REALM'S END (BOOK OF FEY 1) (22 page)

Heading Home

At dawn James took to the road. He wanted to be home before the noon meal. He never liked being away from his own croft overnight. Yesterday’s storm had blown up suddenly, coming out of nowhere and so he’d been forced to stay as guest at the Tilcroft manor. True the extra time had cemented a new friendship with the master of the manor, a relationship that not only brought with it the opportunity of profit, but also a surprising friendship. Even so James felt a strong pull to hurry along the road toward home. It was true Meredith’s very capable sisters were still attending her at the croft, and they had brought a young boy along to help out as well. Though he couldn’t put his finger on the reason, he’d awoken with some anxiety about his family. It would take three more hours of walking but then he would be home and could rest a while, if the storm hadn’t done too much damage.

The morning air was fresh and he passed the time watching the wild animals that made their homes in the hedgerow. They scurried intently about, repairing their nests or gathering in food. James smiled, for he had always been amazed how beautiful this world was. It was one of his favorite places. He caught himself and laughed out loud. What a strange thought, wasn’t it his only place, the world he lived in? His smile quickly faded, replaced instead with an overwhelming sense of having forgotten something important. His mind tried to recall the lost information, but as it was only a fleeting thought, it continued to elude him. He wondered, was it about his land or perhaps the sheep? Maybe it was something about his wife or child? He felt his frustration growing, clearly there was something he was forgetting, and it left him with a very real sense of foreboding. The feeling of unease continued to grow; until he desperately wished he was home. He wished he could fly, or even had a horse to ride. Since he had neither he decided he would run a little ways. The high side of the trail was drying up a bit and if he hurried he could be in the village before the hour was out and then it was only six more miles to home. Shouldering his jacket, he began to trot at a fair clip toward the village.

The village of Aird seemed unusually quiet.  James walked toward the center of town the passing the market stalls as he went. The cobbled together stands stood empty and lifeless. The drainage ditch and an occasional rat seemed to be the only things moving.  James felt a growing sense of unease. It wasn’t normal for the village to be so still. Usually tradesmen and farmers were milling about, trying to sell their wares or services. Women were always hurrying through the streets, making their way from one task to another and dogs and children filled the streets, hoping as they always were to get into a bit of mischief.  James crossed the lane and walked up the steep street, toward the council house.  Quietly, he slipped along the tavern’s stone wall. At the corner he stopped and listened, he could just make out the sound of voices as they carried on the wind.  He eased his head around the corner of the stone building.  At the far end of the street a crowd stood gathered around the entrance to the council house. He stepped easily into the street and walked quickly towards the people. The hair on his neck stood up, James slowed his pace a bit and began to look around, from left to right. Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t say what it was. Nothing about the buildings looked out of place, and yet he was sure something was wrong.

James walked over to the Miller, who stood at the back of the crowd. “Aye Mike, what’s going on here?”

Mike turned towards James, his eyes went wide, and he leaned in close to James and whispered. “Good God man, get out of here.” The miller turned swiftly away from the crowd and tried pulling James along with him. “Your neighbor is in there swearing your family is a pack of heathen witches.”

“What?”

“Shhhs, now come away with me lad,” Mike said. His grip was tight on James’ arm, as he tried again to hurry James away from the council house.

James shook his arm, trying to free himself of the Miller’s strong grip, “Let me go man, I won’t run from that lying woman.”

“Listen lad, it’ll do you no good,” he hissed.  “People are afraid right now. Get away I tell ya, and take your family up to your shieling, in the hills. Stay out of sight for a while till they settle down.”

James pulled free, but the commotion hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

“He’s here, the witch is here,” an old woman yelled.

The people in front of the council house turned to see what the crone was saying and caught sight of James standing in the lane arguing with the Miller. Looking more like a pack of wild animals then town folk, they turned as one and ran towards James, who did not run away.

Several of the men surrounded James and the Miller effectively blocking any escape they might have tried to make.

The magistrate came out of the council house, and seeing that James MacAfee was surrounded by the town folk, he made his way down the steps and through the unruly crowd.

Coira MacDermot, scurried along behind, as she tried to keep up with the magistrate’s long stride.

“Well MacAfee, your neighbor here has been telling me of some very odd goings on at your croft? What do you have to say for yourself?”

James looked Mrs. MacDermot in the eye and proceeded to spit right at her.

Coira seeing her chance, pretended to faint, let herself slide down to the ground where she lay amongst the legs of the citizenry in the dirt.

The group pressed themselves back away from James and Mrs. MacDermot. Only the magistrate held his ground. Stepping over to the woman he knelt down and felt her neck. He opened each eye and noticing the spittle at the corner of her mouth he rose up. “Take him,” he said, to the group of men. “I believe he may have put a spell on the old woman.”

The men of the village looked from one to the other as they tried to steel their courage, just in case it was true, and they too were brought low by the warlock.

The magistrate’s voice rose, “What are you waiting for, take him to the cell I tell you,” the magistrate hollered at the frightened men.

               The men moved quickly, using whatever tools they had at hand to try and force James into the council building.

                 The magistrate watched as the miller slipped quietly away from the crowd. It wouldn’t do to hang the miller.  There would be no one to grind the barley and oats, if there was any grain this year worth milling.

   James struggled against the men. Their grip stayed tight upon him though and he could move naught. They dragged him across the dirt roadway, moving him closer to the council house. James suddenly realized that once he was in the cellar the magistrate would pay him little attention. “Wait, I wish to speak with the magistrate,” he yelled.

The men just keep dragging him backwards over the street’s rough cobbled-stones. “Neighbors please, take pity upon one of your own. We’ve all borne Mrs. MacDermot’s wraith, over the years. You know she is driven by vengeance,” James cried out.

“Aye,” said the old crofter Dardin. “That we have lad, but none of us have been accused of witch craft and after what I saw in the yard out there,” he said, motioning with his head back over his shoulder, “I would have to say, she may be right this time. Save your breath for your trial,” he said, and he reached up, bludgeoning James with his ash walking stick, knocking him out cold.

***

               It was nearly dark when James finally awoke; he had a dull headache and a big thirst.  Gingerly he pulled himself into an upright position and felt along his skull until he came to the raised bump where Dardin had hit him.  His fingers eased over the egg sized bump, no broken skin that was all to the good. Optimistically James continued taking stock of his body, nothing felt broken, which was a happy surprise. He knew from experience that the men who took responsibility to carry a man to the cellar, often used the opportunity to right any perceived personal transgressions, between themselves and the unlucky victim. He happily realized the villagers felt he was a fair man in his dealings with others. Other than the circle of iron at his ankle, attaching him to a thick chain bolted to the stone floor, he was in fair shape.

James surveyed his prison, from where he sat on the floor. The walls were thick cut limestone, the room itself was empty except for kegs of beer, and barrels of potatoes, and a pile of broken jumble that lay in the farthest corner, all of which he could see his chain would not allow him to reach. There was an open shallow gutter in the center of the room, which clearly he was meant to use to relieve himself.  A small pile of straw stood nearby waiting, meant for his bed, and next to that a water pail. James could see the only light came from one of the tightly shuttered windows; set deep and high overhead in the limestone wall. It was clearly much too small for any man to fit through.

Using his free leg James pulled the water bucket close, till it was within arm’s reach. Wrapping his fingers around the rough wooden lip he pulled it to him and was surprised to see clean clear water in the bucket. He had expected fouled water at best. Clearly someone was not convinced that he was in fact a witch. Carefully he tipped his head back and drank freely of the cool water, letting it first wash away the rotten taste in his mouth and then fill his empty gut with something. Having slacked his thirst he sat the wooden pail back on the bricked floor. Seeing how much water he had already drank, he realized if he did have to ration the water, it would go hard on him, but he felt so much better for the drink, he decided to forgo worrying about rationing just yet.

James heard the squeak of hinges and looked towards the great wooden door. There was a great clanking on the far side of the door and he quickly hung his head and feigned sleep as the door swung inward. Through his squinting eyes he could make out a swatch of light from a lantern making its way into the semi-dark room.

“I don’t believe that he is a witch, my lord. My wife is a sick and twisted woman. I beg of you sir not to hold this man, for I feel we are accusing him wrongly,” MacDermot said.

“Yes but what of the stories your wife told of the strange lad flying, how could a woman make up such a thing, unless she had seen it? Women are feeble minded at best, where would she have gotten such a tale, if it was not true?”

James could see MacDermot anxiously shuffling his boot covered feet.

“Lord I can’t say much about a woman’s intelligence, I’m not a learned man or where the woman would have come by such tales but I stand here begging for my neighbor’s life. My wife is bitter and hateful and as much as it shames me to say it, I would not have my neighbor lose his life just to watch her come up in her own eyes by his falling down.”

James heard the magistrate sniff the air in acknowledgement of the man’s suffering such a wife and sighed. “I understand what you say, but the church would argue that you have been bamboozled by the witch, and that your wife is the one who can see clearly. I wish I had options here; however there is little room for me to behave differently, without jeopardizing my own freedom. In my experience once witchcraft is murmured within any village, someone must pay the ultimate price.  My only hope now is to avoid hysteria. Come, as you can see the man is asleep; let him rest for tomorrow will be a hard day at best for the poor fellow.”

James saw the boots turn and retreat and heard the heavy lock click into place. Opening his eyes he stared across the darkening room. He felt his hope fall away. Slumping against the rough stone wall in defeat, he pressed his back hard against the jagged stone, tearing at his flesh. There was no escape, the door was bolted and the floor was stone, so digging out wasn’t an option.  Escaping from an accusation of witch craft meant dying on the gallows, to prove one’s innocence. His family would be lucky to survive at all and even if they did they would be run off their land and made paupers. Women were usually left with only one recourse. James scrubbed at his face with his rough weather-beaten hands; he couldn’t bear the image of his beautiful wife and daughter selling themselves to buy the spoiled crusts of bread.

There had to be a way out! He would even bare the shame of fleeing Scotland if he could find a way to keep his family from harm! If only he could warn Meredith, he felt sure her sisters could get her and the children away to safety.

The cellar grew steadily darker; as night came on. Finally James could not see even the faintest outline of the water bucket, which stood so near. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. His mind wandered over the years of his life; his first wife and the great love they had shared, how he had brought her and settled here in the highlands far from her own people. He conjured up an image of her face and her beauty caught even now in his throat. He remembered the day she had died, he had promised to care for their daughter and go on and find a new love. At the time, even thinking on the promise he’d made her to go on, brought the taste of bile into his mouth. It was funny how he couldn’t even remember his life before her. James shook his head hard, his hair whipping about his face. Why couldn’t he remember anything before Anna? It didn’t seem natural now that he thought about it.

Night wore on and the stone walls began to release the last of the day’s heat. The cellar grew cold. James felt himself shiver and crawled slowly over to the pile of straw. He tried burrowing into the thin pile, and finally took to pulling it over himself as best he could. He knew the cold would dull his mind tomorrow and though he felt there was no chance to win in court he would try his best. The clean straw didn’t do much to stave off the cold but even so James felt himself sliding away into a fitful sleep.