Testament of a Witch E-Book

Douglas Watt

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Set in the 17th century against the backdrop of political and religious conflict, the second of Watt's John MacKenzie series is as historically rich and gripping as the last. MacKenzie investigates the murder of a woman accused of witchcraft and he must act quickly when the same accusations are made against the woman's daughter. Superstition clashes with reason as Scotland moves towards the Enlightenment. The 1600s are expertly recreated with a strong sense of history and place.

Leseprobe

DOUGLAS WATT is a historian, poet and novelist who lives in Linlithgow with his wife Julie and their three children. He won the Hume Brown Senior Prize in Scottish History in 2008 forThe Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations(2007).Testament of a Witchis the second in his series of ingenious murder mysteries set in seventeenth century Scotland featuring lawyers John MacKenzie and David Scougall.

By the same author:

Fiction:

Death of a Chief(2009)

History:

The Price of Scotland: Darien, Union and the Wealth of Nations(2007)

Poetry:

A History of Moments(2005)

Testament of a Witch

DOUGLAS WATT

LuathPress Limited

EDINBURGH

www.luath.co.uk

First published 2011

eBook published 2013

ISBN (print): 978-1-906817-79-4

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-909912-29-8

The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

The publisher acknowledges the support of Creative Scotland towards the publication of this volume.

© Douglas Watt 2011

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

List of Main Characters

PRELUDE - A Sermon on Witchcraft

CHAPTER 1 - Lammer Law

CHAPTER 2 - A Round on Leith Links

CHAPTER 3 - The Devil’s Pool

CHAPTER 4 - A Letter in the Library

CHAPTER 5 - Death on the Castle Hill

CHAPTER 6 - A Portrait of Lady Girnington

CHAPTER 7 - Coffee in Edinburgh

CHAPTER 8 - An Evening by the Fireside

CHAPTER 9 - Spiritual Exercises

CHAPTER 10 - A Meal in Musselburgh

CHAPTER 11 - The Burial of a Gentlewoman

CHAPTER 12 - The Delation of Margaret Rammage

CHAPTER 13 - A Conversation with Janet Cornfoot

CHAPTER 14 - Lammersheugh House

CHAPTER 15 - A Cottage in the Woods

CHAPTER 16 - Sackcloth

CHAPTER 17 - A Stranger on the Road

CHAPTER 18 - The Latterwill of Lady Lammersheugh

CHAPTER 19 - The Pricking of Euphame Hay

CHAPTER 20 - The Devil’s Footprints

CHAPTER 21 - The Dreams of Euphame Hay

CHAPTER 22 - A Reception at Girnington House

CHAPTER 23 - A Meeting with the Colonel

CHAPTER 24 - The Wake of Janet Cornfoot

CHAPTER 25 - The Library of Lammersheugh

CHAPTER 26 - The Steeple

CHAPTER 27 - A Visit to the Manse

CHAPTER 28 - A Few Hours in Haddington

CHAPTER 29 - Redemption of a Debt

CHAPTER 30 - A Wax Painting

CHAPTER 31 - A Glass in the Bell

CHAPTER 32 - A Last Drink

CHAPTER 33 - A Conversation with Archibald Muschet

CHAPTER 34 - The Hovel of a Witch

CHAPTER 35 - Questions for Mr Cant

CHAPTER 36 - A Walk Through the Graveyard

CHAPTER 37 - Clachdean Castle

CHAPTER 38 - The Edinburgh Tolbooth

CHAPTER 39 - The Cellars of Clachdean

CHAPTER 40 - A Conversation with Theophilus Rankine

CHAPTER 41 - Clem Bell’s Midden

CHAPTER 42 - The Sleep of Euphame Hay

CHAPTER 43 - A Picture of Grissell Hay

CHAPTER 44 - An Uncomfortable Night

CHAPTER 45 - A Sister’s Love

CHAPTER 46 - Letters from Edinburgh

CHAPTER 47 - The Prayers of Theophilus Rankine

CHAPTER 48 - A Letter for Davie Scougall

CHAPTER 49 - An Interview with George Cockburn

CHAPTER 50 - The Confession of Euphame Hay

CHAPTER 51 - A Conversation at Woodlawheid

CHAPTER 52 - The Devil’s Machine

CHAPTER 53 - All Hallow’s Eve

CHAPTER 54 - A Warlock in the Steeple

CHAPTER 55 - A Discovery on the Road

CHAPTER 56 - The Genealogy of Girnington

CHAPTER 57 - Back in the Library

CHAPTER 58 - A Discovery in the Cottage

CHAPTER 59 - The Testament of Grissell Hay

CHAPTER 60 - A Final Thread

POSTSCRIPT - A Visit from Euphame Hay

HISTORICAL NOTE - The Scottish Witch-hunt

To Robbie

Nam, ut vere loquamur, superstitio fusa per gentis oppressit omnium fere animos atque hominum imbecillitatem occupavit.

Cicero,De Divinatione, Book 2, Chapter 72.

Speaking frankly, superstition, which is widespread among the nations, has taken advantage of human weakness to cast its spell over the mind of almost every man.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank my wife Julie for her continuing love and support. Her belief in the characters John MacKenzie and Davie Scougall has kept me writing about their journey through late seventeenth century Scotland. Thanks to my children, Jamie, Robbie and Katie, for keeping me firmly grounded in the twenty-first century. I apologise to them for spending too many hours in the seventeenth century. Thanks also to everyone at Luath and to Jennie Renton for editing the text.

List of Main Characters

John MacKenzie, advocate in Edinburgh, Clerk of the Court of Session

Davie Scougall, writer in Edinburgh

Elizabeth MacKenzie, daughter of John MacKenzie

Sir George MacKenzie of Rosehaugh, advocate, ex-Lord Advocate

Grissell Hay, Lady Lammersheugh

Andrew Cant, minister of Lammersheugh

Janet Cornfoot, servant of Lady Lammersheugh

Euphame Hay, daughter of Lady Lammersheugh

Rosina Hay, daughter of Lady Lammersheugh

Archibald Muschet, merchant in Lammersheugh

Theophilus Rankine, session clerk of Lammersheugh

Marion Rankine, sister of Theophilus Rankine

Adam Cockburn, Laird of Woodlawheid

Helen Cockburn, Lady Woodlawheid

George Cockburn, son of Adam Cockburn

Colonel Robert Dewar, Laird of Clachdean

Lillias Hay, Lady Girnington

Gideon Purse, lawyer in Haddington

George Sinclair, author on witchcraft

John Murdoch, servant of Lady Lammersheugh

Elizabeth Murdoch, wife of John Murdoch

Margaret Rammage, confessing witch

Helen Rammage, sister of Margaret Rammage

John Kincaid, pricker of witches

PRELUDE - A Sermon on Witchcraft

October 1687

‘THIS PARISH IS enthralled to the Devil,’ the minister began his sermon, carefully articulating each word. He was a young man in his thirties dressed in black gowns, standing in a large wooden pulpit elevated above the congregation. On the canopy above his head, a board was carved with the text: ‘Fear the Lord and honour his house.’ His eyes darted round the packed church, moving from face to face.

‘This parish is enthralled to the Devil,’ he repeated, before turning over an hourglass at the side of the lectern. ‘Satan walks amongst us.’ He waited through an intense silence.

‘We begin,’ he continued, ‘with Exodus Chapter 22, Verse 18.’ The people knew what was coming. They had heard the verse on countless Sabbaths. He raised the volume of his voice: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ Then shouting: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’

His eyes came to rest on two penitents, a man and woman wearing sackcloth, sitting on stools at the front. Cards tied to their shoulders allowed those behind to read the words scrolled in capitals on their backs:

‘FORNICATOR, FILTHY WHORE’.

‘We have in this verse a precept of the Law of God, a precept of law given to the judges of the people of Israel, a precept given to those to whom the power of the sword is committed. They shall not suffer a witch to live.’ Again silence.

‘But what is a witch?’ He glared across the worshippers before looking down at his notes. Some gazed longingly back at him. Others were so terrified they could not raise their eyes lest he see into their black hearts.

‘By a witch is understood to be a person that hath immediate converse with the Devil. So Leviticus Chapter 20, Verse 27 tells us: “A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood shall be upon them.” The spirit of God doth expressly mention either man or woman.’

His eyes shone with the ecstasy of power. ‘And Deuteronomy Chapter 18, Verses 10 to 13, says: “There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord.”’

He snatched a look at the hourglass. There was still plenty of time. He repeated with more vigour: ‘An abomination unto the Lord!’

Raising his eyes, he continued: ‘There are some sins so gross in nature that every single act of them deserves death by the law of God.’ He slowed his delivery to emphasise what followed: ‘Such sins are bestiality, incest and sodomy. And so I take an act of witchcraft to be such a gross sin. Every act deserves death by the law of God.’ The expression on his face was suffused with such earnestness, no one could have doubted that he believed what he said.

‘What constitutes a person to be a witch? I speak now of both men and women, as from scripture. It requires a real compact between Satan and that person. They receive the Devil’s Mark upon their flesh. Or the parent offers their child unto Satan.’

He addressed a line of older children in the second pew on the left side of the congregation: ‘The parent offers their child to him. They receive his mark just as the children of professing parents receiving baptism will be in covenant with God. A witch shall worship Satan as their God. They shall follow him as their guide. They are constituted to be worshippers of Satan. They sell themselves in body and soul to do wickedness. They follow the Devil who is the prince of the power of the air.’ He lowered his head, briefly pausing.

‘Why do God’s creatures turn from him? It flows from the blindness and perverseness that have fallen upon us by the fall of Man. It flows from people who undervalue, slight and condemn the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It flows from the prevalence of lust and corruption among the people in the visible church. It flows from covetousness, pride and malice.’ He raised his head: ‘Turn you away from Satan.’ Then, after another longer pause, lifting his voice: ‘Turn you away from Satan!’, then shouting: ‘Turn you away from Satan!’

He stared again at the penitents. The woman looked down at her bare feet in humiliation. The man gazed at the whitewashed wall behind the minister.

‘Men and women are led by Satan to carry out deeds of depravity and evil whether by ordinary means, such as using a cord or napkin to strangle with, or by putting pins in a picture or clay figure, roasting it on a fire and flaming it with vinegar and brandy. This is done to put an innocent person to torment. Witches are called to meetings by Satan where all manner of debauchery and perversity is manifest, such as dancing, drinking strong liquor and singing. All kinds of sin are indulged in, including,’ he paused to emphasise what was coming, ‘the gravest sin of all, the grossest sin imaginable – carnal dealings with Satan. It is so opposite to that natural moral honesty which dignifies the marriage of man and woman. It flows from that blindness and perverseness that have fallen upon us by the fall of Man.

‘Witches are the greatest hypocrites under the sun. Witchcraft is one of those evil deeds that the spirit of God enjoins death upon. There are today witches in our midst who pollute the parish of Lammersheugh, bringing discord and immorality. We desire that God will bring their works of darkness to light so that His enemies may be punished. Satan blinds the mind of those that despise the Gospel. Show us, oh God – show us who they are.’

The silence was unbearable. It was broken by a finely dressed middle-aged woman rising from her pew. With head bowed, she walked to a side door and left the kirk. She was followed by an old woman, shuffling behind.

The movement distracted the minister, breaking the dramatic momentum of his sermon. Although he was angered by the interruption, he quickly gathered his thoughts.

‘Satan blinds the mind of those who despise the Gospel. Let this humble us all. Let us bewail it as a great evil that such a place as Scotland, where the gospel of Christ has been purely preached, should have so many under suspicion of the crime of witchcraft. You that are free, bless God that hath kept you from the wicked one, and pray out of zeal to God and his Glory that he shall bring these works of darkness to light that mar our solemnities and are fearful spots in our feasts. I beseech you, be vigilant. Watch your neighbours. Watch your children. Watch your mother and your father. Watch your master and your servant. None are free from the stain that darkens the nation. Satan walks and smiles in our parish. He spreads evil amongst us. Let us pray…’

Placing a hand on the Bible in the lectern, he closed his eyes, raising the other above his head, palm outwards. At last he appeared to relax. A smile was on his face. It was the smile of a man communing with God, the smile of a man who knew God, a man who knew he was right in what he did, a man who knew that he was saved, chosen from the beginning of time to be one of God’s Elect. The congregation lowered their heads and followed the prayer.

‘Let all the congregation say Amen. Let all the saints in heaven and earth praise him. Let all the congregation say Amen. Let sun and moon praise him. Let fire, hailstorms, winds and vapours praise him. Let all the congregation say Amen. Let men and women praise him. Let all the congregation say Amen.’

CHAPTER 1 - Lammer Law

THE WOMAN WAS a streak of black against the browns and greens of the broad rounded hilltop. She stood under a heavy sky beside a small copse of birch. Staring northwards, she listened to the wind in the leaves. It was their last song before autumn cast them into the universe.

When she removed her bonnet, dark auburn hair flecked with grey fell down onto her shoulders. She let the breeze enliven her pallid face as she watched a small boat miles away on the Firth, far beneath her to the north. It was bound for Leith, having crossed the German Sea with a cargo from Amsterdam, she supposed. In her mind she saw a sailor on board thinking of his sweetheart in the Indies, a world away. She felt his loneliness as he stared on the grey sky and brown hills of Scotland. Her own daughters had always loved her stories. Their two faces came to her as they were when young girls. They had lived inside her body once, also. She had been able to protect them, then.

She looked over to the Bass Rock, a dark tooth protruding from the sea. It was where the conventiclers were imprisoned; rigid, self-righteous men. Her eyes moved to the cone-shaped Berwick Law where they burned witches long ago. In the far distance to the west was the sleeping lion of Arthur’s Seat and the town of Edinburgh. She had not been there for years, not since before Alexander’s death. Her eyes focused on a castle in the foreground, perhaps two miles to the north-east of where she stood, but a thousand feet beneath her. It was a fine structure, perhaps more of a great house than a fortified dwelling, for it had been substantially altered by the Earl during her lifetime. Tweeddale was the head of her husband’s family, the Hays. But she did not think that he would be able to help her.

A few miles from the castle were the lineaments of her own world. How still and peaceful it appeared from here – the spire of a kirk, a few dwelling houses between the trees, the gables of Lammersheugh House where she had lived since her marriage, all those years before. The House was surrounded by gardens which they had planted together. It seemed like another world, or someone else’s life. She saw him as she always did when she thought of him, or when someone spoke of him, walking in the garden in summer. The image of his body sent a wave of excitement through her. The girls are playing at his feet. He takes one of them by the arms, Euphame, and lifts her off the ground. There are screams of delight. Then the image fades. His arm is round her waist in the lengthening shadows. The memory of the feel of him returns, the memory of happiness – real love, not just desire. They had known each other since they were children, although he was two years older. There had always been something between them. She had watched him standing beside his tall sister in the kirk. But she had not expected that he would choose her. She was the daughter of a decaying house. When he had gone to college in Edinburgh the heart was ripped from her life. The two long years he was in Europe were empty ones when she imagined he had found a rich foreign heiress. But he came back to her, as he had said he would.

She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the bliss of bygone years. It was as if they had lived in a storybook which was not real, a dream maybe. This was real life. She opened her eyes. Pain engulfed her like the tide on a lonely shore.

The vision of the garden was gone. She saw him lying in his winding sheet; pale, cold, but still beautiful. Now he would never return from across the water. And would she ever see him again? In her heart she believed that the minister and elders were wrong. There was still a chance that they might be reunited. She must believe that.

‘Grissell.’

For a moment she thought that he was calling her name, that he had come back to her. But in an instant despair returned. The voice was familiar. But it was not his. She did not turn in the direction it came from. The realisation of the present cut deep. She did not hate the voice, only the thought that it was not his. She imagined the small red heart beating inside her.

CHAPTER 2- A Round on Leith Links

SCOUGALL WAS SUFFERING from a cold. As he lowered his head to address the ball, his nose dripped onto the ground between his feet. He sniffed loudly before swinging the club. The ball shot off at a terrific speed, but was sliced. Following it in the air, he watched it bounce on the fairway about two hundred yards away, move violently to the right and come to rest in the rough.

‘Confound this cold!’ He had almost cursed. He chided himself. It was only a game, after all, the pursuit of leisure. It should not be taken too seriously, unlike work. He asked God for forgiveness. But he did love golf so much, the feeling he got from striking a good shot. Despite his diminutive stature, he could drive further than most men. He loved the sense of satisfaction it gave him, similar to completing a long instrument in the office. But, although he found it hard to admit, it was even more enjoyable to win.

Scougall was dressed in black breeches and jacket. The short white periwig on his head was a fashion accessory he had only recently added to his wardrobe and to which he was not yet accustomed. His pale face looked disconcerted as he stood back to let his partner play.

MacKenzie was a foot taller and a generation older than Scougall. Bending over to tee up his ball on the best spot, he smiled. ‘I may have a chance today, Davie. Only a slight one, but a chance.’ As he straightened his back, he groaned. An image of himself lying flat, unable to walk for a week, flashed through his mind. Like most tall men he suffered from bouts of back pain. He must try not to hit the ball too hard.

As he concentrated, his expression became deeply serious. Touching his periwig with his right hand, a golfing mannerism, he placed it beside his left on the handle. At the apex, the club stopped for just too long to give the swing fluency; it presented a staccato appearance which lacked the natural elegance of his young companion’s. MacKenzie was not a natural golfer like Scougall. Despite having played the game for fifty years he had never managed to improve a swing moulded as a child. Indeed he often joked that he had played his best golf as a twelve-year-old student in Aberdeen in 1643, the year the Scots signed the National League and Covenant, a foolish document if there ever was one. Interfering in the affairs of another nation was always a bad idea, leading to nothing but trouble.

The result on this occasion was a pleasing one. He made sound contact, launching the ball into a perfect parabola. It landed about a hundred and eighty yards away in the middle of the fairway.

The two men gathered their clubs. The weather was fine, the day possessing the freshness of autumn, the sky a glorious blue, the grass of Leith Links a lush green.

‘Is this not a day to treasure, Davie?’

‘It is a grand one, sir. I might appreciate it better if this cold would lift.’

‘Now, before I forget. I have been asked by Sir John Foulis of Ravelston and the Lord Clerk Register to make up a party,’ said MacKenzie. ‘I have told Sir John that I will bring a partner. I mentioned your name.’

‘I would be most honoured, sir.’ Scougall was thrilled to hear of an opportunity to show off his golfing skills in such exalted company.

‘Excellent. I may wager a pound or two on the result.’

‘I do not gamble, sir,’ Scougall said seriously.

‘I did not expect that you would, Davie. But you would not deny another man his pleasure?’

The conversation stopped when they reached MacKenzie’s ball. He addressed it with an iron, swung inelegantly and threw a large divot into the air. The ball came to rest about thirty yards away.

He swore angrily in Gaelic, before continuing in English: ‘The frustrations of golf! Always raising expectations only to crush them the next moment!’ He walked forward to play his third shot. ‘Have you received your invitation?’ he asked casually.

MacKenzie’s question lowered Scougall’s flagging spirits further. It was three months since he had heard the news of Elizabeth’s engagement to Seaforth’s brother, but it still caused a sinking feeling. He knew he had no right to feel jealous. After all, he was only her father’s clerk and of lower standing in society. She was the great-grand-daughter of MacKenzie of Kintail. But he had fantasised about a future with her.

‘I am most honoured, sir. I look forward to it very much,’ he lied. ‘How do preparations proceed?’

‘They go well, Davie. Of course Elizabeth takes great care with everything. The Earl and I are still negotiating about the tocher.’

Scougall was now addressing his ball, which was snugly encased in thick grass. It would be a challenging shot. He put Elizabeth to the back of his mind. After a couple of practice swings he played, but made heavy contact. The ball landed on the fairway a dozen yards away. He closed his eyes. This was most unlike him. He had not played so badly in years.

Before MacKenzie could return to the subject of his daughter’s marriage, Scougall moved the conversation in another direction. ‘I hear the execution is to take place tomorrow, sir.’

‘Poor creature,’ replied MacKenzie.

‘But she is a witch. She has confessed to her crimes.’

‘She is just an ignorant woman, Davie.’

‘She has sold herself to Satan!’ Scougall grew animated, forgetting his cold. ‘Three confessing witches saw her at meetings with the Devil. Her magic caused the deaths of two women and a child. And…’ he hesitated as his face reddened, ‘she confessed to copulation with Satan.’

‘Copulation with Satan!’ MacKenzie replied mockingly. ‘Well, well. I do not believe she is a witch, Davie.’

‘But Satan, sir…’

‘I have grave doubts about the crime of witchcraft. I believe it is nothing more than superstition. There are also a number of legal concerns. I assume you have read Rosehaugh’s Criminal Law on the subject.’

‘I have not, sir.’

‘The Lord Advocate, or should I say ex-Lord Advocate, may be of a gloomy disposition, but he is a perceptive lawyer…’

‘These are dangerous times for Scotland,’ Scougall interrupted. ‘The Devil is amongst us. He seeks to lead us astray.’

Noticing Scougall’s morose mood, MacKenzie decided to say no more on the subject for the moment. The young lawyer’s words had brought back dark memories. He saw himself standing at the edge of a crowd in Edinburgh in 1658, almost thirty years before. He could still hear the screams as she was dragged to the stake, recanting her sins, begging to be saved. For the alleged crime of changing herself into a great dog, meeting with the Devil and fornicating with him, she was burned to ashes. MacKenzie shook his head. That same year a hermaphrodite had been executed for lying with a mare, and two young boys burnt on the Castle Hill for buggery. The superstitious nonsense that was believed in Scotland! The witch-hunt following the Restoration of Charles in 1660 had been, if anything, even more vicious. The words of Cicero came to him, as they often did: ‘Nam, ut vere loquamur, superstitio fusa per gentis oppressit omnium fere animos atque hominum imbecillitatem occupavit.’ He looked at Scougall and shook his head. The young man had much to learn.

CHAPTER 3 - The Devil’s Pool

THE YOUNG BOY smashed a clump of nettles with a stick as he reached the pool. It was a place he visited often. The other children were too scared. They believed that it was where the Devil washed his feet. They believed that it was his pool and the woods were haunted by fairies. But he liked the place. It was a world away from his dominie’s dreary Latin and sharp tawse, from his father’s moods and his mother’s sadness. Here he could play with toads, fish with his line or watch the birds.

He made for a huge boulder which stood over the pool like a squat tower. It was a base from which to fish for minnows, or defend against the English army. In summer it was where he lay, letting the sun caress his face, enjoying the wanderings of clouds. Today he realised that it was no longer summer. There was a sharpness in the air, a different odour, the smell of change. His eyes followed a murder of crows in a sky pregnant with rain. The birds knew when the seasons changed.

It was only when he sat on the rock, dangled his legs over the edge, boots an inch or two above the surface, taken an apple from a pocket and bitten into it, that he saw the shape under a large birch tree about thirty yards across the still water. The realisation that there was something different came as a shock. He had been to the pool most days during the summer, sometimes in the afternoon, but more often in the gloaming when the place came alive with insects, black flecks of life, wee beasties, as he called them. He loved the birds that haunted the pool at that time, mesmerising him with their acrobatic flight.

From his position he could not tell what it was. It looked as if a cloak had been thrown onto the water. He felt a pang of annoyance – he had thought that he was the only one brave enough to come here. The rock was his tower which he defended with his life. He grabbed a stone from a small hole where he stored them and rose to his feet. He had a good arm. It flew across the pool, hitting the cloak, making a dull thud like a chuckie striking a bag of corn.

Clambering back the way he had come, he crossed the boulders in front of a small waterfall and made his way down the eastern side, moving northwards. Descending beyond a narrow channel where the burn left the pool, he was able to cross the dark brown water by jumping over a few smaller rocks. He knew the easiest way.

Once over, he moved up the western fringe of the pool towards the woods, the large birch and the cloak. He passed through smaller trees, pushing pliant branches back to make his way, before jumping down onto a thin strand of sand.

Only then, when he was a few feet away, did he see that it was a body, face-down in the water, floating in the shallows. He could make out a head with long tangled hair, a cloak, a dark skirt – a woman was drowned. Comprehending all this in a moment he looked around, fearing that he was being watched.

Then a sound came from the woods which sent a pulse of fear through him, a pulse so strong that he had felt nothing like it before in his life. It was not like a whipping from his teacher. It was not a pain like that. It was a deep feeling of desolation. It was the presence of evil. He recalled the words of the minister in the kirk on Sunday.

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked into the woods. They were full of swaying shadows.

A figure appeared, a human shape, a black presence – like a man, but not a man – far back in the woods, its eyes on him. It raised a hand, palm towards him. He heard it speak his name. He heard his own name – his name! ‘Geordie, Geordie.’ He was being called into the woods, called into the shadows, to come quickly – to obey.

He leapt along the edge of the pool and down to the crossing point. When he reached the other bank he had a compulsion to look back at the creature that was calling him. Something was telling him to stop, to turn. He heard a voice inside his head, whispering his name – ‘Geordie, Geordie. Come into the woods – come, boy. Come, join me in the woods, boy.’ But he resisted. He ran from the pool, away from the rock, away from the dead woman – away from the thing that called him.

He knew who was beckoning him. He knew it in the pit of his stomach with the certainty of a knife. The minister’s words echoed in his head: ‘This parish is enthralled to the Devil. Satan walks amongst us.’ It was him. It was his pool. It was named after him. Satan had called him.