Page 9 of The Changeling

‘I will,’ I promised. Silently I was thinking, I too am small, but I can be fierce like a bee …

One day Sorcha and I had gone with Nan to Inchbrakie Castle, to deliver some mead to the laird. The children were all playing hide-and-seek, and Sorcha had run to join them. Pretending I did not want to play, I had crouched down amongst the roots of the old yew tree, reading Nan’s book. A raven flew down and perched on a low branch. I looked up at him, wondering what it would be like to fly with such strong wings. I slid my hand into the small leather pouch I wore tied to my girdle, and drew out an oatcake I had hidden there. I tore off a piece and threw it to the ground. The raven flew down and pecked it, standing on one leg, the other tucked up under his feathers.

‘Hey, hinny,’ I crooned.

He croaked at me, and I threw some more oatcake. He hopped so close I could see his wings had a sheen on them like blue smoke over black water. I wanted the raven to ride on my wrist like a falcon, and so I called to him, ‘Blackie, Blackie, come here, laddie,’ and threw the food in smaller and smaller arcs. The raven hopped closer, cocked his head, looked at me with one bright eye, then – thrillingly – spread his wings and flew to perch on my outstretched arm. His claws were sharp and dug into my flesh.

‘Hey, hinny,’ I said.

‘Hey, hinny,’ the raven replied.

I had not known ravens could talk. I jolted in surprise, and he flapped his wings and dug his claws in deeper. I fed him a shred of oatcake, and repeated the words. The bird echoed me.

Gazing into his fierce black eyes, I asked, ‘Can I fly with you?’

‘Nay,’ the raven replied. ‘Not yet.’

Once more I jerked in surprise. The raven flew away. Filled with amazement, I watched him soar high. Margrit was crouched in the branches of the yew tree above my head. She must have hidden there, waiting to be found, and seen me call the raven to my wrist.

No wonder she called me a witchling.

II

Black Witch

Three crows sat on a wall,

Sat on a wall, sat on a wall,

Three crows sat on a wall,

On a cold and frosty mornin’.

As I sang the old nursery rhyme, the raven warbled along with me and made me laugh. He had a very croaky voice. He hopped closer and looked at me hopefully, and I held out a piece of bannock for him. He seized it with his beak, but I would not let go and so we played tug-of-war till at last the bread broke in half and he threw it up in the air, caught it in his beak and swallowed it whole. I tossed the other half as far away as I could, and he hopped after it, his tail waggling.

I smiled and went back to sorting my collection of treasures into categories. Rows of feathers from all kinds of birds, acorns and alder cones and sycamore seeds, interesting old buttons and brooches, and the chiselled flint arrowheads we called elf-bolts. Many were gifts from the raven, who visited me every day, talking to me in his own language.

I did not think it was odd to play with a raven. The other children hardly ever invited me to join their games, unless it was to tease me. They thought me peculiar. I hated wearing shoes, hated clothes that were too confining or rough, hated my hair being combed or my face washed, hated not being able to run and climb and walk on walls like they could. Too much noise and commotion distressed me, and I would slip away somewhere quiet to sing to myself and gather flowers and twigs and feathers, or play games in which I pretended to be something I was not, a fawn or a fox or a wildcat.

I also saw and heard things no-one else did. Ghostly figures fighting with ghostly swords in a field where a great battle had been fought long ago. A woman who had just died rise and walk out the open door, kissing her daughter on the forehead as she passed. The worst time was when I told a woman that I was so sorry her babe would die, and the following dawn the poor wee thing was found stiff and blue in its crib.

‘It’s no wonder,’ Nan said, ‘given you were born on All Hallows’ Eve. Many born then have the Sight.’

‘But Sorcha was born on Hallowe’en too, and she doesna see ghosts,’ I wept.

‘No’ all are given the gift,’ Nan answered.

I did not think the Sight a gift. It felt more like a curse.

The raven flew back to perch on my wrist and kiss my cheek.

I sang to him and he sang back, with a voice uncannily like a human’s. Then the kitchen door opened, and at once the raven spread his wings and flew away. He did not like anyone but me seeing him, and so was like the crow in the last verse of the nursery rhyme, the one who was not there at all.

‘Caiti!’ Sorcha cried, beckoning me. ‘Come and help Mam make our guising costumes.’

It was our seventh birthday, and All Hallows’ Eve. We had been up in the dawn, cleaning the house from top to bottom. Nan had doused both fires and scattered the ashes through the garden. Mam opened all the windows and doors, letting the cold wind rush through the house, and our great-aunt made a new besom from birch twigs that she lashed with willow tendrils to a strong handle of ash wood. Then she ritually swept the whole house, chanting:

Sweep out danger, Lady’s broom,