood when I arrived. Birthing fits are what carried her away. Listen, lad, your mother was well past the bairning age, and she’d been sick for days before I ever got there. God wanted her for His own, and it was nothing to do with you. Nothing on this earth could have spared her.’ She took my hands between hers. ‘As soon as I set eyes on your mother, I knew she was past saving. But your mother held on till your father fetched me. She wanted you to be born.’
This worried me. ‘Could you have chosen to save my mother and not me?’
Dora shook her head. ‘No, there was no choosing. Your mother was more than halfway to heaven and so I spared you. That’s what she wanted. She wanted you saved. Those were her last words on this earth.’
I swallowed. ‘Father wishes I’d died as well.’
‘That’s grief talking, John. He’s still mourning your mother, even after all these years. You’re a fine boy. Your mother would be proud of you and she’d want you to eat so that you grow big and strong. So, do you want this apple?’
I nodded and took the apple. ‘I’ll keep it to share with Father.’
* * *
Even after all these years, Father’s conviction that I’d killed my mother in childbirth never wavered. Time upon time, he’d threatened to avenge her death and kick the demon teeth out of my head. On this day, it finally happened. The old man returned from the fields with me in tow and Jinny skulking at my heels. Darkness was falling and sweat ran cold down my back. When we reached our shack, the fire was out.
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