15.2 The Shetland Witch, or, Atropos Wants Her Shears Back.

In which there is magic in the streets.

The larger boy, shiningly clean in a white shirt and long blue shorts, was on his feet, reaching forward for another stone. As Atropos met his eyes he stopped guiltily, and then smiled.

Atropos could feel that she was expected to smile back. If she didn’t, this child would notice. She had to ignore that insistent tug, that demand for attention. Instead, Atropos turned around to look for the wounded bird. She wouldn’t make eye contact with either child. She should get away. Her skin was prickling with horror and she marvelled at her new sensations of fear. She had not felt fear the last time she had met the Dioskouroi, only anger.

A black feather floated in an eddy of air between the wall and the kerb and dropped to rest at her feet. Atropos looked at it.

‘Wha threw that stane?’

A large man in a red oilman’s boilersuit had appeared in the close’s entrance from the esplanade. He looked outraged.

The children said nothing.

‘Someen threw a stane across the lane here at a hoodie,’ he said. ‘Was it you wha did it?’

Still the children said nothing. They had arranged their faces in neutral expressions, looking politely at the tiresome adults. The larger boy began to industriously refasten his shoe. The smaller one was occupied with a handkerchief, blowing his nose.

The man was frustrated at the lack of a reply.

Atropos looked around to see where the bird was, but it had gone. The feather lay there instead.

‘One of you hurt that bird. Look, there’s a feather. Wha threw that stane?’ Now the man was getting angry.

Someone was walking towards them, heading for the steps. She ignored the man, but walked past Atropos so closely that Atropos inadvertently breathed in her perfume. It reminded her of the smells of sacrifice. The woman’s face was pale, and her skin looked taut, like a sail carrying too much wind.

Atropos expelled the scent from her nostrils as quickly as she could. She felt as if she were going to retch. It smelt dead.

The woman didn’t acknowledge Atropos’s presence at all. Her hair flowed like wet brown weed over the knitted collar of a thick wool coat the colour of milk.  But her voice – the woman spoke as if her voice was being dragged up from the earth, over dust and dry ruts. There was no life in it.

Then Atropos realised that she hadn’t spoken in English.

‘Do you spik English? Are these your bairns?’ barked the angry man. He had not understood, and Atropos could see that he was even more enraged. Something was stirring him up. She wondered, should she stay and protect him? It would risk being recognised. Her fear was spreading out to include him: what would they do to him? She wanted to turn away, but her fear kept her rooted to the ground. She wanted her courage to protect him from what the Dioskouroi would do to him.

The brown-haired woman did not even glance at the man. It was as if she had not understood him. Atropos noticed that his red working clothes glowed vividly beside her pallor. Atropos looked at the woman’s hands. Her thin white gloves were frayed at the finger-tips as if they had been scraping at the ground.

The smaller boy jumped up from his seat on the stone step, as perky as a wren, and slipped his brown hand into her gloved fingers. Atropos noticed the expression on the larger boy’s face. He was looking sideways through his heavy fringe with barely suppressed expectation.

Abruptly, Atropos found herself shut out. It was as if someone had thrown down a shield between her and the others. Now she could hear other voices in the street, just a few steps away around the corner.

‘Aye, it feels like a clean break. No, it’s OK, I’ve wrapped the bird tightly in my scarf. I’ll take it to the wildlife rescue centre. Aye. Aye, right enough. Shocking behaviour. Throwing a stone at a bird, just for fun.’

Atropos knew the voice. She struggled under the fog enveloping her mind. Who had done this? What had happened to her?

She could see the man speaking angrily to the pale woman. She couldn’t hear any of the words, so she set her mind firmly to pull away the fogginess. With a few seconds of effort she managed to force a crack in the magic that was binding her.

‘… and broke its wing. That was very wrong.’ His face was red.

The woman ignored him

Avril appeared from around the corner, carrying a red bundle in her hands. She spoke directly to Atropos, ignoring the others. ‘Oh, you’re there. Sorry to have kept you waiting. We need to get going now.’

Atropos found herself walking out into the street to join her. When she glanced back the woman was walking away from them, up the lane, the two boys scampering beside her.

The boiler-suited man was standing with his mouth open, frozen and shocked, in the centre of the lane.

‘Oh blast,’ Avril said quietly, and thrust the bundle at Atropos. ‘Hold that a peerie minute.’

She ran back up the lane and approached the man. She paused as if she were thinking, and then touched his sleeve. He juddered, finally able to move, and swung his head down to look at Avril, as if he was about to shout at her. But he didn’t. His face cleared in recognition.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I didna see you there. Right. Are you OK for the meeting on Thursday?

‘Aye,’ Avril said easily, ‘It’ll be good to get the budget sorted out. I really need your help with that. Was it five or five thirty? I couldna mind.’

‘It was five. Na bother at all. OK then. See you later.’ He walked out of the close into the street, towards the pier for the Out Skerries ferry.

Atropos did not say anything until they were both in Avril’s car. The bundle was warm on her lap. She could feel a fluttering heartbeat coming from inside. But her attention was on what she had just seen.

Episode 15.3 will follow.

The Shetland Witch © Kate Macdonald 2024.

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