Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  ‘How does your father fare, Kirstie?’

  ‘He’s no better, Pastor, and I’ve no food for the wee ones, so they just howl with hunger.’

  ‘John, give Kirstie the loaf and the cheese. It’s not much, but it’ll line your bellies for today.’

  The girl curtsied. ‘And what about after that, Pastor?’

  Uncle James eyed the sick man. ‘I expect God will have taken your father and you’ll all be taken in by the kirk, where we will feed you.’

  The girl’s tears flowed more quickly then. ‘So, we’ve already lost our mother, and now we must pray our father is taken from us so our bellies might be filled?’

  Uncle scowled. ‘I would not put it in quite such blunt terms, but your father would want you all to be cared for.’

  The girl picked up a crying infant, kissed him and put him down again. ‘If you could stay with Father and the wee ones awhile, I could walk to the rabbit woods to find Dora Shaw. It’s said that she can lift the fever. Then our father would be saved–’

  My breath grew shallow. Uncle crossed the room in two strides. He struck Kirstie across the face so hard that she fell to the ground. Then he picked her up.

  ‘Forgive me, lassie, but someone needed to knock the devil from you. It is God who will decide whether your father lives or dies, not that witch in the woods. You must not entertain such foul thoughts. Do not invite the dark one into your home, or into your heart. John knows this lesson all too well, so perhaps you can learn from his example. Come, kneel, and we’ll pray to God for His mercy.’

  4

  Jane

  It Heals Most Ills

  Mam had sent me on a message to Meg. On my way, I walked through the woods, watching the magpies fly back and forth to feed their young, who were tucked safely in a nest in the bare upper branches of a poplar. The tree was just starting to green from the bottom up, so the nest was not fully screened. The ash trees were still naked and their black-tipped branches had yet to push any leaf buds out, so no birds made their nest there. The ash was not favoured by the magpies in any case. They had patrolled the poplar for some time before choosing the site for their nest. Perched on the uppermost twig, the magpies kept watch for predators. In the nest, the young would be bare, their beaks not yet hardened, still soft-lipped trumpets blaring for more food.

  Further along, two swans were nesting. The huge nest sat proud, built up on a mound by the riverbank. The pen slept on her nest, her long neck gracefully coiled on top of her body. The cob slept downhill of her, never fully asleep, and alert to would-be egg-stealers and cygnet-hunters. It was possible to perch ten feet away on a tree stump and watch them. They trusted me, but a step too near would turn these elegant beauties into rampant attackers. Mostly, I liked to watch the swans walking to the river’s edge. There was no hint of their waterborne grace when they ambled overland, their legs making clumsy circular movements.

  Beyond the meadow, the herons made their shallow nests high in the trees. Their swooping grey wings seemed to beat not quite fast enough to hold them in the air. They were more cautious than the swans, taking care not to reveal their nests by laying a false, looping trail in the air before returning home. But it was easy for me to find their nests. Like magpies, the heron would perch on the topmost twig of its chosen tree. But the heron was a heavy bird and the top twig would bend under its weight. By following the bent twigs, my eye could swiftly place the nest.

  At this time of year, there were plenty of pretty shells to gather for my little garden. My favourites were the green robin eggs with their delicate hue. Birds were my favourite creatures, but I also liked to think of the life springing forth under my feet, small animals alive in the warm, dark womb of the earth, sunk into the hot, milky bellies of their mothers. Perhaps they heard the world above, smelling it on their returning mother’s fur, her jaws red with her fresh kill, her flanks getting thinner every day. I wondered at the infant creatures’ move from sweet mother’s milk to pulverised flesh, cooked only in the juices of the mother’s mouth. How quickly the taste for blood must develop in the young so that they could learn to feed themselves.

  On these walks, I practised being quiet. A smooth, round pebble on my tongue filled my mouth and brought it some rest from the desire to talk incessantly. Its weight pressed my tongue into silence and the earthy taste weighted me down and soothed me, taking me out of the airy element somewhat and holding me fast to earth. With my tongue so stilled, my inner voice was also quieted and I could stay silent and patient, watching for birds and animals. In this way, my true self was changed and disguised so that I merged with nature.

  Due to my silent approach and being upwind of my quarry, I was able to watch a young doe giving birth. The doe lay on her side, her stomach writhing, and then she stood up. Finally, a leg began to emerge, gleaming from its birth sac. The doe nimbly ducked through her own legs and used her mouth to pull the fawn towards the light and air. It was tiny. A single fawn, and one so small and born so very early in the year, was a sign of a bad harvest coming.

  The doe straightened up, lightened from the burden of the birthing. I held my breath as she licked her fawn from tip to toe. The fawn unfurled its gangly limbs and wobbled to its feet, then crept towards its mother’s belly in search of milk. Though tiny, it already seemed much too big to have been inside its mother. As the fawn suckled and began to dry, its pelt became a pure white. Poor little soul. White deer were greatly prized by hunters and this fawn would have a price on its head once word spread. I’d tell no one about this, so no one would learn of the pale fawn. The longer she stayed hidden, the safer she’d be.

  For a while longer, I sat in silence, watching the doe eat the afterbirth for nourishment and to remove any smell of blood. To pass the time, I pulled three blades of tall grass and braided them with flowers into a chain – buttercups for the golden mother and daisies for the silver fawn. This charm would protect them, and I tucked it underneath a rock near my hiding place. We were deep in the wood, and this part was not reachable on horseback because of the dense undergrowth. It could only be reached through the secret deer paths. If the fawn stayed deep in the wood and survived the week, she might become sturdy and properly learned in the nervous ways of deer. Most importantly, she would gain fear of man, the predator.

  * * *

  When I finally reached Meg’s dwelling, she was busy over her fire with a griddle, and a delicious smell filled the air, along with the sizzling sound of butter.

  ‘Hello, Meg. Oh, Meg, you’re making singing hinnies!’

  ‘Yes, I am, hinny, I must have known you were coming to see me. Sit yourself down and they’ll be ready soon enough. I’ve had some currants from the market doing nothing for months and I daren’t keep them any longer.’

  Meg flipped the hot scones over on the griddle and the smell of butter and currants filled the air once more.

  ‘Just a short while, hinny, and then we can enjoy them with a fresh brew. You go and fetch me some mugwort and I’ll get the pot boiling.’

  I knew exactly where to find the mugwort and quickly found a clump of silver spears rustling in the breeze. The tender new shoots were best and it was only a minute’s work to nip out a few handfuls before returning to Meg. I added the leaves to two bowls, and she lifted the cauldron from the fire and carefully ladled boiling water into them. Tendrils of steam rose up. It was lovely to hold my bowl and breathe in the astringent fragrance, blowing on the water’s surface to make it ripple and send up steam into my face.

  ‘Well, these hinnies have stopped singing now, so it’s time to enjoy them while they’re hot.’

  Meg flipped six hot scones onto a wooden plate and quickly dabbed a knob of butter over them. My mouth watered at the smell.

  ‘Here, Jane, get them down you quick, that’s best butter, mind.’

  The hinnies were a perfect mix of currants, sugar and salted butter. I closed my eyes on a heavenly mouthful, wishing there were more than three to look forward to.

 
‘So, Jane, did you have a message, or have you just come to eat me out of house and home?’

  I smiled and shook my head, still chewing. ‘Mam sent me to see whether you’d had anything from the apothecary.’

  Meg nodded. ‘I was in Newcastle the week before last. Goodwife Keen gave me some glass vials for your mother. Maybe I should hang on to them till I’m next round your doors. Then again, maybe your mother’s in a hurry for them. Can you get them home without breaking them?’

  ‘Glass vials? Of course I can. They’ll be quite safe in my hands. What’s in them?’

  ‘Never you mind, hinny, now get yourself away home as soon as you’ve finished your brew, else your mother will wonder where you’ve got to.’

  ‘Meg, I watched a doe giving birth to a white fawn on my way here. Do you think she’ll be safe? They were deep in the woods on the deer paths.’

  Meg frowned and poked the fire, looking deeply into the flames. ‘As much as any of us are ever safe. Oh, Jane, to see a white fawn at birth is a rare omen, but not a good one. It’s a message from the other world, warning of danger and trespassers. So you must take great care.’

  * * *

  When I returned home, I put the vials away in Mam’s pantry. The pantry was a constant delight to me, and I loved to work my way through the stores, learning their names by sight and smell. Everything Mam knew, I learnt. Watching Mam as she picked, plucked and planted, I helped to press, dry and grind bright-green leaves into soft, pale powders.

  Mam found me as I left the pantry.

  ‘Mam, what’s in those glass vials that Meg sent from the apothecary?’

  ‘Nothing for you to worry your head about, Jane. Now, come and help me gather the early marigolds.’

  I loved to fill flat baskets with fragrant petals and leaves from the garden, and Mam checked my learning as we went.

  ‘Now, let’s test that memory of yours and see if you’ve been paying attention. What’s the best time to pick the flowers?’

  ‘Two or three hours after the sun wakes up, Mam.’

  ‘And why is that, pet?’

  I scrunched up my eyes and tried to remember. ‘So that the dewdrops have gone.’

  She tousled my hair. ‘That’s right. Today, we’ll pick as many marigolds as we can, and we’ll make calendula ointment to soften the skin.’

  I raised some cheerful orange and yellow blooms to my face. ‘They look so pretty, but I like the smell of roses better.’

  ‘Of course, the rose is the most wondrous smell on God’s earth. Marigold smells halfway beautiful and halfway ugly. But she’s a lovely remedy for wounds – gentle enough for babies and kind to aged people.’ She chucked me under the chin. ‘And she makes a lovely cream to keep ladies’ faces soft and pretty.’

  I gave my mother a puzzled look. She still had brown hair and eyes like my own, but her skin was no longer soft or pretty.

  She laughed. ‘Jane, don’t examine me with such an earnest expression. My face doesn’t need to be soft and pretty, but my lotions are popular with the ladies who visit the apothecary. Come, let’s get on.’

  When we returned to the scullery, my mother arranged a huge crock in a cauldron of water and half-filled the crock with flowers. Next, she topped up the crock with beeswax.

  ‘Keep back, Jane, while I light the fire beneath the cauldron. When the water bubbles, it’ll melt the beeswax and the warm wax will take the goodness from the petals. Stop scowling; if the smell is so bad, go and sit near the window because the smell of the rendering marigolds will be quite overpowering in a little while.’

  I shrugged, walked to the far side of the scullery and turned to the open window.

  ‘Oh, you’ll get used to it in time, believe me.’ As Mam spoke, she took a metal hook and lifted the crock of hot beeswax from the fire. ‘We’ll let it cool awhile, but not too long, else it sets. Here, come and take out the petals.’

  I took a slotted spoon and began lifting the wilted petals from the liquid wax.

  ‘Now, we’ll leave it to set until it’s ready to mix into salves.’

  I dipped a finger into the warm wax and then held it in the air. Once the wax was cool, I peeled it off my finger.

  Mam smiled at me. ‘Now, Jane, calendula salve. Take note of the method, and if you make nothing else in life, make this as it heals most ills.’

  I rolled the wax around in my palm. ‘I don’t need to know how to make it, Mam, because I can always come and ask you.’

  ‘But, Jane, I’ll not always be here. And you’ll not always be here, either.’

  These words made me pause. ‘Mam, I saw a white fawn born in the woods this morning and Meg said it was a bad omen.’

  She looked at me sharply. ‘Then you should heed Meg. And tell no one else of it.’

  5

  John

  The Devil Himself

  ‘Uncle James. It’s me, John. Wake up. Please, please, you must come, Uncle.’

  I watched the stupor of sleep leave his face.

  ‘Steady on, John, and take a breath. What can be so bad that it warrants this much fuss?’

  ‘Please, Uncle, the devil himself is unleashed at the Cummins’ place. They’ve all seen him. Terrible he is, by all accounts. And he’s entered Cummins’ wife. Furry-bodied and flaming, and with the stink of hell on him.’

  Uncle James sat up. ‘Entered, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Possessed, she is. Thrashing about on the floor like a dying trout, but with froth coming out of her mouth. Please, Uncle, you must come, for all our sakes. The barber-surgeon is there, but even he can’t help her.’

  ‘Very well, John. Light a lantern, or we’ll never find our way there and back.’

  I fetched a lantern and stood near the door, ready to leave.

  ‘Uncle, is it really possible to be possessed by the devil?’

  He wrapped himself in his cloak. ‘Undoubtedly. But don’t forget that there’s plenty of evil about, although it mostly stems from men’s love of strong drink, avarice for fertile land and desire for soft flesh. Come, I’m ready.’

  I nodded and started walking. ‘Yes, and I suppose that evil could be embodied in the form of a furred and stinking demon.’

  Uncle panted, struggling to keep pace with me. ‘But whether furred demon or mere fancy, whatever it is, I sincerely wish it wasn’t situated at the top of the glen. My legs are trembling already. We should have brought Nosewise on a rope and he could have hauled me to the top.’

  ‘Would you like to rest, Uncle?’

  ‘No, no. We’ve only just set out, so keep going. I’d be too ashamed of putting my own comfort above the salvation of an innocent soul.’

  When we reached the Cummins’ farm, there came the anguished cries of women and children, cut through by shrieking.

  Uncle paused to listen. ‘No doubt that was the tortured soul of Margaret Cummins.’

  Inside, the assembly included the barber-surgeon, MacBain. He was trying, with limited success, to keep the throng from crowding the convulsing woman. The froth issuing from her mouth had turned bloody. Uncle stood in silence, drawing in long breaths before raising his voice to a suitable register.

  ‘Someone tell me what has happened here. I have John’s account, of course. Cummins? If it does not distress you too much?’

  The gaunt husband cast his eyes down. ‘Well, Pastor, there was first a shadowy beast that threw my goodwife to the ground.’

  ‘And did you see the beast?’

  The man shook his head. ‘No, more’s the pity. I was outside attending to nature and missed the spectacle. When I came back in, the whole household were on their knees and praying. I never saw the beast, but my sister’s lassie, she saw it. And everyone saw the state of my goodwife. Then there’s the definite sulphury stench that might be straight from the mouth of hell. And my goodwife’s sister says she saw the flames as the devil himself entered my wife.’

  Uncle turned to MacBain, who looked keen to speak.

  ‘Aye, Pastor, her o
wn sister tried to get Goodwife Cummins to pray, but in vain. The distressed woman thrashed about on the floor like a dying … that is to say, she’s not a well woman, as you know. Though no woman can be well when Old Iniquity’s been residing within her very soul, to say nothing of other places–’

  ‘MacBain! That’s enough. We must act quickly to save this woman’s soul. Everyone, quickly form a circle around Goodwife Cummins. Face outwards so that your backs are turned on the demon.’

  ‘But surely we need to keep our eyes fastened on him?’ This from Cummins, who was pale and sweating.

  ‘The reverse is true, Cummins. If we turn our eyes upon him, the demon knows he has our full attention, and he feeds upon it. Who knows what he might do if he reaches his full power? Is that a chance anyone here present wishes to take?’

  The assembled relatives shook their heads and turned around, but not before I noticed a thrill run through them.

  ‘Close your eyes! We’ll commence with prayer and I’ll bless this goodwife.’ Uncle began to speak in resonant tones, ‘Dear Lord, lay your peace on this dwelling and on the Cummins family.’ He knelt before Goodwife Cummins. ‘Please, Lord, forgive our past transgressions and those of our forebears, whose sins are ever with us. Cast out the demon lately come amongst us, redeem us and spare us your rage. Righteous Lord, forgive us and save us.’

  The assembled began to intone, ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …’

  Uncle held his hand out to place his blessing upon Goodwife Cummins’ forehead. He looked at me and I saw his predicament. To hold her head long enough to bless her would be to break her neck, so he held his hand in the air above her head. It would be impossible to bless someone moving in such a vigorous and unpredictable fashion, so he also blessed the air around her.