9.2 The Shetland Witch, or, Atropos Wants Her Shears Back

In which Tornost is casually vicious.

The cave opening was low down, but broad, and the man crept into its maw, dragging the bundle after him. Hazel crept after him, marvelling at the back of her mind at the smoothness with which the trow must have moved, in its much younger days. She crossed the stones soundlessly, and wriggled through the gap in the rocks into the cave.

As her eyes grew used to the dark she saw moving water beyond the man. He was at the edge of an underground pool, kneeling on flat rock. Dark lapping ripples of water moved at the edge of the light coming through the crevice. There was a singing in the air. Hazel told herself that it must be the passage of air through gaps high up in the cave roof.

The man was searching hurriedly in his waist pouch. The bundle sat steady on the ground, set well away from his feet.

He said some words, as if he were beginning a formal invocation, and then he rooted around more urgently in his bag.

What was he looking for? He was now hunting for the missing thing with both hands.

A mighty movement of air rushed from the far end of the cave, smelling of dead fish and rotting weed. Stones moved, and a strange hollow call reverberated. The man jerked with nervousness, and lost his balance, keeling over sideways. He fell clumsily over the bundle. There was a terrible smell of singed flesh, and the man screamed.

He fell awkwardly forwards onto the edge of the rock, and his flailing hands knocked the bundle into the darkness. Hazel heard the water accept it, hissing, with a gulp. The offering sank deep, and there was a sigh like a gasp of breath, a dousing of fire.

Hazel felt herself leap forward on hands and feet, scrabbling to reach the groaning body of the man before he too fell in the water. She expected to put a hand out, to help him up, but with appalled fascination she saw her hand grab at the man’s throat, and dig her fingers deep into his thorax to pull, while she lunged at the side of his neck to bite.

Hazel clamped her hand across her mouth, stifling a scream as she found herself back in the kitchen. The trow looked blandly round at them. She stared back at him, revolted, but could not find anything to say. Now she knew more about trows.

Atropos was frowning. ‘That was the man I sent. I found him in the temple, at the great seaport, and he fulfilled my request. But he should not have died like that.’ She looked resolute. ‘I must find his heirs and appease his shade.’

She made a movement as if she were going to get up and leave, but Ishabel forestalled her.

‘It was a very long time ago, Atropos. You won’t be able to find anyone from his family.’

‘If you haven’t been haunted by him already, he won’t begin now,’ Maggie added. ‘Anyway, the souls of the dead don’t complain to you. You did your job without them bothering you.’

‘But I sent him. He was there at my command.’

‘He can’t be helped.’

Atropos did not look reassured.

The trow sniffed. ‘I kent it. You smell like a Norn. All blood and dust.’

The contempt in his voice was belied by his cautious movement away from Atropos, but he couldn’t stop looking at her.

‘Why are you here?’ he spat.

She regarded him with a cold expression. ‘To find my shears.’

‘My shears!’ he snapped. ‘Mine! You took them from under my mound!’

Maggie intervened again. ‘Why do you think they are yours, Tornost?’

He cocked a wicked eye at her. ‘Shall I show you, again?’

‘No!’ Hazel said in haste. ‘Not again.’

‘No,’ Ishabel agreed. ‘Tell us instead. I’m sure you can do it most expressively.’

Tornost seemed absurdly pleased at being invited to speak. He grinned at them with an air of importance, and looked around the table.

‘Hear me! I ate well –‘

‘I thought you said the man wasn’t worth eating?’ Maggie asked.

The trow ignored her.

‘I threw his bones in the water as a second offering, and I left the cave. I slept in the sun. When I woke, it was night, and I sat and thought. I wanted to see what was in the bundle, but I wouldna take it from Her in the cave. So I waited.’

He counted under his breath, tapping his finger on the table. ‘I waited ten passages of the moon, perhaps more. But She didna take it. So I sent dreams.

‘Some mornings later I heard the old man scrambling down the rocky cliff face, following the sheep path down to the shore. I knew him. He had come there before. The waves were high but the tide was going out. Birds whirred past his face, and he pulled the sealskin cape over his head to protect his skinny neck. I used to eat seals too, in those days.

‘When he needed his stick on the sand he turned and shouted up at the boy to throw it down. When the stick came hurtling down, he turned back to walk down the slope of shells and broken crabs. I hurried him on. He had to go to Her.’

‘Who is the goddess?’ Atropos asked, looking interested.

The trow waved a negligent hand. ‘Rán, or one of her daughters. I forget.’

Maggie looked sideways at Hazel, but Hazel did not meet her amused eyes.

The trow continued, ‘Inside the sea-cave, the old man went onto his knees. He began to ask for forgiveness for what the folk might have done, asking what he must do to take away the terrible dreams that had washed over the village for too many nights. He begged and he prayed.

‘The dreams had been bright and painful. I should know; I put them there. A new bairn had been found dead one morning, but that was not my fault. The sheep had been dying in the fields, they must have been eating something from the midden. His old wife had woken with pain in her face and her eye had gone milk-white. What had they done? What should they do? I knew, but he wouldn’t listen to me. The goddess had to tell him.’

Episode 9.3 will follow.

The Shetland Witch © Kate Macdonald 2024.

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