The Betrayal of Maggie Blair

Chapter 4

When I woke the next morning, Granny wasn't there. I scrambled to my feet, afraid that something was wrong. Perhaps she'd never returned from the wild night at Ambrisbeg. Or maybe she'd gone off with her vagabond friends, leaving me and Sheba all alone. Or, worst of all, unearthly beings—fairies or the Devil himself—could have snatched her away to their own dark world.

But then I heard her voice coming from Blackie's stall behind the thin partition. Her words were too indistinct for me to make out, but the venom in them made me shudder. She was in the foulest mood, and I would need to watch my step.

A moment later she marched into the cottage, hanks of gray hair lying matted over her face, eyes bloodshot, hands crooked like claws.

"So, Mistress Lazy, you're awake at last. Sneaking off in the night, were you, you dirty girl? Going to meet some man or other? You get yourself a baby before time, and I'll flay you till you scream for mercy. Don't think I'll take your brat in. The pair of you will be out of this house begging for every crust you eat."

I felt my face flush scarlet.

"I've never gone out to meet ... I don't even know any—"

"Any what?" She thrust her face right into mine, and I had to stop myself from recoiling from her rotten breath. "You were out spying, then, weren't you? Creeping about. Following me."

My hands were clasped so tightly together behind my back that my knuckles cracked.

"Following you where, Granny?" I was looking as innocent as I could. "Did you go out? I slept all night. I was tired from—"

She stared at me a moment longer, her red eyes unblinking, then turned away.

"Get down to the beach. The tide's well out by now. Pick up what you can find."

Scavenging along the soft wet sand, where the weakened edges of the waves rolled like curls of white hair up to my feet, was my favorite part of the day. Usually Granny spoiled it by coming with me, and it was a treat to be alone except for Sheba, who picked her way along beside me, patting at clumps of seaweed to make the little crabs jump out.

The whale was stinking worse than ever, so I worked as far away from it as I could, walking backwards and forwards along the beach, my eyes down, looking for anything that might be useful. Pieces of driftwood were the most precious things. They made fine burning if they were not big enough for other uses. Sometimes they were tangled and half hidden in hanks of brown seaweed. Lengths of rope and pieces of netting might drift ashore and even bottles. Once I'd found a whole one, corked and still full of wine.

After half an hour my apron, bunched up in one hand, held a few whelks and a good-size length of wood, whitened and smoothed by the sea. I was about to make one last sweep before heading reluctantly back to the cottage, when I heard voices and laughter in the distance. I looked up and saw a crowd of people walking down from the upper glen.

The christening party, I thought. They're on their way to Macbean's.

The sight of thirty or more people on our narrow lane was so rare, and the times when we saw strangers were so few, that I was desperate to watch them go by. I took off fast, sprinting up the beach, over Blackie's field, and in through the gap in the straggly thorn fence to arrive panting just as the procession came within a bowshot of our gate.

Mr. Robertson the minister was walking out in front, striding awkwardly on his long black legs, with Mr. Macbean strutting along beside him, quite shiny with pride and satisfaction. Mrs. Macbean came next, riding on the horse, with Ebenezer bundled in her arms. The other children trudged along behind, little Robbie dragging on his sister's hand. They must have gone out very early, slipping past our cottage while I was still asleep. It was a long walk to the church at Kingarth, and the children were tired.

Behind them came a crowd of guests, the men in their good coats and tall hats, the women in gowns with brightly colored best plaids. I knew most of them by sight. They came from the town of Kingarth as well as from the farms around Scalpsie. Mr. Macbean was the big man in our neighborhood. No one would want to offend him by turning down his invitation. In any case, there would be good food and drink at the farm—sides of beef, and red wine, and wheat bread, and even custards.

I'd wanted to watch the procession without being seen. I'd meant to hide behind the hedge and peer through the gap in it, but I saw, with a lurch of my heart, that Granny was standing outside the gate, half blocking the lane. Her arms were crossed on her chest, and the scowl on her face would have turned a whole bucketful of Blackie's milk sour.

I ran to the hedge and crouched down. Now I could only see the back of Granny's head, but the faces of all our neighbors and the good folk of Kingarth were in full view, and on them I read scorn and a kind of glee, as if they were glad to see the humiliation of the old woman they had despised for years. Even Mrs. Macbean, who had been so grateful when Ebenezer was born, looked away as if something had caught her eye up on the hill, while Annie beside her was grinning with open delight.

I felt a rush of anger at the lot of them, all dressed up in the good clothes we had never had, all so pleased with themselves, all salivating over the feast they were about to enjoy, and before I knew it I had stood up and run out to stand beside my grandmother and face them.

Mr. Robertson had stopped. He said awkwardly, "Now, now, Mistress Elspeth. Will you stand aside and let the good people pass?"

Granny took no notice of him. She lifted her arm and pointed her forefinger at the bundle in Mrs. Macbean's arms.

"I brought that child into this world." The finger rose up to jab at Mrs. Macbean's face. "And I saved your life. This is the thanks I get for it. Feast as much as you like, you'll be sorry for it."

Everyone had stopped now. They were crowding forward to enjoy the spectacle. I tugged at Granny's arm.

"Come away, Granny. Let's go in."

She shook me off. I could tell from the tension in her that the brewing storm was going to break. Nothing would stop her now.

Mrs. Macbean had gone pale. She was clutching Ebenezer closely to her chest. He set up a thin wail, which cut me to the heart. Mr. Macbean strode forward, his full, fleshy face red with anger.

"Are you threatening me, you old witch?" The word "witch" drew a shocked hiss from the crowd. "Are you calling the powers of darkness down upon my son?"

People looked at each other uneasily. Parents took hold of their children's hands. Some shuffled backwards.

"The powers of darkness?" Granny laughed mirthlessly. "I've no need to call to the Devil. He'll come to his own—to you, you tight-fisted, preaching hypocrite! I wish ill to you, do you hear? Ill to you! Sickness and pain and death!"

"Let her alone, John!" Mrs. Macbean called out feebly.

Mr. Macbean ignored her.

"Did you hear that, Mr. Robertson?" he said over his shoulder. He stepped forward and raised his hand. I thought he was about to strike Granny, but instead he shook his fist in her face.

"As the Lord is my witness, if any harm comes to me or mine, you'll pay for it, Elspeth Wylie. You ... you..."

He spluttered to a stop as Mr. Robertson took his elbow.

"Move aside, man. I'll deal with this." He turned to the crowd and called out, "Go on up to the farm, all of you. This matter is for me to settle. Mrs. Macbean, get that child into the house. Run ahead, little ones. That's right."

Reluctantly, the crowd moved on, glancing backwards as they went, not wishing to miss a thing. Mr. Robertson waited until they had all filed past, then turned back to Granny.

"Be careful what you say, Mistress Elspeth. Those who call upon unearthly powers, who consort with the Evil One..."

Granny interrupted him by spitting on the ground, narrowly missing his boot. Mr. Robertson stepped back, nervous as a colt.

"Evil has come to me all my life, Mister Minister," she snarled. "I've had no need to go out and seek for it."

I watched Mr. Robertson's pale eyes blink rapidly as he tried to think of a response.

"And I'll thank you to remember," he went on at last, attempting to appear dignified, "that threats and insults and slanderous talk are within my power to punish. More of this and I'll have you dressed in sackcloth and sitting on the chair of repentance before my pulpit in the sight of the whole congregation."

He was no match for Granny, however solemn he tried to be, and he knew it. He was like a dog yapping at an enraged bull. It made matters worse for him when he stumbled as he turned away and trod heavily in a puddle, splashing mud up the sides of his boots. I might have laughed if I hadn't heard Granny draw in her breath to deliver a final blast to the crowd's retreating backs. "The fires of Hell light on you all, do you hear, and firstly on you, John Macbean. May you boil forever in the Devil's cauldron!"

Mr. Robertson faltered, almost tripping himself up, then scuttled after the others, who were hurrying away toward Macbean's farm.

"So we're barred from the feasting, Maggie, and all the meat and wine," Granny said, seeming to notice me for the first time. "But we'll laugh last, you'll see."

She seemed almost pleased with herself, but I felt weak, trembling still from the humiliation of it all, anxious for Ebenezer's sake and filled with a new dread I couldn't explain.

***

For the rest of the day, I found myself looking about at the familiar sights of home with new eyes. The old cottage with its rotting roof, the kail yard with its raggedy rows of cabbages, the stream running over the pale stones of its bed, Blackie's field, the beach and the sea and the mountains of Arran beyond—all seemed strange and distant, as if I had parted from them long ago and had returned only as a visitor for the briefest time.

She'll make Ebenezer die, I know she will, a voice kept repeating inside my head as I drove Blackie back from the field toward the byre when darkness was beginning to fall. And if he does die, they'll blame her for it. They'll blame me too.

I had a strange fancy that I could see hostile faces everywhere I looked: evil, grinning mouths leering up at me from the water in the stream, glittering eyes peeping down from the tree, hands with long white fingers reaching out to clutch me from the hedge. I could hear angry whispers too, hissing at me in the wind.

You must leave. You must go away, the voice in my head said. They'll hate you here forever, even if Ebenezer lives.

The idea of leaving the only home I had ever known frightened me so much that I stopped dead, and Blackie, who had been walking behind me, nearly bumped into me and gave a reproachful moo. I had never been farther from Scalpsie Bay than the towns of Kingarth and Rothesay. The Isle of Bute was my whole world. Beyond it were strange realms peopled by fearsome creatures, the monsters and giants and goblins that filled Tam's stories.

I pushed the thought aside. Where could I go, if I left the cottage at Scalpsie Bay? Who would take me in? I had no relatives on the isle. My father had come from a place called Kilmacolm, over on the mainland. A brother of his lived there still, as far as I knew—my uncle Blair.

I had sometimes dreamed of being spirited away from Granny to live with my uncle Blair. I had a picture of him in my head that was as real as the black bulk of the cow plodding along beside me. My uncle would be a big man like my father, with a deep voice, slow in speech. He wouldn't get drunk or shout at people. He wouldn't pinch and slap children. He wouldn't go about with dirty clothes half hanging off him. He would be orderly and respectable and liked by everyone. His family would eat well and often, and they would have fresh linen and a new clean plaid to wear when the old one fell into holes. And Uncle Blair would have a wife. She would be a sweet-faced woman with a soft voice, like—but here my imagination always failed me.

My best memory of my father was of him swinging me up in his arms when I was a little girl. He would do it every time he came home from a trip. I'd scream with fear and joy and clutch at the silver buckle he always wore on his belt. It was his drover's buckle, which had gone with him wherever he'd roamed with the cattle. It had been his surety, he said, his treasure, something he could sell if trouble came to him.

The buckle was mine now. It had been taken from my father's body before they buried him and given to me. I kept it tucked away behind the salt box on the shelf, and often I'd reach up and touch it, as if it was a good luck charm.

Trouble was coming to me, I was certain of it. And the buckle would be my surety, as it had been my father's.

I hurried over the last bit of field, tugging Blackie's halter to make her walk faster, and as soon as she was safe in her stall, I went into the cottage and pulled out the salt box, wanting to hold the buckle and feel its reassuring metal in my palm.

The shelf was bare. The buckle was gone.

I felt along the shelf, sure that I would find it. But I didn't.

Granny's moved it, I thought. She must have put it somewhere safer.

Then an awful suspicion came to me. What if Granny had taken the buckle and sold it? What if it was my buckle that had paid for the food and drink for the riotous night before?

I dropped the idea at once. Granny was hard, she was always angry and often cruel, but she was never underhanded. A strain of honesty ran through her like a thread of gold through a dirty cloth. She might rant and curse and say the harshest things, she might strike out with her fists and send me out to do most of the work, but she could never lie and she would never steal.

I stood there, frowning, as I tried to remember when I'd last seen the buckle. It had been only the previous morning. The salt box had been moved a little way along the shelf to make room for one of Tam's black bottles, and the silver of the buckle had gleamed out at me from among the cobwebs.

The cobwebs. Annie. She had talked about the cobwebs. She had been standing beside the shelf when I was feeling for the eggs in the crock. I saw again in my mind's eye how suddenly she'd moved away from the shelf, and how her hand had hidden itself in her shawl. And why had she run so fast out of the cottage, as if she was being chased?

I knew then, as surely as I knew my own name, that Annie was a thief and that she had stolen my buckle.

"What's all this? Why are you standing there like a gatepost when there's work to be done?"

Granny's voice at the door startled me.

"My buckle. It's gone. Annie must have stolen it," I blurted out.

"That girl of Macbean's? What was she doing here?"

I wished then that I'd held my tongue, because I had to tell Granny that I'd given Annie an egg. To my surprise, she only smiled triumphantly.

"So the girl's a thief? I'm not surprised. We'll have them on that. I'll get you yet, Macbean! My granddaughter's silver buckle—her dowry from her father—stolen by your servant."

Why did I break out crying? Why did such a feeling of desolation sweep over me? I'd learned a long time ago that tears were no route to Granny's heart. She would be more likely to stop them with a slap than a kiss. I stumbled to the door, careless of the cold December drizzle and the darkness that had now fallen, wanting only to go into Blackie's byre and lay my head down on her rough warm neck and cry there.

But Granny barred my way.

"Aye, girl, you may well cry." The rough sympathy in her voice was so unexpected that I was shocked into silence. "The world's a cruel place, but there's no need to burden the poor dumb cow with your troubles. Sit down by me."

She set her three-legged stool by the fire, sat down, and drew her skirts up over her knees so that she could warm her legs. I fetched my stool and sat down too.

"They'll be going past on tiptoe soon on their way home from Macbean's, stuffed full of the meat and wine that by rights we should have enjoyed too. But we're to take no notice of them. I've had my say." She laughed, the sound rasping in her throat. "I've given them something to think about. Did you see them run up the lane, the dafties? Each one as terrified as a hare when she smells the fox. As for that fool of a prating minister..."

She lapsed into silence, staring into the fire, and her face was full of a fierce joy as she relived her triumph.

"But I've something to say to you, Maggie."

She pointed up to the whiskey bottle on the shelf. I fetched it down for her, glad to see that it was nearly empty. She took a long pull at it, shook it to check that nothing was left, and set it down regretfully.

"Crying on a cow's neck is no way to fight your battles. You've got to take the war to the enemy. Make them fear you. If Macbean hadn't been afraid of me, he would have got me out of this cottage long ago. Just because you're a girl and you'll be alone in the world when I'm gone, you're not without power."

Her eyes, reddened with peat smoke and whiskey, stared into mine. A chill hand closed around my heart.

"Granny, you wouldn't—not Ebenezer! You wouldn't hurt..."

Her heavy brows snapped together, then she threw her head back and laughed.

"Hurt that miserable little scrap? He'll need no help from me to find his way out of the world. Maggie, what are you thinking? That those precious fools are right? That I'm a witch? The Devil's servant? With the power of life and death?"

It was what I had been fearing, in my heart of hearts.

"No," I lied, "but when you said, out there in the lane, that evil had come to you all your life..."

"And so it has. I was a farmer's daughter, from Ettrick. Two good plaid cloths I had and a plate of meat once a week, summer and winter. Sickness took my parents. Your grandfather brought me here and fished the herring from Scalpsie Bay. Much good did he do me, for the sea took him as it took your father. He left me with this miserable cottage and no more money than a pauper."

"But you had my mother."

"Mary. Yes."

She seldom spoke of my mother, except when she wanted to compare me unfavorably with her. I held my breath, willing her to go on. She only heaved a sigh.

"Your father came and took her. She died. He died. And here we are, you and me. Evil came to me, you see? All my life. Sorrow and death and evil. One after another."

I'm not an evil, I thought rebelliously.

She read my mind, as she often seemed to do, and jabbed a dirty finger toward me.

"You, Maggie, are no evil, but the hope of my life. And I wish good on you. Only good. But you're weak. If they harm you and insult you, you cry and run away. You must turn. Show them you're not afraid. You must be angry, Maggie."

Much good anger does you, I thought. Everyone fears and hates you. Even I'm scared of you, most of the time.

Aloud I said, "So you think I should go up to Macbean's and shout at them all and make Annie give me back my buckle?"

She gave me a shrewd look.

"Is that a dig at me? I suppose I've earned it. And it's what I would do, right now, if there'd been more in this whiskey bottle to give me the courage. But we'll bide our time on the buckle. The moment for it will come. Fear's a great weapon, Maggie, and when you're poor and alone, it's the only one you have."