Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  ‘… thy kingdom come, thy will be done, in earth as it is in heaven …’

  The barber-surgeon wrangled something from his belt and held it as near to Goodwife Cummins’ face as he could. Even from several feet away, I caught the stench of hartshorn, which brought water to my eyes and made me cough. Some of the congregation must have also breathed it – albeit more distantly – as they turned to face us and were rubbing at their eyes.

  ‘… Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, power and glory, for ever and ever. So be it.’

  ‘So be it. Uncle, the devil must be on the move, I can smell his stench.’

  ‘Yes, he makes my eyes water, John.’

  ‘Mother, I’m afeared.’ A young girl coughed and pressed herself into her mother’s side.

  The woman on the floor was stilling and MacBain drew his cloak over her. Uncle blessed Goodwife Cummins’ head and urgently drew the sign of the cross on her forehead. He kissed his cross and held it before him. Although blood still foamed from her mouth, she sat up, took the cross in her hands and kissed it.

  Cummins wept and rushed forward to gather his wife in his arms. ‘My suffering lassie, I thought you were taken to hell for certain.’

  The onlookers joined their hands in prayer, the children were giddy and chattering, and some of the women looked fit for fainting. Goodwife Cummins’ sister was on her knees, hands clasped before her, eyes shining.

  ‘Oh, I can see the face of an angel, a shining-faced cherub. Oh, it is a miracle.’

  I looked around me, but could see no cherubim, shining-faced or otherwise. Perhaps I needed to look harder.

  Uncle James stood up and raised his arms. ‘Now that Goodwife Cummins is well, perhaps we may all depart and let her sleep.’

  No one appeared in a hurry to depart though, since such entertainment was rare indeed, especially in the dead of night, so Uncle put some cold iron into his voice.

  ‘Come, get back to your own beds, for I’ll expect each and every one of you at kirk in the morning to give thanks to God.’

  To say nothing of the collection plate. Uncle’s words seemed to stir them. One by one, and casting regretful glances over their shoulders, they began to move towards the door.

  MacBain retrieved his cloak. ‘Pastor, I’ll share your lantern on the walk back, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Aye, as long as you don’t mind travelling at a slow pace. I’m not cut out for running about the glen in the middle of the night.’

  * * *

  By the time we reached home, light was breaking in the east, and Uncle sighed. He looked down at the dew soaking the bottom of his cloak.

  ‘Not much time for sleep, John, and no breakfast until after kirk.’

  ‘Well, Uncle, you’d best ready yourself for a busy few moons.’

  ‘Aye, knowing how men’s minds work, furred demons will no doubt be appearing left and right for weeks to come.’

  The barber-surgeon sniggered. ‘There might be a grain of truth in it. And it’s no wonder the devil has chosen to call on these parts.’

  Uncle looked at MacBain. ‘Why on earth would the dark saint bother himself in this corner of the world when there’s whole continents lacking any Christian guidance?’

  ‘Well, let me enlighten you, Pastor, but telling tales is thirsty work.’

  ‘Very well, MacBain, come in and wet your whistle. I suppose there’ll be no kirk for you, so it won’t matter whether you’re fasted or not.’

  ‘Just right, Pastor, just right.’

  When we went inside, Uncle and MacBain sat down, and I started banking up the fire.

  ‘John, a drink for the barber-surgeon, if you will? It’s been an arduous night for all concerned.’

  I straightened my back and made to pour ale from the jug, but MacBain caught my eye and so I carried over a tot of whisky instead. The man pressed his fingers to the top of my arm by way of thanks. He took a gulp of the whisky and it brought colour to his wan cheeks. Then he made great play of rubbing his hands together in front of the fire, Nosewise at his feet. Uncle frowned at the dog’s infidelity, but I was glad not to be the recipient of the vile beast’s affections for once.

  MacBain settled back. ‘Here’s the thing, why, when there are so many unchristian countries scattered about, would the devil choose to ignore those heathens and pick on us?’

  Uncle opened his mouth to object, but the barber-surgeon waved him away and continued.

  ‘Because the devil has no interest in them that’s never been touched by God’s hand. The devil’s not concerned with the godless, for he already owns their misbegotten souls. He’s only interested in taking back those who may have been touched by the hand of God – therein lies his filthy victory.’

  MacBain cast his eyes at me. Doubtless, the charlatan was checking I was suitably shocked. I was shocked, but feigned boredom. MacBain made the most of the interlude by packing his pipe and lighting it with a cinder from the fire, puffing away until the pipe took hold of the flame.

  Finally, Uncle James broke the silence. ‘What a lot of rot, MacBain, and you’ve robbed me of a tot of whisky to hear it. And what was all that in aid of up at the Cummins’ place, you old piece of mendacity?’

  The barber-surgeon’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Pastor.’

  ‘MacBain, you know fine well that the Cummins woman is sick. Clearly, she was just having some sort of fit, which you’re more than capable of mending with a few shakes of this and that from the pouches hanging from your belt.’

  At this, the barber-surgeon drained his glass and smirked at Uncle. ‘Aye, of course, but you don’t get paid nearly so much for fixing a fit as you do for ridding a body of the devil himself. Now, a man of the cloth should know that better than anyone.’

  6

  Jane

  Sleeping Flowers

  Sometimes in summer, it was hard to know what to do with all the daylight hours. Mam had no messages for me to run, and making daisy chains no longer appealed, so I sat quietly in a sunny spot in the garden, watching the daisies and determining to see with my own eyes when the flowers went to sleep.

  Even though the shadows lengthened and the evening grew cooler, there was no detectable movement from the flowers. Perhaps they only moved when there was no one watching because they always closed their eyes and slept every night. But it seemed in the half-light of dusk that I must have taken an extra-long blink. In that sliver of time, the daisies must have bade goodnight to one another since their petals were now drawn close around them.

  I went inside to ask the Reverend, as it was unlikely he had much to do either. Mam was occupied with her sewing and Reverend Foster was hunched over his writing desk, but he wasn’t writing. Praying Mam didn’t look up and see me, I tiptoed to the desk and stood next to the Reverend until he looked up.

  ‘Yes, Jane?’

  Mam’s head snapped up as soon as he spoke. ‘Jane! Don’t bother the Reverend when he’s busy. Come away.’

  ‘Oh, I could use the break, Annie, my sermon eludes me. Come, Jane, what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Reverend Foster, the flowers keep going to sleep without me noticing. How can I see them opening and closing?’

  ‘Ah. Truly a mighty problem. Perhaps mightier than trying to write my sermon. Let me ponder it …’

  I concentrated on not fidgeting while the Reverend thought. Mam often explained that it made him cross.

  ‘I think the only way to observe them properly is with ink and paper. Draw quick sketches and sketch a new picture every few moments. Trust your eyes and draw only what you see. By looking back through the sketches, you’ll see the flower’s movements.’

  Although this wasn’t a heartening instruction, I scrubbed the doubt from my face. ‘But, Reverend, that will take even longer than looking at them. When I’m looking at my paper, they’ll quickly c
lose their eyes. And I haven’t even got any paper, only my slate.’

  He reached into his desk. ‘Take these scraps saved from my schoolboys. They’ve practised conjugating their verbs on one side, but you can use the other. And you may mix some ink, but fetch it straight back afterwards.’

  The small squares of paper were filled with close and spidery writing, but I couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

  ‘Off you go, Jane. Now, let me get back to my sermon.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend. Since you’re so often right, I’ll try it. But I’ll practise with my slate first so I don’t waste your paper and ink.’

  I lay in front of the fire, clutching my slate and drawing. Tongue clenched between teeth, I rubbed and scratched. The sound drew Reverend Foster and he put down his breviary with a thump.

  ‘Annie, is it not time for Jane’s bed?’

  The candle wasn’t yet half-burnt, but Mam gathered her sewing together anyway. ‘Come, Jane, time for bed.’

  But I began to rub and scribble faster.

  ‘Jane! Do not defy your mother.’

  ‘Sorry, Reverend Foster.’ With downcast eyes, I left my slate and allowed Mam to shepherd me to bed.

  * * *

  The next evening, propped against the reassuring bark of the rowan tree, I started drawing a daisy. Its face was upturned to the sun and its white petals were held out in supplication. It wasn’t as detailed as I’d have liked, but I placed the paper under a stone for safekeeping. The next drawing didn’t appear much different, but Reverend Foster had made me promise to trust my eyes and draw only what I saw to reveal the truth.

  By the time Mam came outside to seek me, I was straining my eyes to complete the drawing of the newly closed daisy. Its pink undersides now reached for the moon. And its own internal sun was tucked away until morning.

  ‘Jane, you should have been in long since. The bats are out now and you’re lucky they haven’t tangled in your hair.’

  How had I not noticed their silent swooping? There were goose pimples on my arms.

  ‘Sorry, Mam, but I’ve nearly got it and I want to show Cuthbert.’

  ‘Not tonight, maid, for Reverend Foster is writing his sermon, and you’ve disturbed him enough of late. Come on, milk and bed. Your flowers will keep.’

  * * *

  First thing in the morning, I was back outside, wrapped in a shawl and trying to keep the paper clear of the morning dew. Reverend Foster stuck his head out of the door and haled me.

  ‘Jane, don’t let your mother catch you getting damp clothes. What are you about at this time of the morning? Has the fox been in at the hens again?’

  ‘No, Reverend, they’re all well. Sir Jack is protecting his ladies as well as ever. I’m still trying to see when the flower changes. One minute it’s one thing and the next it’s something else.’

  He laughed. ‘When you’ve finished, bring your drawings to me and we’ll work it out together.’

  I reversed the process, watching the daisy yawn, stretch and open herself to absorb the strengthening sun. But it still seemed impossible to grasp that moment of change. Each time, it slipped through my fingers, whether they were holding a quill or not. When I finally went inside, the Reverend was flicking back and forth in his Bible and making notes.

  ‘That’s such a lovely sound, Reverend, the pages rustling. Might I have a turn?’

  ‘Go on then, you have a turn while I look at your drawings. Only mind you don’t tear the pages. Look, spread your pictures out here.’

  He cleared a space on his desk and I set out my drawings.

  ‘You see, Reverend, the flower changes from open to shut and then open again, but it’s impossible to see the change. Perhaps I have slow eyes.’

  He studied the drawings closely. ‘These are exquisite drawings, Jane, and you’ve a gift for recording nature most faithfully. If your eyes are slow, your hands are deft enough.’

  But I wasn’t interested in compliments, only in finding out at what point one thing became another. While waiting, I flicked through the Bible with my fingernail, watching the centuries rushing past with the rustle that only thin Bible paper could create. Although my feet managed to keep still, my toes wriggled, willing the Reverend to hurry up. Eventually, he turned to me and held out his hand.

  ‘Jane, give me my Bible and pick up your drawings in the order you drew them.’ He placed one piece of paper on top of the other, squaring the corners as he went. ‘Grip the left-hand side firmly and fan them under your fingernail as you just did with the Bible.’

  It took a few tries to manage it because the paper was quite coarse. But once I got the hang of it, the daisy furled and unfurled her petals, and I repeated the action many times.

  ‘Reverend, this is wonderful, thank you!’

  ‘What does this tell you, Jane? Think before you answer.’

  I continued flicking the paper. ‘That there’s no time when the daisy isn’t changing. She’s always moving.’ I looked up to seek reassurance that this was right, and the Reverend nodded. ‘But why can’t I see this when I look at the daisy?’

  ‘Because, Jane, we have such impatient eyes. We think everything must move at the same speed as us. But sometimes, we need to slow right down or speed right up if we are to see things as they truly are.’

  He was using his sermon voice. It was harder to like him so much then because it was harder to understand him. His words sounded as though he was telling a story, but the way he said them disguised the meaning. I began to twirl a lock of my hair, and then stooped to pick up Gyb, who was coiling himself around my legs. The Reverend paused.

  ‘So, Jane, what it means is that everything around us is moving and changing all the time. Kittens grow into cats. Little girls grow into women. And young men grow into old men.’

  This made me laugh. ‘You’re not old, Reverend, you’re barely old enough to wear the vestments – that’s what Meg Wetherby says, anyway.’

  He rubbed Gyb’s ears and stood up. ‘Ah, well, Meg is one to be listened to, so she must be right. Come, put Gyb down and tidy your pictures away. Then you can race me to the church as I’m so young today.’

  ‘But what about Mam?’

  ‘Let her sleep. Your mother was up all night with Driver’s wife.’

  I fell into step beside him as we crossed the graveyard.

  ‘And how does the Drivers’ baby go?’

  ‘God has taken the little girl to His breast. Goodwife Driver’s fate rests in God’s hands. Your mother can do no more.’

  My shoulders drooped. It was unbearable to imagine the Drivers’ tiny daughter in heaven. There was a question in my mind, but it might sound like I doubted God’s word and that might mean I was destined for hell. But it worried me that God took babies and mothers so often unto His breast. And yet in winter, people didn’t go straight to heaven, but went instead into the cold crypt. It was easy to hide behind the big tombstones and watch Bill and Tom Verger carrying people on boards, wrapped in old sacking. The dead people all stayed down there until spring. It was horrible thinking of babies down there, especially those without their mothers. It made me shiver just thinking about it.

  ‘Jane, are you cold?’

  ‘No, I was just thinking that I don’t like the crypt.’

  ‘Well, Jane, I don’t much like it, either.’

  ‘Bill Verger must be used to it, but his Tom pulls strange faces, especially when the ground thaws and they carry people back up for burial. Reverend, do the crypt people get fly-blown like meat that hasn’t stayed properly cold?’

  He cast his eyes towards the crypt and then back at me. ‘Well, perhaps that’s enough chatter, for now. It’s time for me to think on my sermon.’

  There was always a nasty smell in the air at the start of spring and the Reverend used more incense than we could afford because Mam was always telling him off. The nasty smell was the same as when I’d found our last cat, dead and rotting in the mint garden. Mam said the cat must have been poisoned be
cause she’d have been picked clean otherwise.

  ‘Reverend, why would anyone poison a cat? Do you remember our first Gyb? She took herself off with a bellyful of kittens, to make herself ready. The kits hadn’t even seen daylight, and they lay dead and stinking inside Gyb’s gut.’

  ‘Jane! What madness whirls through your mind? Have you no errands to busy you? I must think on my sermon.’

  ‘Sorry, Reverend. But it’s summer and I’m glad because the Drivers’ baby will be put into the warm earth and her tiny soul will fly straight to heaven.’

  Reverend Foster stopped walking and looked at me. ‘Is that what this has all been about? Come, we’ll run the race I promised you, and then we’ll say a special prayer and light a candle for the Drivers’ child.’

  * * *

  Mam needed eggs, so I went out to see to the hens. I held a warm egg in each hand and placed them into the basket before ducking into the coop. The hens ruffled themselves while the cock strutted about outside, keeping a wary eye on me.

  ‘Don’t mind me, Sir Jack, your pretty ladies will all be left in peace shortly. Sh, ladies, it’s only me, don’t make such a fuss.’

  Back in the kitchen, Mam took the basket from me, removed each egg, wiped it clean and placed it in a crock.

  ‘Oh, Mam, you look so pale. You’ve been out all night again. That’s twice this week. Are you tired?’

  ‘Aye, Jane, I’m ready for my bed. The Green baby was very hard to deliver.’

  ‘Why?’

  My mother flinched and crossed her fingers behind her back, but I still saw her and wondered whether it was for luck, or to save her soul against telling a lie.

  ‘Oh, because of the mother’s age – she’s not the right age for birthing. It was difficult, with only the girls to help.’

  ‘But, Mam, you should have woken me up. I could have helped. And I haven’t seen May for ages.’

  ‘No, Jane. Green didn’t even want me there, let alone you. But little Tilly ran over in the night for me. Green himself was fast asleep after too much ale. The man wants hanging.’