The Book of Witching, page 2
‘Why?’ Beatrice asks, puzzled. ‘Will he be cross?’
‘Yes, but not with you.’
‘With who, then?’
‘Grandmother,’ Edward answers.
I head across ice-hardened fields under a glancing white sky, the mountain’s round head blanched by a scree of cloud. The weather is wild again this morning, hard rain driving sideways as I make for the brae where my mother’s cottage stands. Much of Orkney’s land is fen, swamp, mire, sinuous lines of sandstone and basalt rimming the coastlines. But Gunn is heavily forested, copses and boscages undulating through deep valleys to the cliffs. Storms have rendered this woodland treacherously muddy, tree roots roping across the path. The old wych elm that marks a hundred paces to the pool has shed its golden leaves, standing naked save its fresh coat of lichen and beard of rooty branches. I am mindful always when I take this path of the coal seam that runs alongside the path, the signature of a dead forest from long ago. I appreciate the black line of it, the afterlife of all the trees and leaves that once flourished like the wych elm providing warmth and light in our homes so many years on.
I have been wary and cautious since I was a bairn. The only one of my mother’s six weans to survive past adolescence, I sense I was her least favourite, or the one who inherited the fewest of her traits. I am more like my father was – quiet, preferring to wander the halls of my own mind than those of any dwelling wrought of stone or wood. My mother is bold as a wildcat, born for war – our family heralds both from the old clans of Orkney and the Vikings that usurped them, and surely my mother would feel at home on a longship, wielding an axe. Her nickname for me is ‘peerie moose’, which means ‘small mouse’, on account of how quiet I was as a child. Or at least, that was how she explained it. She said I had a penchant for both hiding away from her and keeping so still and so quiet that I could never be found. I would both infuriate and scare her half to death, slipping inside a bale of rushes or a coffer while she called my name, frantic. When she shares such tales – laughing at the memory of it while using it to illustrate what a torment I was as a child – I wonder why my younger self sought to worry her so. I must have heard the fear in her voice as I hid in the dark, quiet as a rock.
The Triskele is the oldest clan in all of Scotland and, I daresay, the whole wide earth. This is not the main characteristic of the Triskele, however – rather, it is the knowledge and practice of old magic that the Triskele is known for. And while magic is as pervasive as the grass in the fields and the leaves on the trees, the Triskele are the only clan to be entrusted with the most important of magical artefacts – the Book of Witching. And it is this I witnessed my children swearing to carry last night, by screaming their own fears and darkness into its pages. Many who are initiated to carry the Book of Witching are not called upon to do so, but my mother is the chosen Carrier for this generation, and she foresaw that I would be next, and then my children.
But I left. I told the Triskele that I was no longer a member, tearing the cloak they made for my initiation in two. And my mother has never forgotten it.
She is not alone when I arrive, judging from the donkey tied up in the byre. I consider turning around and heading home until I can speak to her without company, but she pulls back the wolfskin from her front door and waves to me.
‘Good morrow, Alison.’
She is smiling, and I see her mood is fair. She is bright-eyed, despite the sleepless night, on account of the clay pipe in her mouth. A long black braid of hair sits over her shoulder like a pet snake – she refuses to wear a coif or forehead cloth, though she knows well it sets the gossips’ tongues ablaze – and she wears her woollen shawl the colour of poppies, a forbidden colour for peasants like us. The sumptuary laws state that only the rich may wear such colours, and by wearing her shawl my mother risks a fine of ten pounds a day and three months’ imprisonment. But, as ever, she does not give a damn.
‘Come inside, Alison,’ she calls, blowing a thick cloud of pungent tobacco smoke in my direction. ‘I have fresh oatcakes in the pot.’
I follow after, finding a young man sitting by the fire. A client, come to seek my mother’s assistance with an ailment or affliction. I wonder if he is local to Orkney, or if he has travelled from afar. Her clay pipe was payment from a Frenchman who sailed from Normandy to procure a spell for plentiful rain for his new vineyard.
‘This is Gilbert,’ she tells me, as though I should know who Gilbert is. She gives him a stern look. ‘That wax won’t stir itself.’
He reacts with a start, leaning forward to a pot on the stove that bubbles with liquid wax.
‘This is my daughter, Alison,’ she tells Gilbert. ‘She is also a witch.’
She winks at me, for she knows I do not like the term. These days there is a new meaning put upon it that chills my blood. It is a mere two years since the king put scores of people to death in North Berwick for apparently driving storms across the North Sea while he traversed upon his ship, declaring them witches, and invoking the Bible’s command to kill anyone who is one. Many of the witches were women, and the king has made it known that he believes women and girls to be more inclined to Satan’s wiles than men. Every week since, the Sunday sermons declare witches to be a scourge permitted by God to separate the wheat from the tares. And yet the parson himself visits my mother seeking magic for his humours, for charms to rid his well of rot, for his dreams.
I cannot remember a time when the divide between magic that is of God and that deemed of Satan was so entangled, so difficult to discern. It is said the king has his own magicians, and his own witches, and that he consults with them and seeks their counsel. And yet, he declares that witches must be put to death. It is maddening to think upon.
I sit upon the old oak coffer in the corner by the pig, who lies on a bed of rushes. He is too old for anything but slumber, and prefers to be indoors with my mother. Worse is his name – he is called Magnus, which offends almost everyone who discovers it, aghast that Magnus the Viking earl, Magnus the patron saint of Orkney, now shares his good name with a pig. But my mother is inclined to such things as offence for its own sake. And, she will tell anyone who listens, St Magnus’ forefathers usurped the islands of Orkney from the Triskele, claiming power that was not his to wield. It is proper, she’ll say, that a pig adopts his name.
‘Here,’ Mother says, passing me a cup of Malvoisie. ‘It’s sweetened with sugar. Just as you like it.’
She sits on a stool next to Gilbert, and passes him a handful of herbs, pebbles, and berries. ‘Crush these up and drop them into the wax,’ she tells him. I know what comes next. Gilbert is making a wax figurine of someone he wishes to love him, or perhaps someone to whom he wishes harm. I still know the words of the spell. He will need something that belongs to the person. A lock of hair, or a piece of clothing. Perhaps a tooth, or a small bone.
I watch as he removes a cotton sack from his pocket and takes out a small white button. He looks at it tenderly, then glances at me.
‘My son’s,’ he says. ‘He has chincough.’
I draw a sharp breath – my own son was poorly with chincough, ten years ago this winter. I am not certain this spell will work against such sickness. It did not work for me.
None of the spells worked. He was named William, after his father. Just eleven months older than Edward. They were such great friends, and Edward looked up to him enormously. We buried William on a wild, wet day such as this, in the graveyard in Gunn. Edward was so young that I thought – or hoped – he would forget his older brother. But even now, he will murmur his name in his sleep.
Once Gilbert has fashioned the hot wax into a shape resembling his son and uttered the spell, he pays my mother with a bag of coins and leaves. I wait until I hear the clop of the donkey’s hooves on the path before challenging my mother.
I waste no time on pleasantries. ‘I saw you,’ I tell her. ‘Last night. In the glen.’
She bends to sweep remnants of wax from the floor. ‘I know you did.’
‘You took the children without telling me. My children. You came into my home and took them in the middle of the night.’
She cranes her head up and stares at me. I swore to myself that I would not let ire overtake me. That I would speak with her in a calm manner, and not debase myself with fury.
But I feel undone by it.
She shrugs. ‘Well, if you saw it, why didn’t you speak?’
I don’t offer an answer.
‘I thought that if you’d wanted to join us, you would have said something.’ She smiles, and I feel a heat rise up the back of my neck. She is using pleasantries to disarm me, to deflect from the wrong she did against me last night.
‘Gilbert should have come to see you about the matter with his bairn,’ she says, scraping the pieces of wax into a sack. ‘You always were the better witch.’
I tut. ‘I am no witch.’
‘No?’
‘I am a spaewife.’
‘Same thing, no?’
‘You know very well they are not the same.’
She throws me a knowing smile, and for a moment I see my daughter’s face staring back. ‘A spaewife, eh? When Dougal Netherlee wanted to spare his cattle from the pestilence, who did he ask for help?’
‘It was many years ago,’ I say quietly.
‘He said, “I wish to find the greatest witch in Orkney,” did he not? And that brought him to you.’
I look askance, my cheeks flushing. I do not wish to be reminded of this.
‘And you put a cross upon each of the cows’ foreheads, all sixty-nine of them. And how many did die?’
I sigh. She has told this story a number of times. Interjection only makes her say it louder.
‘None,’ she says, wagging her finger. ‘Not a single one of Master Netherlee’s cows died of the pest. Because of you.’
‘I also put a cross on my own cow,’ I tell her bitterly. ‘And that did not stop her throat being slit a few nights before last. You understand, Mother?’
‘Understand?’
‘That magic does not and cannot meddle with the actions of men.’
‘Oh yes it does,’ she says. ‘And you know very well that a single hex can change everything. It can change history. It can undo what has been done.’
She speaks fiercely, and I lower my head. ‘Only if the person hexing is seemly.’
She falls silent, because I am right – a spell or a hex is much, much more than talent, or a sack of ingredients. It is more than wax or teeth or locks of hair. It is why my own spells to save my children did not work, despite my best intentions. Some magic requires circumstance; it only works if the sorcerer is in love, or with child. Some work only if the sorcerer is a murderer, or a priest. There is still much about magic that we do not know.
‘You know the children will tell William,’ I tell her. ‘And he will be furious.’
‘Perhaps he should join the Triskele.’
I make a noise of shock. The very thought of it!
‘You know William would never.’
‘Never is a very long time, lass.’
‘His concern is with the rebels,’ I say, bristling. ‘As the Triskele’s should be.’
‘The Triskele is concerned with the situation.’
‘Concerned? Will this concern take the form of action?’
‘Timing is of the essence,’ she says with a smile. ‘You will see.’
I shake my head. ‘You must not draw Edward in.’ Then, in case she thought I was not serious: ‘As his mother, I will not allow it.’
‘And why not?’ she says. ‘Joining the Triskele is a great honour …’
‘By teaching him this art, you are placing a weapon in his hands. And you are making him a target. You know what the king has done.’
She gives a scoff. ‘We are all targets. The king has decided that magic caused the storm that almost killed him. But this is folly, Alison. We all practise magic. Even the king practises magic! Perhaps he should put himself on trial.’
She says it with a sweep of her arm and a wild laugh, but I cannot join her. The image of my children screaming into the book sends chills up my spine. They have a solemn responsibility, now. The book may choose them to carry it. There are stories yet of the book driving its Carriers mad, whispering dark impulses. There are tales of Carriers murdering their families. The book, they would say later, drove them to it. The evil emanating from it is hard to resist, even for a Carrier.
‘It’s a heavy burden to carry, Mother. And Beatrice is only six.’
‘All of our family have been initiated into the Triskele since …’ she waves a hand, though does not finish her sentence.
I fold my arms. ‘You are forgetting that I left the Triskele.’
She breaks the pieces of wax into the pot, ready to be melted a second time. Then she holds me in a look of piety. ‘Oh, Alison. We both know nobody leaves the Triskele.’ She leans closer, a twinkle in her eye. ‘The book knows, too. And it will come for you. When you’re ready.’
CHAPTER THREE
Glasgow, Scotland
May 2024
CLEM
Clem is watching the birds when the landline rings.
The raven that visited the garden yesterday is back, an ominous presence on the fence dividing Clem’s little plot from next door. But today, it seems to have fallen foul of a gang of jackdaws. It’s mesmerising, this sudden stand-off on her patio between the large, black birds, and even though the baby is sleeping she lets the handset burr, plucking her mobile phone to record the raven backing away from the feeder as the five jackdaws squeal and lurch at it. Suddenly it unfolds its magnificent black wings and flies off to settle on next door’s roof.
Clem hits ‘stop’ and makes for the landline bleeping by the sofa. It’ll be one of her bosses calling, either the school office where she works during the day or the café where she works at night, asking her to do overtime. Or maybe it’s her daughter Erin calling home. Erin is nineteen and is currently hiking in the Orkney Islands with her boyfriend Arlo and her best friend, Senna. Erin is a prolific sender of WhatsApps, usually in the form of TikToks that she shares with Clem to make her laugh. But she’s not sent anything since Monday, which was four days ago, and the WhatsApp message Clem sent yesterday morning (hey love, you OK?) is still unread.
‘Hello?’
‘Am I speaking with Clementine Woodbury?’
‘Yes?’
It’s not Erin, nor is it either of Clem’s bosses. The caller is a man. Probably someone trying to sell her broadband. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘My name is Doctor Miller and I’m calling from the burns unit at Glasgow Royal Infirmary. Can I check that I’m speaking with Clementine?’
The Royal Infirmary? Burns unit? Why would they be calling? ‘Yes, yes it is,’ she says, the heat in her neck rising. ‘Why are you calling, please?’
‘It’s about your daughter, Erin. Can I ask if you have someone with you just now?’
Her stomach clenches. ‘What’s happened?’ she says. ‘Is she OK?’
‘Erin is in the Intensive Care Unit,’ he says, his tone shifting, steady, authoritative. ‘I’m sorry to say she has suffered extensive burns on her arms and legs.’
‘Oh my God,’ she says, reaching out to the wall to steady herself.
‘The air ambulance delivered her here earlier this morning. We’ve placed her in a medical coma for now.’
This news lands like a pickaxe to Clem’s heart. ‘But she’s alive?’
‘Yes, she is.’
It feels as though the frame of the house is tipping towards the core of the earth. In the small box room at the end of the hall she can hear the baby stirring, calling out, ‘Mama! Mama!’
‘Just a minute, Freya,’ she calls, before turning back to the handset. ‘What happened?’ she asks. Then, hastily: ‘Can I come and see her?’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘But … please be prepared. It can be a huge shock seeing someone after they’ve experienced burn injuries. I’ll meet you at reception and take you to her.’
The Royal Glasgow Infirmary is where Erin was born on a wet September morning in 2004. Clem races blindly now through the front entrance, fifteen-month-old Freya bouncing on her hip. Clem is wearing odd shoes, forgot to put on her glasses, didn’t lock the front door, or the car door. None of it matters, none of it. The world has fallen away once more, distilled entirely to the length and breadth of her daughter’s life.
The man waiting at the reception of the ICU is younger than she’d envisaged. He doesn’t offer a handshake, calls her Clementine, looks at the baby, puzzled.
‘Where is Erin?’ she asks, breathless and numb.
He nods at a small room to their left, and she follows, her confusion mounting when she finds it is a storeroom. He hands her what looks like a yellow bin bag. ‘Burns victims are at a high risk of infection. This is for her protection.’
Now, she realises – the yellow bag is a plastic gown which he ties for her at the back before handing her a pair of blue latex gloves.
A nurse appears, her eyes settling on Freya. ‘Shall I look after the little one while you go in?’ she asks.
Clem nods and passes Freya to her, who fusses. Usually she would console her, but her focus is too fixed, elsewhere. As she snaps on the gloves she feels a fierce tightness in her chest, as though her ribs are being pulled together like a corset. She stops, taking a moment to breathe, breathe.
‘Are you OK?’ the nurse asks, and she nods, pressing a hand to her chest, feeling the stuttering of her heart.
‘I’m on medication,’ she says, feeling the tightness begin to ease. ‘For my heart.’
‘Which medication?’
The names of her prescription pills slip and slide through her mind, muddied with panic.
‘Um, entresto and metoprolol.’
‘Well, you’re in the right place, darling,’ the nurse says. ‘You want to make a note of your dosage and I can fetch it for you?’
