11.6 The Shetland Witch, or, Apropos Wants Her Shears Back
In which unwelcome visitors bring news.
Atropos looked thoughtful. ‘The kirk is a temple?’
’More or less,’ Hazel agreed. ‘Priests have probably always been the same.’
‘Who is the god of the temple? I could discuss the burning with them.’
There was a brief silence.
‘No,’ Ishabel said decisively, ‘The worshippers of this god do the damage. The god is separate. We will not try to approach him. In any case, witch burning does not happen here, in this country, now.’
Maggie looked at her, and Ishabel sighed. ‘OK, we don’t know that it doesna happen, but it is not government policy anymore. Witches don’t attract attention from ordinary folk, because … well,’ she paused, unsure how to explain.
‘Because folk would freak out,’ Maggie snorted.
‘It’s different round here,’ Ishabel conceded. ‘Some of our neighbours know but don’t talk about it. Because there is an agreement. In other places, if any witch is seen doing her work, folk burn her. Or lock her up.’
‘They might make us do magic for them, for their own purposes,’ Hazel said.
‘Or we would be blamed for not doing magic. For not saving other folk. For not attacking their enemies,’ Maggie added. ‘Can you imagine what it would be like, to have politicians ringing up, telling us to sort out something in the latest war zone? Or to do something to states they didn’t like? Or telling us to deal with the folk who were trying to bring them to justice? It would be a nightmare. How could we tell their right from their wrong? We only know our own place.’
‘You are the only witches?’ Atropos looked up with an alert expression. ‘There are no others?’
‘Oh, yes, there are other witches,’ Maggie said hastily, ‘But not in Shetland. There are more in Scotland, which is our country, and more in the rest of Britain. There are definitely witches in other parts of Europe.’
‘Africa,’ Ishabel said with relish, ‘has many kinds of witch.’
‘I’ve always loved the idea that America has witches who went over in the Mayflower,’ Maggie said happily.
‘The Mayflower was a big boat,’ Hazel explained to Atropos.
‘Let me haul you back to the original subject of conversation,’ Ishabel said. ‘We were talking about making a new identity for Atropos here in our time.’
‘Agnes Foulis could have done it,’ Maggie said, reminiscing, ‘She worked for Shetland Islands Council, and handled witches’ business on the side. She would never help a witch who’d committed a crime get away from justice. But when Agnes thought it was right she could fudge any record, do something to the data, even when it was just on paper, to make it seem like it had always been there, in all the places that mattered. I think there’s someone in Stirling who does it for us now with the digital records. Is it Ros? Or Shona? We’ll need to message them both.’
‘But I have not agreed,’ Atropos said. She was wiping her plate clean of meat juices with a torn piece of bread and licking her fingers. She looked sideways at Hazel’s plate, and placed her knife and fork together on her own. ‘I will consider it.’
There was a pause.
‘Of course. But what will you consider?’ Ishabel asked, cautiously.
‘Changing my name,’ Atropos nodded. ‘It is my name. I do not give it up lightly.’
‘Of course, you mustn’t if you don’t want to, no, of course not.’ Maggie was embarrassed. ‘Stay as Atropos. There’s no need to change it really.’
‘Your name is your own and no-one will take it from you,’ Ishabel agreed. ‘You might want to take a second name later, to make life easier. But we also need to find a way to stop folk thinking about you. Because,’ she said gently, ‘You are very different to the rest of us. Look at this.’
Ishabel moved the water jug and the bottle of wine aside to make a space at the centre of the table, and put the salt pot and a glass of water beside each other. ‘This is our world,’ and she pointed to the glass.
Atropos nodded.
‘And this is you,’ Ishabel pointed to the salt. ‘They’re not the same. They don’t work the same way. Both are essential for life, but they work differently. If the world was the whole table, and was covered in glasses of water, you as the salt pot would still be different.’
Atropos smiled happily. ‘Salt disappears inside water and changes it. I can disappear. And I can change the world.’
‘Well, yes. I suppose …’
‘If the water sees the salt, is it frightened? Is it angry?’
‘Depends what the salt is doing,’ Maggie said drily.
Hazel broke in. ‘Folk are scared of magic. Of any kind. They get frightened.’
‘I will show them not to be frightened,’ Atropos said with finality. ‘They will not burn me. I will drink some more wine.’
A car headlight flashed through the closed kitchen curtains, and swung away. They heard the sound of an engine turning off.
Maggie and Ishabel looked at each other, startled.
‘Mrs Simbister? What is she doing all the way up here?’ Maggie said. She got up in a hurry and began to clear away the plates and the empty serving dishes.
Ishabel set a chair ready beside the wall, facing the table.
‘Could you get the chair out of the spare room, Hazel?’ she asked, and went into the hall to open the front door.
Hazel brought in the ornately carved curve-backed chair that she had found beside the spare wardrobe, and set it beside the dining table chair. She stood at the kitchen counter, feeling a little perturbed. Who was Mrs Simbister? She had heard the name before but could not remember.
Atropos sat quietly at her seat at the table in the corner. Hazel felt comforted by her calm authority.
Ishabel ushered her visitors into the kitchen.
‘Do have a seat, Grizel,’ she said comfortably. ‘Hazel, would you pour some wine?’
‘None for me, Hazel,’ Alison said, a slight figure behind the bulk of Mrs Simbister.
Hazel nearly dropped the bottle.
Episode 12.1 will follow.
The Shetland Witch © Kate Macdonald 2024.
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