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

In which Tornost sees the shears given to the goddess

May 14, 2024

Tornost was still telling his story, eyes gleaming at the witches in the kitchen light.

‘I squatted next to the old man, but he didn’t see me. He was crouched low on his knees, head on the wet cave floor, and his hands were held out. Then the movement of air began. It rushed past him from the far end of the cave, and I smelt rotting fish. Stones moved under the water, grinding hard to make the water turbid. The goddess’s hollow call reverberated around the walls of the huge, cold space, and his body began to shiver. The metal head of his axe was cold to the touch. I knew because I had tried to take it, while he waited, shaking with fear.

‘When he raised his head, the water had lowered with the tide. He stood up, stiff-legged like a crow, and saw a thin path of stones in shallow water. Enough light was spilling in through the cave mouth to show him. It led inwards, to the sacred space. He trembled, but he had to go. I prodded him. Gripping his stick with his right hand, and his axe with his left, he walked down to the path to the low water, and paddled along its track.

‘His journey to find and bring back the goddess’s gift, he told his village later, was an age in the heart of a hero, but an hour in the lives of men. He and the boy had dragged their sodden burden back to the huddle of stone-walled huts.

‘They were crowded into the headwoman’s hut, where the tribe could shelter together for feasts and to talk. Children were packed into the stone sleeping boxes that lined its oval sides, where they could see over the heads of the squatting tribe. I was crouched snugly in the roof, looking through a new hole in the heather thatch. The bundle had been set down on the ground in front of the hearth. The folk gazed at it like sheep, admiring its cloth wrappings, and the netting that covered it. It was just a net that anyone could have made in a winter. However, a winter’s work was a good gift. The folk bowed their heads to the ground to thank the goddess.

‘The old man gestured proudly at the goddess’s gift, and the villagers studied it. The cloth was torn and burnt in places. Tight matted black weaving poked out of the gaps. It was bigger than any basket they could make, and it was tied with a cord that seemed twisted and patterned. The basket-weavers in the village looked closely at the soft fibres, still sticky with sea mud.

‘“It needs to be dried out,” one said. “Not by the fire. Set it in sunlight on a dry rock.”’

‘“That’ll take time,” another said, doubtfully. “Nae sun for days.”’

‘“What’s inside?” another asked with curiosity. “Is it heavy?”’

‘The old man seemed nervous. “Yes,” he said cautiously, “But I have not opened the goddess’s gift. It is for all of us. I wilna take it for myself.”’

‘“But you found it. You brought it here. You were chosen. Why will you not open the goddess’s gift?” The headwoman was aghast. “It will be an insult if you do not.”’

‘“I saw lights in the dark. I heard strange sounds when I brought it to you. This is too big for me.” The old man had seen how the bundle had shone in broad daylight, glinting through the slits in the matted rush sides. It had been a heavy haul up the cliff, and a slow dragging journey back to the village. I helped push, when they were stuck. I wouldna have carried it.

‘Silence settled on the villagers. The old man moved cautiously back into the group, and waited for a decision to be made. Two dogs began to tussle in the doorway, and a bairn strapped on its mother’s back began to cry. I thought about taking it to eat later but didna want to show myself just yet. Things were very interesting. The mother moved to the back of the crowd to feed the bairn, and then the headwoman spoke.

‘“I will open the gift. It is for all of us. I do not take any of it for my own.” She moved through the huddled folk to squat beside the bundle. It was larger than a sleeping dog. She cut the fastening cord with her stone knife, and pulled at it. Then she pulled her fingers back quickly, hissing in pain.

‘As the sides of the bundle moved to fall open, light flashed from inside. The folk nearest started to cry out and scramble away. The headwoman turned, her mouth open, but her cries of pain were only heard by me as she crumpled onto the hut floor. Her face was burning and her hair was blackening. Her sealskin cloak flared into flame, and she burned where she lay on the ground. The villagers had scrambled backwards and ran outside shrieking, leaving the fire.

‘Something gleamed inside the blackened rushes that were turning to pale ash. It was as unbearably bright as the sun. I saw something gold that looked like a weapon, and I saw the shears. I have never forgotten them.’

Tornost’s voice trembled with longing and it stretched out its hands unconsciously. Hazel saw that they looked like claws, then they blurred into ordinary stubby fingers again.

‘But then a human trampled on my head as he struggled to get out through the thatch roof, so I threw him back into the fire and went out that way myself. It was all burning by then. The last villagers were howling as they disappeared out of the hut. Some of them returned to throw water at the fire from skins, and to cast matted sheepskins over the flames, but the fire had already burnt the thatch in the roof. I jumped over the stone enclosure wall, while the whole hut blazed in the dark. The folk wept for the headwoman, wailing their grief to the goddess, asking forgiveness. I did not care. I had seen the silver and the gold, and I wanted it. I would keep it safe until I could retrieve them without being burned.

‘The hut continued to burn until the roof fell in and smoored the fire. The village was full of stumbling figures, distraught and terrified. The village dogs ran off, howling.’

The Shetland Witch

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

In which Tornost sees the shears given to the goddess

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