Page 13 of The Changeling

‘It wouldna be seemly.’

‘Why does God care? He doesna have to wear boots, why do I?’

The previous year, Mam had taken me to St Giles Kirk in Edinburgh. Long ago, the saint had been wounded when a hind ran to him for protection from huntsmen, and so he was the heavenly protector of cripples, lepers and madmen. The kirk had the bone of his arm in a golden casket, and it was said that, if you touched it, you would be cured. There was no miracle for me, though – no leaping and dancing on legs suddenly made straight and strong.

I had spent a long moment gazing up at the stone plaque above the door where the saint was depicted with a deer cowering in his arms, an arrow piercing his hand. His foot, peeping out under the stone folds of his robe, had been bare. I had thought it a carving of God, and it had been a weapon in my fight against being forced to wear shoes ever since.

‘Caiti, it’s too nippit to go barefoot,’ Nan said. ‘Let your mam put on your boots for you, so we can go to church. Afterwards you can help me cook a feast for All Hallows’ Day.’

I submitted at once, for I loved to cook. It was a kind of magic, turning one thing into another. Flour and water and honey and yeast somehow made bread. Blackberries and honey and quince juice somehow made jam.

A line of salt had been poured along the threshold crack. It crunched under my boots as I stepped out the door. Nailed to the lintel above my head was another rowan charm.

‘Nan, why have you hung sun-crosses everywhere?’

‘Rowan tree and red thread fills witches with dread,’ she answered. ‘Many uncanny creatures abroad in the thin times.’

Eight times a year, the gateway to the Otherworld parted so that the faery folk could cross into our world, to cause havoc and harm wherever they went. Nan always took great care at those times to guard and protect us, making us necklaces of rowan berries, hanging bunches of dried angelica flowers above the chimney, and sprinkling salt on the doorstep. So I did not question her, but began to trudge down the muddy path toward the church.

It was not long before the Graham family rode by, and we had to crowd into the hedgerow to let them pass. Rory and Robbie trotted in front, laughing and calling back and forth to each other. The four girls rode more sedately behind, led along by servants, sitting sideways with their feet resting on wide wooden shelves. Lady Marjorie – pregnant for the fifth time – rode behind Lord George, seated on a pillion pad. The boys lifted their caps to Nan courteously, and she and Mam and Sorcha curtsied. I was still angry at Rory calling me a wee crookit thing, and so I frowned and made the scantiest of bobs. Rory paid me no heed, but Robbie smiled at me. I did not smile back. One day, I swore, I’d ride a horse as fine as his.

Lord Patrick of Monzie and his wife, Egidia, were standing at the gate, waiting to greet the parishioners. Lady Egidia was dressed all in black, with her kirtle doing nothing to conceal the great mound of her stomach. Her face was downcast, and I remembered the story of how her babe had been stolen by faeries, and felt sorry for her.

‘Good morning, Mistress Agnes,’ Lord Patrick said to Nan.

‘My lord,’ she answered, inclining her head.

‘Mistress Caitlín,’ he said coldly to Mam. Looking at the ground, she bobbed a curtsey, and Nan tucked her hand in her arm as if in comfort or support. Together they walked up the path to the church, a dour building of grey rubble with a round belltower half- hidden in the shadows of ancient yew trees. Beyond was a graveyard full of crookit, mossy stones, and the coffin gate where the dead were brought in. I dawdled behind, looking at the tombstones and thinking about Lady Egidia’s lost baby. Could they have a grave for a baby whose bones were never found? How did she grieve?

Just ahead of me, Lord George had been detained by some other men, all looking grim.

‘He says they’d been walking home past the Knock last night, when they heard the most strange and wondrous music,’ one man said. ‘They followed the music and saw the faery folk dancing in a clearing. Jock took to his heels, and thought Callum ran too, but when he got to the road realised he was alone. He went back and shouted a wee bit, but no’ a sound to be heard. ’Twas nippit and he thought Callum must have gone home, and so he did the same, but …’

‘But Callum never went home,’ another interjected.

‘His bed’s no’ slept in.’

‘And no sign of him this morn.’

‘What should we do, my lord?’

‘We’ll go and look for him now,’ Lord George said. ‘Jock can show us where they heard the music, and we’ll search for any sign of a struggle.’

‘Lord Patrick says we shouldna be out looking on a Sunday, that we’ll miss the service …’

‘God will forgive us,’ Lord George said dryly. ‘A man’s life is at risk. Callum may have fallen and injured himself, or be lost.’

‘The faery folk have taken him,’ an old man said. ‘We’ll no’ see him again.’

I stood, listening to them, a strange shivery feeling running over me. An echo in my memory. A strain of eerie music, a stroke of a cold finger down the nape of my neck.

Our priest, Father Benedict, called for me, smiling. His long white vestments were trimmed with gold braid, and he wore a stole embroidered with golden crosses to celebrate the saints who had won their victory in heaven. He was a dreamy old man who liked to read poetry and grow roses and had spent many years working on an illustrated book of hours, with ornate lettering surrounded by flowers and beasts and baby angels. A gentle soul, he sometimes forgot what he was saying halfway through a homily, and would gaze vaguely into nothing, mumbling, ‘Dear me, dear me, what next?’

Lord Patrick would clench his hand into a fist and grit his teeth and mutter under his breath. He thought it unseemly that Father Benedict came to us for supper on Sunday evenings, enjoying a few too many glasses of Nan’s metheglin while they discussed everything there was to know under the sun. ‘Did Adam and Eve have navels?’ Nan would demand. ‘And why are angels all men? How can you say it is because women are fundamentally sinful when it is men that do so much evil in the world? And how can you possibly believe animals have no souls? My bees have more soul packed into their wee bodies than any man I’ve ever met!’

I ran, limping, to catch hold of Father Benedict’s hand, and went with him through the heavy arched door. High in the wall beyond was a stained-glass window, which depicted the Virgin Mary as a child, dressed in yellow and white, her blonde hair streaming down from under a circlet of white flowers, holding a book open and pointing at a word. Behind her stood her mother, St Anne, her hand on the little girl’s shoulder, wearing a blue mantle, a golden halo about her golden head. I loved this window, and hated it too. It looked like Mam with Sorcha, and my envious heart insisted: Where am I? Why am I not there too?

I longed to be more like Sorcha, bonny and blithe and strong.