Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  Something trickled from the corner of my mouth while Mam dabbed with the end of her shawl. Then there was cool liquid in the other side of my mouth, where it ran backward. It clogged my dry throat and I spluttered.

  ‘There, Jane. It’ll bring comfort and take away your pain. See how peaceful you look.’

  But there was a catch in Mam’s voice and there was pressure on my hand as she squeezed hard. My brain told my hand to squeeze back, but nothing moved. The toxic broth crept through my veins and sucked its way through the dark pathways of my body until it exploded in my brain. Then I plunged into the swirling black again.

  * * *

  Everything sounded muffled and very far off. It was exhausting for me to listen.

  ‘It can’t be very long, Andrew. You can leave the fire.’

  ‘Then one of us must fetch the Reverend, Jane mustn’t pass unblessed.’ There was panic in Andrew’s voice.

  Mam tried to comfort him. ‘There’s no time, Andrew. Besides, she’s been blessed on most of the days of her life …’

  Then Andrew again. ‘Don’t cry, Annie. It comes to us all. I just wish she didn’t have to suffer like this. It must be frightening, lying there waiting to die, especially knowing you’re unblessed. Can’t you say something? You know the words. And you’re a midwife – you’re allowed to do it for mothers and bairns – go on.’

  ‘It’s not words that matter at a time like this. All I can do is hold Jane’s hand and pray that her onward path is a kind one. I’m just glad she has someone with her. Sorry, Jane, we shouldn’t talk about you as if you’re not here. I think you can still hear us, can’t you, Jane? Look at you, my own sweet girl.’

  From afar, I felt Mam’s tears running down my hot face.

  * * *

  It was still windy because the window rattled. It must be late afternoon, because it was light outside my eyelids, so the sun must be very bright. It was lovely to feel the sun on my face again. My eyelids were light pink, but every so often, a black shadow crossed for a little while. It must be the clouds scudding. Then a big cloud crossed the sky and its dark twin slid over the earth, bringing shivery cold and darkness to everything it touched. Turning light green to grey, turning dark green to grey. Stripping colour in seconds. But these shadows wouldn’t stay long. I could chase them away, these ghostly butterflies.

  Everything felt slower, thicker. It was harder to pull my thoughts together; they were bleeding out of me, somehow. Everything was hot and dry. I could hear the jagged edges of my own breath and feel the jagged edges of my body, which felt like it had been ripped in two. My hands were being held. My right was in a soft hand. I could smell fennel. Mam. My left hand was in a hard hand. Tom. It must be Tom.

  ‘Jane, wake up, come back. Look, Annie, she was nearly back.’

  ‘Tom.’ I gargled for breath. ‘Tom.’ But nothing came out. There was a cold waft of air as the door opened and then slammed shut.

  ‘Oh, Jane, please don’t go, the baby needs you so much!’ Mam’s voice. ‘And Andrew needs you too.’

  Andrew. Not Tom. Tom was dead. I could go to Tom. My old colours were leaving me, the ones that I’d worn all my life, the pinks, yellows, purples and reds. And now the new ones, the blues and greens, were pushing them aside, getting me ready for a new place, with Tom. But what about the baby? Rose. I’d promised Tom. Under the darkening sky, the big shadow of night seeped into me, blackening my blood. The saliva gathered in my mouth – saltpetre.

  Part Three

  25

  John

  Infestation

  After my dealings with George Campbell and the barber-surgeon, I’d felt well-equipped to carry out God’s work more effectively. Armed with my holy instrument, it was hard even for the most learned magistrate to argue with the evidence before his eyes. Once I’d pricked a witch and she’d failed to bleed, there was no explaining it away, no matter how many clever words were used.

  At first, I’d worked in those areas too far out of the way for George Campbell to take himself. In this way, I quickly earned a reputation, with word spreading fast from village to village. And because I always tried to make myself available, the suddenly arranged lay sessions could be accommodated. What really set me apart was that I didn’t wait to be summonsed to a village to deal with witches already found. I could go to any village in the land and pick out the witches. My eye was keen and I became renowned for detecting witches in villages that were ignorant of their problem until I arrived and helped them realise it. Once I’d unlocked the secret knowledge of George Campbell and his ilk, it was possible to undertake God’s work to greater effect. Within only a few short months, I’d ridded His earth of many sullied souls. With God’s grace, I’d have years and strength enough to continue this work.

  * * *

  I opened my door to an English sergeant, who was richly dressed, considering his lowly position and the heat.

  ‘John Sharpe, sire? I am Sergeant Nicholson. Following a petition from the men of Newcastle demanding the destruction of an unholy presence in our town, I have been sent to Scotland to seek you.’

  My heart soared at this news. Soon, I’d be let loose to restore purity to another country. Finally, my moment had come. I would be the man to cross the border to rid the English of their diabolical scourge.

  The sergeant handed me a scroll, which carried the town seal of Newcastle. It made my heart swell that my name had become known in England, but I immediately castigated myself for this misplaced pride. It was God’s hand that guided me. Any grace accorded me belonged to God, and it was important not to fill myself with vain pomp, but to remember that my mission was in God’s name and for His salvation, not mine.

  I nodded to the man. ‘I’ll come at once, Sergeant Nicholson. The fair town of Newcastle must have lost its moral centre if it has to send so far afield for a witch-finder to rid itself of a hellish infestation.’

  The sergeant took back the scroll. ‘Well, I’ll need a fresh horse, as I’ve fair ridden the legs off this one.’

  I shook my head. ‘You must put up somewhere for the night. I can make my own way to Newcastle. I’m on God’s errand and He’ll light my path for me.’

  The sergeant glowered, but didn’t speak again and just led his horse in the direction indicated by me. There was no time to pray – plenty of time for that once I arrived in Newcastle – and I selected only what was necessary for the journey. My favoured bodkins and my Bible – to keep me focused and clear-eyed in my work. These were the only tools necessary, along with my finest clothes, which were needed because God’s work should be carried out by a man worthy of a town’s respect. I took my best boots, my thick cloak and a strong sack to carry everything in. Then I rode out, certain that my destiny awaited me in England.

  Even so, I was surprised to be chosen by the men of Newcastle. Clearly, news of my work along the border had travelled that far south. It was a perilous journey to Newcastle, but I was keen to make it. If so many witches could secretly bide in the God-fearing hamlets of Scotland, how many more could be hidden away in the sinful towns and cities of England? It was my duty to take this journey. And any silver gained could be invested to protect poorer villages who couldn’t afford to offer a bounty.

  Perhaps, once the witches were cleared from Newcastle, my reputation might proceed to York and then to London. That hotbed of wickedness must surely bear the greatest infestation of witches in all of England, if not the known world.

  Now that my reputation as witch-finder had grown fearsome and I was properly equipped with the tools to serve God, I’d make sure no witch slithered through the fingers of justice. These women were anointed in the loathsome juices of Satan and it sickened me when I thought of what I’d lost at their hands. But it was vital not to let bitterness grow in me. I worked hard to ensure that my loathing was driven into the hunting down and destruction of evil.

  Now, there was this invitation from Englishmen, praying me to visit their town and rid the place of accursed witches
. This was enticement enough for me to cross the border. But I was neither naïve, nor complacent, knowing that in certain quarters, witchfinders were held to be little better than the women they tried. But I was different, being lit from within by the flame of righteousness. The flame purified me and made me fit for my station. Since swearing my oath to free Scotland of this dread scourge, I’d kept myself chaste in thought and word and deed. I’d lain with no woman, had swallowed no strong drink and had abstained from bloody meat. The flesh fell from me until my bones glowed through my tautening skin.

  That my sparseness made my resemblance to my father more obvious was somewhat troubling. But since enough time had passed, it was possible to see that my father was surely a man more sinned against than sinning. After all, he had lost his wife through dark forces, and so had I. His mistreatment of me was surely misguided. The man had blamed me for killing my mother in childbirth and had taken out his sorrow on me. I still bore scars from his hands and feet, but now, I could see that he was also a victim of these vile witches. And it was still in my mind that Dora Shaw had contributed to his death. In truth, I should add him to my list of lost souls who must be avenged.

  * * *

  During my first meeting with the Newcastle aldermen, I asked them to pray with me. It gave me a feeling of honour and respect. Now secure in their confidence in me, I set out my plans and they confirmed their price. Indeed, so keen were the aldermen to be rid of their scourge, that they agreed to pay twenty shillings per witch, with no limit as to numbers. So I’d round up as many witches as possible before good sense – or good accounting – set in. Their coffers must be bulging, for Newcastle was a town with money, that much was clear.

  I set out my needs. Along with two horses, a cart, ropes, chains and a hand bell, I’d take two sergeants. Eight more sergeants would be sent to interrogate the guards at the town gates to see what suspicious women might be at large and where they were headed. Using this system, I intended to traverse the town, ringing my bell and inviting people to identify the witches in their midst. This wouldn’t be a hard job since the people of Newcastle had gone to the trouble of petitioning the common council. They would no doubt send out their witches in droves.

  Once the contract was sealed, I sought an inn and dined sparely on bread, cheese and weak ale before taking to my bed. In the morning, there was to be a public meeting with the magistrate. He’d introduce me to the townspeople, to show that he’d responded to their petition. I was keen to take to the streets, but I supposed it wouldn’t harm my cause to have a room full of fired-up men on my side. It was in my mind to round up a score of women for a score of shillings apiece. This would make a fine start to the proceedings, and the joiners had already been sent to hew the wood for the gallows. I’d grant the people of Newcastle freedom from evil, but I’d also give them a spectacle and make a name for myself in England.

  * * *

  The cart set off, drawn by the horses. I began tolling the bell to capture the attention of passers-by. We passed an ornate church, which I disdained. There was no need for ornament when it came to praising God. Honest and plain fare sufficed for the Lord. It was actions that pleased Him more than fancy tributes. I watched a woman walk by, fastened into a scold’s bridle – the metal contraption known as the branks. A well-deserved punishment for a gossiping woman. She would be a sensible place to start. If not a witch herself, her busy tongue might be persuaded to incriminate practising witches. I nodded to the sergeant in the cart, who then stepped down to speak to the man leading the scold. After showing the council’s writ, the man handed his charge to the sergeant.

  There was relief on the woman’s face as she was freed from her captor. A relief that would be short-lived, depending on the outcome of my talks with her. It didn’t take much to persuade these women to talk. I preferred not to have recourse to contraptions, as I’d heard terrible tales and their use seemed against God. I allowed myself only one instrument – the pricking device – beyond that, I relied purely upon nature and my own resources.

  The body was frail, after all, and women’s bodies more so, except when possessed by demons, which often lent women hellish strength. I preferred walking them and waking them, resorting only to swimming them when absolutely essential. Walking the witches rarely failed. Something in the rhythm of walking could move a body to talk. The monotony of step after step after step built a drumming in the head that somehow opened the mouths of these women. Finally, their secrets would spill, because the act of walking, walking, walking on God’s earth loosened the grip of the evil one long enough for confession to spill forth.

  Likewise, with waking. Often, witches slept deeply, which was when the devil occupied their soul most fully. While asleep, their bodies gained strength and vigour, fed by the demonic possession of their souls. By breaking a witch’s sleep, it was possible to weaken her body and also the devil’s grip on her soul. Waking and walking combined achieved the best effect. So I rarely resorted to swimming them as this only killed the innocent women, which struck me as unjust. I prided myself in my fair approach. Fairness in all things was my watchword. It was vital that no foul witch should escape her eternal justice. But neither did I want to send innocent women to untimely deaths without benefit of clergy.

  Sometimes, I had to supplement my waking and walking technique with other forms of persuasion, but these instances were few and far between, and only deemed necessary for the most stubborn of cases. It grieved me to cause pain to a virtuous woman, but I knew from long experience that women whose souls were occupied by God were lent strength by Him through the power of prayer. This strength shone from them, and at the pinnacle of their suffering, I was able to see into these upright women’s souls.

  Often, these women of virtue were proven innocent during the trial by nature of their bleeding once they’d been pricked. Aye, it was testing work, but God had chosen me for it. In spite of my sleepless nights, caused by the fear of making an innocent woman suffer, I had the satisfaction of freeing God’s lambs from the devil’s grip. It was my life’s work, and now I was here to share this gift with the English. I put my hand into my pouch and turned over the milk teeth there. The memory of losing my mother, my dog, my wife, my boy and even my much-wronged father renewed my resolve. Every time I put one of these witches to death, it brought me closer to my loved ones, lost though they may be.

  26

  Jane

  Elder Linctus

  Whether I was sowing, harvesting or preserving, the earth offered up her seasonal gifts at just the right time of year. So the elder tree offered her dark berries to make a glistening linctus that would prevent the ailments brought by the autumn mists and winter frosts. The purple syrup would barely have a chance to settle in the bottles before the damp weather started stealing in, bringing stiff bones, high fevers and wheezy chests.

  Mam often tried to persuade the village women to set by a store, but they seemed reluctant to tinker with what they didn’t know. Elder was treated with great suspicion – the dark berries much more so than the heady white flowers. But I loved elderberries and a snug feeling stole over me whenever we put a new batch of linctus away, knowing there was enough goodness to loosen chests and comfort folk all through the white months.

  There was a glut of early berries this year and I’d left Rose with Granny Driver so I could help Mam fill some bottles to exchange at the apothecary. The hardest part was getting the water, which meant going down to the hally well. There was clear water in our own well, but the hally well was renowned for its special properties and people came from near and far to take the waters. Really, it was no hardship going there, as it was situated on a long run of pretty riverbank and I had to resist the urge to while away the morning sitting on a flat rock, trailing my feet in the sparkling water of the Derwent.

  The afternoon before full moon was the best time to pick berries for healing, so I took my flat basket and the stout stick from the pantry. I needed to venture beyond home as elder wasn’t allo
wed in the garden because it throttled the daylight out of anything nearby. Superstitious folk said elder gave off a dangerous miasma, but perhaps she had to suck in so much goodness to produce her dark berries that there was just nothing left for anything else to grow.

  Down by the river, there was a large clearing, bordered on three sides by wooded banks and on the fourth by the river. In the middle were three hawthorn trees, sparkling with red berries, but they would have to wait a few more days. The best elders were those fringing the riverbank, which meant getting clarty, but the dense clumps of berries made it worthwhile. Carefully flattening the nettles and prickles with my stick, I gathered my skirts and squelched through mud to a thicket of berry-decked elders. I whispered my request for permission from Mother Elder and waited silently. Then, reaching for a branch festooned with berries, I worked quickly, plucking sprigs, but never too many from the same tree, always paying heed to Meg’s warning: ‘You may make two or three passes of the trees, but don’t stand picking away at one tree for any amount of time, for the elder has her own breath and who knows the toll she might take.’ So I kept moving, pausing to seek permission at each new tree. Soon, my fingers and wrists ran with purple juice, my arms ached and the basket creaked.

  ‘That’s enough. Thank you, ladies.’

  Satisfied that there were more than enough berries for my needs and plenty left for the insects, birds and gods of the forest, I picked my way back to the drier part of the meadow and set off up the hill.

  Mam was waiting for me. ‘Thanks for coming to help, Jane. Four hands are quicker than two. Here, let me take that basket from you while you catch your breath.’

  We stripped the berries from their stalks, removing every precious bead of goodness. The scarlet sprigs, which Meg had always assured me looked like the insides of lungs, I carried beyond the garden boundary and buried.