Chapter 17
Seventeen
Young Douglas put out about town that Thomas Shepherd was living with a cunning woman, a true healer in the manner of Mairi Grieve.
The Douglas boy himself came to me after he sliced his thumb open, and I stitched it up neatly, though he grimaced from the pain.
Afterwards, his mother came with her daughter, who had fallen and got a bump on her head.
I looked the wee bairn in her eyes to be sure they were not enlarged, and made a poultice to put on her forehead, which I also tied with a rag.
I told her mother to watch the little one while she was sleeping, and report if aught unusual happened.
A week later she returned, with a freshly baked loaf of bread.
Her daughter was as lively, happy, and pain-free as she ever had been, she told me. As good as new.
I smiled weakly when she expressed her gratitude, but the fae inside me wriggled in discomfort, as if I were stabbed and nauseated at the same time.
I would have to get used to those thanks, for soon my neighbors were coming to me in droves.
Among them were those who had scarce given Bess Grieve a second glance or who had stared openly at my birthmark before.
I ought to have held a grudge, but I could not forget how I’d longed for their approval, or at least their notice.
Now I had their respect. And for every pain I eased, every life I saved or disease I cured, Mairi Grieve’s ghost seemed to stand beside me, guiding my hand.
And if in the darkest of nights, I heard the eerie sound of piping or the plaintive howl of a wolf in the distance, I curled against the shepherd, not from fear, but to reinforce my claim.
The fame I earned as a cunning woman was not without its downside, however.
It came one afternoon, shortly after midsummer.
Thomas had returned from taking his flock out early, to spare them the heat of the day, and I stirred the pottage on the hearth.
A young matron came to see me, wearing a well-cut kirtle and plaid, the clothing of a prosperous yeoman’s wife.
She carried a rough sack filled with fresh vegetables; her cheeks were rosy against her wimple, but her lips thin and disapproving.
I recognized her at once: ’Twas my sister-by-marriage, Broca.
Tavish’s wife.
And behind her, dragging a stick along the ground, was his wee bairn Jamie.
As soon as Broca stepped into the cottage, Jamie pushed past her, forceful enough to knock one of her onions out of the sack, and ran straight into my arms.
Thomas chuckled as the lad waved his stick in the air. “Och, do I have competition for ye, my wood nymph? Have ye found yourself another swain?”
I ignored his teasing and gave Jamie a kiss on the cheek. “Good morrow, young sir. How is your finger doing?”
Jamie grinned at me and held it up for me to examine.
“Oh, quite fine, I see.” I tickled him under the chin before setting him down. He then plunked down upon the dirt floor and began drawing with his stick.
His mother groaned and shook her head. Catching sight of Thomas, she inclined her head. “Good morrow, Master Shepherd.”
“Good morrow, mistress.”
She grabbed Jamie’s arm too roughly, startling a whimper from him as she yanked him to his feet. “Up, lad! No mucking about in the dirt, unnatural whelp.”
“Have a care,” I protested. “He’s but a child.”
And Thomas took a step forward, arms pressed tight to his sides.
Broca seemed to notice me for the first time. “Oh,” she said flatly. “Good morrow, Bess.”
I have never felt less welcome, and I was the one who lived here.
Broca and I were never friends. I sensed Tavish had poisoned her ears against me, but she had been sour even before they wed.
“What can we help ye with?” Thomas asked, without warmth. His fists unclenched, but his posture was tense. “Not reavers, I hope. Surely, they’d not venture forth in broad daylight and such overwhelming heat.”
“Nay, our cows are still our own. ’Tis not reavers.” Broca wrinkled her nose at me. “Perhaps I am in the wrong place after all. I heard a cunning woman could be found at the home of Thomas the Shepherd.”
“You heard rightly.” Thomas put his arm around my shoulders. “My Bess is a fine healer. Not even the doctors who serve at the baron’s estate can compare.”
My insides turned to warm butter at his words. Thomas had called me his, conferring a sort of respectability upon me, though not so much as a wedded wife. “Are ye surprised?” I asked Broca.
“I suppose I should not be. Huirs do always land on their feet.”
Thomas’s eyes flashed angrily, and his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. He released me and took Broca’s arm, hardly more gently than she had Jamie’s. “Good day, mistress. We have work to do.”
But Broca planted her feet and cried out, “Wait!”
Jamie stared up at me, taking my hand in his.
“He doesna speak,” Broca said roughly.
I lowered myself to Jamie’s level and snapped my fingers in front of his face.
He blinked.
“Jamie, do you hear me?”
The wee bairn nodded.
“Open your mouth like so.” And I opened mine wide, making a loud “ahh” sound.
Jamie giggled at me. “Ahhhhh.” His hearing was fine.
“Does your throat hurt any?”
He shook his head, curls bobbing.
I straightened and met his mother’s eyes. “I do not think he wants to speak. Perhaps he has not anything to say.” I could appreciate that. After Mairi’s death, there were times I barely spoke a word.
“He’s three and hasna said a word yet,” Broca told me. “He willna run and play with the other boys, only collects pebbles and draws on the ground.”
I frowned and considered the boy. “Some children are different. Tavish is a head and a half taller than I; Sorcha is much smaller in the bosom—”
“There’s summat wrong with him!” Broca burst out.
Thomas breathed in sharply, brows beetling. His face softened as he knelt to Jamie’s level. “Would ye like to see me pup, Cullen?” he asked. “There’s a ball we can throw and all.”
Mab bless him. Jamie shouldn’t be hearing this. A tenderness overcame me. We were all three misfit children, Thomas, Jamie, and I. Misfits will look after their own.
Jamie stuck his finger in his mouth, looking from me to Thomas and back again.
I gave him a little nod. “He’s a good one,” I whispered, feeling it all the way down to my bones.
Jamie took Thomas’s hand, and they headed out for the yard. Soon I heard them laughing, and Cullen barking with joy.
I turned a stern gaze at Broca and said, “You will not speak that way to Jamie.”
She ignored me. “Tavish is sore mad wit’ me, says it isn’t his child. I musta been with one of the Douglas boys, the one what fell off his horse and isna right in the head. But I swear to ye, I have only been with Tavish himself!”
“I care not whether ye have been with all King David’s army,” I said, which startled a gasp out of her. “You will not treat the child thus.”
Broca clutched at her wimple. “Things are hard going enough already. Our hens will not lay, nor our cattle give milk, though I have heard no similar complaints from the neighbors. Tavish went hunting and became so lost in the forest he did not return home before the dawn.” She swallowed hard.
“I questioned him, and we had words.” Her fingers stroked the side of her face.
And blows, I finished for her. Treasonous pity filled my belly, for my brother spoke with fists and beatings. Well I remembered the hand he raised to Jamie, thinking he had broken my mother’s pitcher, though the boy was not yet three years old.
From months before, my own words returned to me.
Woe betide your ill-made face. May your path never lead you home. May your cattle give no milk, and your hens lay no eggs.
Mab’s tits! This misfortune upon Tavish and his family—I was its cause.
What then of Eamon Grieve, my erstwhile father? I had cursed him as well.
My face must have betrayed me, for Broca did clutch my arm. “What is it? Do ye know what is wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong,” I insisted. “The bairn can hear. I do not see anything wrong with his throat.”
“It’s the faeries,” Broca blurted out.
My skin went cold. My fool of a false sister-in-law had found me out. Not even my love Thomas knew the truth, yet she—
“The guid neighbors did take our wee Jamie,” Broca continued, “and left that thing in his place.”
“You think Jamie is a changeling.” I felt only a moment’s relief before anger took over, burning low and deep inside me. Jamie was no fae, just a wee bairn whose own family thought he did not belong. Poor mite.
“Aye. Tavish even took a rountree branch to him. He hoped to beat the creature out of the boy. It dinna work.” She did not seem to find this at all unusual or cruel.
My blood chilled, and I felt Eamon Grieve’s rod upon my back. I had not been fast enough to answer his demands, I lingered overlong with Mairi over her patrons, I let the pottage on the hearth grow cold. Crack! Down came the rod.
Wee Jamie was only three years old.
“Of course, it did not work!” Jamie was no evil fae. He was only a bairn. Bile rose inside me, heat flowed like lightning beneath my skin. Humans think us wicked, while they beat their own kin thus. “To beat his own child unprovoked . . .”
“’Tis not our bairn! I tell you, he’s a faery!” Broca’s lips trembled. “Nothing we’ve done will get rid of him. And I don’t know what Tavish will do next.”
I wanted to steal Jamie away. Wished I could spirit him off to Faery, where no one would ever lay a hand against him again.
Even though I feared to return there myself.
I could not bear to look at Broca but stared straight ahead at the walls of the room.
Suddenly, I felt I was back at the hollow tree by which I had begun to return home.
Little faces peeked out of the walls and the corners, beautiful faces like the high Sith, lit by an invisible sun.
Snub-nosed wights all covered with leaves.
A friendly goat boy with horns peeking out through his curls.