The Book of Witching, page 27
‘How long?’ Quinn asks.
‘A week, in the first instance,’ Dr Miller says.
Quinn contemplates that. ‘What if she’s as … out of sorts when she wakes as she is now?’
Dr Miller sighs. ‘I think psychiatric intervention will be needed,’ he says. ‘I don’t really feel I can give a full picture of that outcome. But let’s hope we don’t need it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Fynhallow, Isle of Gunn, Orkney
December 1594
ALISON
Mr Addis comes to fetch me from the dungeon, and I wrap my hands around the bars and pull myself to my feet before he can tug the chains or force me. If I am to die, I will face the flames without duress. For so long this has been my greatest fear, leaving my children alone. And now, they have neither their father nor their mother to look after them, and yet I will not let them believe I fear it.
‘Come on then,’ Mr Addis says. I look him over, wondering if he has no remorse, or conscience. I sense he is eager for the stake, that perhaps he has helped to build it, relishing the death that is to come there.
Father Colville is waiting in the atrium, his hands clasped and his head turned to the light.
‘Madam,’ he says mildly. ‘The carriage awaits us.’
It is a relief to step outside the castle into the December sunlight, strong and portentous. A crowd has gathered to watch me, the usual call of the chapel bell and the voices in the marketplace stilled as they stare, rows of them. Father Colville climbs up beside the driver while Mr Addis locks me inside the carriage.
‘Drive through the streets,’ I hear Father Colville say, and I know he wishes to make a show of me to the people of Kirkwall, letting them see that the evil that has lived amongst them is now to be wiped out, burned this day at the stake.
A loud cry of jeers rises up and the carriage is pummelled with stones. None of the stones reach me, though several find their way through the bars of the carriage door, landing at my feet. After a while, I do not hear the clanging of the stones against the bars or the cries of ‘Witch!’ for my mind has swept me off again to other places, other times in my memory, rendering them with bright sounds and sharp colours, as though I have travelled there – my marriage ceremony in the small chapel to the east of Gunn. A bright June morning, as crisp and golden as today. How handsome William looked, his face unmarked by care, in the cloak he wore at the trial. I had thought at the time that he wore the cloak because it was his finest garment, because he wished to look smart, but now I think he wore it for one reason only: to remind me of our wedding day.
A crowd meets us at the shore of Fynhallow. Bishop Sinclair, Bishop Vance, Father Colville, David, Mr Addis, John Stewart, and Earl Patrick. Agnes is there, though she won’t meet my eye. Elspeth, Angus – families who have lived with us on Gunn since I was a girl. They are sombre. No name-calling or throwing of stones, but they watch silently as I am led along the cliff.
My mother is not here, nor is Beatrice or Edward. Perhaps he has done as I asked and left the islands, heading to Edinburgh.
And there is the stake, and the hooded executioner, holding a belt. The sight of it makes my heart lurch, all the calm I had before wearing thin at this stark reminder of what is to happen.
I must not fear. I must not.
The crowd follows us, a gathering of fifty. I see David amongst them, and my heart lifts.
In my pocket, I carry the piece of slate with the Triskele symbol. It is a message without words, a symbol, just like Beatrice drew on the shell to me. I have a plan: to pass on the slate to David Moncrief. He is the only one who would interpret the message. And he is perhaps the only one who can do what the message asks.
I wait until I am near enough before dropping it close to his feet. My heart is in my mouth. What if someone sees that I have deliberately passed him a message? What if David does not see it?
When I reach the executioner, I glance back at David, who is bending now, lifting the slate. I have drawn a sun with an arrow facing west, and above is a crown. It means, Deliver the truth to the king, but as I see the look of puzzlement on his face my stomach drops. Perhaps I have mistaken his loyalties.
In which case, all is lost. Orkney will fall, and our deaths will be for nothing.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Glasgow
May 2024
CLEM
The phone on Clem’s lap starts to buzz. She ignores it until she spots the word ‘Josie’ on the screen. Freya, she thinks, her skin turning cold. Something has happened to Freya.
‘Hiya,’ Josie says when she answers. ‘Just a quick one – what’s with this old book? Is it a toy?’
‘What book?’
‘This old book she’s playing with. She pulled it out of her changing bag. Did you put it in there by accident?’
Clem’s mouth falls open. ‘Describe it to me.’
‘Well, it’s blank for a start. Just these old black pages. Looks like it belongs in a museum. Weirdest toy I’ve ever seen!’
Clem drives to Josie’s, where Freya is playing happily with Sam, her mouth smeared with tomato sauce and her hands sticky.
‘This little madam has only eaten half her dinner so she might be hungry later,’ Josie says, stuffing the changing bag with Freya’s bottles and bibs. ‘And we had a bit of a nappy explosion so she’s wearing Sam’s clothes.’
Clem looks Freya over and sees she’s wearing a T-shirt with a dinosaur print and denim dungarees.
‘You mentioned a book?’ she asks Josie, trying to sound casual.
‘Yeah, I thought it was odd that you put it in her changing bag. Definitely not mine. And she was playing with it.’
Clem’s heart lurches. She watches, holding her composure, as Josie fetches an old book covered in bark from a sideboard lined with framed family photographs.
‘Look,’ Josie says, surveying the cover with revulsion. ‘It’s even got things growing out of it.’
She reaches down with finger and thumb to a small green shot poking out of one of the folds, plucking it out. ‘Moss and everything. Is it yours?’
Clem nods, mouth dry. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’
‘Well, let me know if you need me to look after her tomorrow. I’m taking Sam to soft play.’
‘Thanks.’
Clem hugs Josie, puts Freya in her car seat.
Then she pulls out her phone and finds the driving route for Orkney. Seven hours. If she leaves now, she can be there by midnight.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Glasgow
May 2024
CLEM
Clem takes the A9 from Glasgow towards Inverness, the book in the changing bag on the passenger seat beside her. Freya was extra clingy, and Clem has been missing her. After an hour of babbling, she falls asleep in her car seat. Quinn rings six times, eventually leaving her a voicemail that Clem resolves not to play until she parks up at the byre.
She has voices in her head, shouting at her the whole way to Thurso.
The police will arrest you at the ferry terminal.
What if Erin’s infection gets worse?
You’ve brought Freya to deliver an evil book to violent pagans. What are you thinking?
Clem has no idea if she can even trust the Triskele.
She is utterly convinced that the book will disappear of its own volition by the time she gets to Orkney, vanishing once more into thin air as it did in the hospital bathroom. But it’s there when she stops for petrol in Dingwall, when she boards the ferry at Thurso, and when she stops to buy food for Freya in Stromness. And then, as the moon appears in the sky, she pulls into the same field that she and Quinn fled just four nights ago. She can still see the tyre marks running through the grass from where Quinn veered wildly towards the exit.
As she parks up, she feels nervous. She doesn’t have Edina’s phone number, just this knowledge of the byre – the Triskele’s meeting place.
She takes Freya out of the car seat and tucks the book under her arm, trying to swallow back the tight knot of fear in her throat. The voices of panic in her head are louder, now, but when she hesitates, Erin’s shouts return to her mind, the terrible scene of her bashing her hand again and again on the metal bar, until it bled. Erin is under sedation, recovering from surgery, she reminds herself, and if she doesn’t stop this bizarre behaviour, God only knows where she’ll end up.
If she hasn’t already managed to infect her wounds.
But as she approaches the byre, Clem sees two figures moving through the woods behind her. Freya begins to cry, and she holds her tighter. The figures are silhouetted, but the way they move towards her – stealthily, one of them holding something – sends shivers down her spine. She glances nervously at the car parked down the bank.
She’s come too far to make a run for it.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Fynhallow, Isle of Gunn, Orkney
December 1594
ALISON
David lifts his eyes to mine. He touches his chin. With relief, I see that he understands my meaning, even as Mr Addis pushes me backwards against the stake and tethers me there.
The executioner is hooded, his face covered and two brown eyes peering through the holes. He carries a belt of leather. Mr Addis sets twigs around the base of the pyre. I am to be strangled, my body burned. There will be no burial, no grave. I feel my knees quake, but force them to be still. I keep my eyes on the sea before me. I think of William.
Wait for me.
The executioner is so close that I can smell him: earth, leather, wood.
‘Father Colville,’ David calls out, and all heads turn to him.
‘It is customary for the accused to speak before execution. The Privy Council requires a record of her confession.’
John Stewart steps forward. ‘We have no need for such a thing here in Orkney.’
‘Beg pardon, my lord, but the Privy Council may request it,’ David says. ‘Never before has a witch been executed on these isles. Doubtless the king will wish to commend us all for our efforts in ridding the land of witchcraft.’
‘Let her speak her final words,’ Earl Patrick says, overruling his brother.
‘Speak ye, Madam Balfour,’ Father Colville shouts then. ‘And let God be praised that your wickedness ends this day.’
I look over the group of witnesses here on the hill. Bishop Sinclair, Bishop Vance, Father Colville, David, Mr Addis, John Stewart, and Earl Patrick.
On the banks overlooking the beach are groups of villagers, straining to see.
David stands upwind, his parchment and quill ready.
‘I renounce my confession,’ I say loudly. ‘I am no witch. I am no murderer. My confession was a lie, offered only because my daughter, all of six years of age, was to be tortured in front of me. And before her, my son was tortured, and my husband, who died from his injuries. All of these things have been done to force me to confess to a crime of which I am not guilty. I know I will be killed today, but before God and all who stand before me, I declare that I am innocent!’
I scream out the words, my voice louder than it has ever been, the wind carrying it to the people far on the bay. John Stewart strides towards me, his eyes blazing. I see his hand is in a fist, ready to strike me.
‘I curse you,’ I hiss at him. ‘I curse you that you will never claim the earldom. Your brother is the last earl to breathe on the land of Orkney.’
John falters, his eyes boring into me.
‘Mr Addis,’ he says in a loud voice. ‘Burn this witch.’
Mr Addis begins to light the kindling, impatient, and there is a moment of tension between him and the executioner, who does not wish his shirt to catch fire when he strangles me.
I turn my head, fixing my eyes on Father Colville. I want to tell him that this is not the end. Does he not realise this? That his own end will yet come? That he will have to explain this before God?
This short life is only wasted when one does not use it for good. Even the moon waxes and wanes. Even the earth, immeasurable in her wisdom and brimming with secrets, is yet turning.
In my hand, I hold Beatrice’s shell, which I kept in my mouth as I was removed from the dungeon. I recalled my mother’s words during the trial – surely she has charmed shells and pebbles on her person – and when Edward came to see me, I realised that she was telling me that she had charmed Beatrice’s shell. I was to use it for a hex. The other thing she told me is there in my ears too: there are hexes that only work if performed by a witch who is dying.
I may not be a Carrier, but I am still Triskele. And I know how to hex. And this hex is especially powerful.
Digging a ragged nail deep into the flesh of my palm, I blot blood across the shell before dropping it into the flames by my feet. Then, I whisper the spell.
By the will of blood and sea
A second Yule you shall not see.
The smile slides from Father Colville’s face as he sees the flame darken for a moment, accepting the gift. I do this for Orkney. If he is not stopped, these hills will be alive with stakes, innocent men and women in the flames. The damage may yet be done.
He strides forward to see what I have thrown in the fire. But the hex is done, and he cannot undo it. He will not live more than two years hence.
The cool leather belt is slipped around my neck.
A flash of black feathers amidst the swirling smoke.
William. William.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Glasgow
November 2023
ERIN
‘I’m thinking of leaving the Triskele,’ Erin says.
‘What?’
Arlo turns over in bed and looks at her. Their daughter Freya is between them, just nine months old. He has one of her little feet in his hands and is staring down at it.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I just don’t feel the same about it. I liked it at first but …’ She trails off, trying to gauge his own feelings.
‘It feels less fun,’ he says. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah. More and more like being told off.’
The previous weekend, they’d asked Clem to babysit while they went to the meeting in the Trossachs. The Brother asked Erin to hold an art workshop. She tried to explain that Freya was still feeding all night, that she still felt ragged, but he got arsey with her. Started bringing up the scholarship and how she was indebted to him, how the money she paid in each month didn’t even cover the basics. She wanted to scream at him. She was handing her maternity pay over to this man, who didn’t work, but somehow drove a Land Rover. She sensed the only reason he asked her to give the art workshop was to ensure she felt part of something. She had missed the last nine meetings because of the baby and he was pissed off about it.
That weekend, when she saw a thin, balding man walking across the grass, she didn’t recognise him until he spoke. It was The Brother. She’d not seen him for months, and in that time he’d shaved off his long hair and beard and lost a ton of weight. His eyes were no longer soft and kind, and he looked haunted, dark circles beneath his eyes. She wondered if he had a terrible illness.
He spent two hours shouting at the whole clan, telling them they were blind, they were stupid, they were going to be punished for how lazy they were. And then Erin stood at a table under a shoddy gazebo teaching new recruits how to make a poster while her breasts filled with milk and her body ached. Her own poster said, ‘Protect me from what I want’, and she stared at it, realising that she was telling herself something.
‘I’ll leave, too,’ Arlo says.
‘You don’t have to do that because of me.’
‘Actually, I’ve wanted to leave since you got back in touch,’ he says. ‘Since you told me that Freya’s definitely mine.’
‘Rubbish,’ she says, though her heart swells at his words.
‘It’s not rubbish,’ he says with a smile. ‘I only stayed because I thought you wanted to.’
‘It is a cult,’ she says then, and finds she’s relieved to say this out loud. ‘Senna made this big deal about how it wasn’t a cult when I first went along. But it is. They control everything we do.’
She holds his eye, feeling flooded with relief. How glad she is that he feels the same. ‘I wanted to be part of something,’ she says quietly. ‘I think I wanted a family. But the Triskele wasn’t it.’
Arlo and Freya were.
‘I want to give back the book,’ she says, kissing Freya’s head. ‘It’s creeping me out.’
She thinks back to when she met The Brother at the derelict castle in the Trossachs and he convinced her to keep the baby.
The least you can do is take this thing out of my fucking hands.
She’d taken it, albeit reluctantly, and tucked it under her bed. But since then she has felt haunted. Terrible whisperings in her head, in her bones, in her heart. And a few months ago, she woke up to find herself standing over her mother, scissors in her hand, imagining the thrust of them into the soft flesh between her jaw.
She has to get rid of the book.
Later that morning, while Arlo takes Freya in the pushchair to the corner shop, Erin messages The Brother via WhatsApp. He doesn’t reply. Impatient, she messages the Triskele group chat, which is now at over two hundred members.
Erin: Hey @TheBrother, I need to see you asap.
Rodge: Not possible. Can I help you?
Erin: Why isn’t it possible?
Lois:
SJ_Clarke:
Roadman_2005: OMG soooo sad
Her phone starts to vibrate with messages and emojis from various members of the Triskele that she doesn’t understand. A few moments of confusion before Rodge video calls her. She can see supermarket shelves behind him, a flash of a yellow vest. He’s at work.
‘The Brother is dead,’ he says.
‘What?’ She can’t believe it, both literally and emotionally.
